Brenden was not fond of horses. Fast cars, motorcycles, airplanes, even weird-science digging machines were fine, but he was at heart a city boy who could never really trust a mode of transportation with a mind of its own. He only hoped the gelding didn't think he was personally responsible for its stunted love life. Well, at least I got my hands on what may be the last case of Icy Hot (TM) in the country. By tomorrow, I'll be very glad indeed I took the case and not the extra LAW tubes. If the Kanawa black marketeer had been surprised, when Brenden asked for that particular kicker to seal the deal on the dozen anti-tank rockets, he hid it well.
Brenden took some comfort from Shiro looking even less secure than he; the oriental was a great deal less inscrutable than usual. Conn, Excalibur still at his side, looked ready to compete in an equestrian event. Alain and Colour Sergeant Black also looked confident in the saddle. Anna was downright cheerful; she was a regular at the stables. Six additional animals provided remounts and carried extra rations, feed, camping gear, and, for serious scrapes, an M-60 machine gun.
It was a chilly, gray, misty afternoon; the reality storms over the channel and at the boundary of the Greater London hard point did not improve England's already infamous weather. Barely forty hours after the unfortunate elf died at Alain's door, they were only awaiting the final word to begin their forlorn hope. Shortly after Anna had stopped by Brenden's quarters the previous morning, there had come a request that the six go to an MI-6 secure facility, where they were presented with what information the British government had on Avalon.
There was a surprisingly large amount. Someone in the Echelons Beyond Reality (outdated phrase, that, thought Brenden) had early on figured out that with reality warped beyond recognition and denizens out of folklore now dwelling in the UK and Scandinavia, it might be very important indeed to track down legends beneficial to Earth's harried defenders. Not surprisingly, King Arthur was the grand prize. Rumors abounded of Arthurian artifacts turning up here and there. Many of these had been investigated even though the resources and manpower (giantpower? elfpower?) were sorely needed for other, more immediate concerns.
The files compiled had the highest possible classification: Code-Word Most Secret -- Warded. The last part was something new; the documents had to be stored in an area proofed against magical scrying. Brenden could just imagine the consternation that had caused. First you had to find wizards powerful enough to create the wards, then you had to clear them for the project; you had to be able to trust the warders not to turn their coats. This clearance usually required one to be a native born citizen who had passed several years of scrutinizing background checks. Not bloody likely where the Ayslish were concerned. Some of their best wizards weren't even human and damn few Core Earth wizards had progressed sufficiently in the art. Even if a suitable wizard could be found, the central data bases were a distant memory. Then throw in manpower difficulties: Mass population displacements, a 15% casualty rate across the country, and the memory loss which accompanied transformation. Finally, assuming you tossed the old rules and somehow managed to get the job done, most of the secure facilities were still under Core Earth influence and the wards, too complicated for Core Earth's pitiful magical energies, would unravel in short order barring extraordinary intervention. The talisman market was brisk.
Nevertheless, the files offered some leads. Stonehenge was a small Core Earth hard point with an unusual property; Earth's old reality was maintained only within the ring of stones. All other known hard points radiated in all directions from a massive object of popular significance. Stonehenge otherwise fit the bill, but by the admittedly poorly understood rules, Earth's reality should have extended somewhat beyond the megaliths. Perhaps something else was at work. There were also several reports of Arthurian artifacts showing up in and around Port Erin on the Isle of Man. Winchester, traditional site for Camelot, was still in friendly hands and had been examined closely, to little avail. The biggest bust was Glastonbury. Despite its long-standing association with Arthurian myth, several investigations found only hoaxes. This frustrated Arthurian scholars greatly. A part of one report on the subject stuck in Brenden's mind: "Do we seek evidence of the 5th Century Romano-British chieftain that historians believe truly existed, or do we seek a myth? If the former, then despite the changes that have overtaken our land, history and logic can guide us. If the latter, then we are circumscribed to interpreting the hopes of the human heart. In the end, the question is, 'What makes reality?'" Brenden felt sorry for the author. That line of reasoning led to philosophy, metaphysics, and madness.
There were data on several other hot spots of Arthurian activity, including Brenden's barrow. Three months ago, another team had traveled to the barrow site, in hopes of reconnoitering Avalon. They found the barrow and the fourth passageway, but some mystical barrier prevented them from passing through. About that time, reports of Arthurian sightings tailed off. The obvious conclusion was the Warrior of the Dark was determined to prevent Great Britain and her Light Ayslish allies from obtaining aid. Her determination fed the British's own. Arthur would be found. It was hoped that the power of Excalibur would overcome the barriers. On that hope, perhaps, rested the future of Britain and possibly Earth.
If the extraordinary events of the past two days had not sufficiently convinced the Storm Knights the British authorities were in deadly earnest, the cause of this final delay buried any remaining doubts: In a mere two days, for the most part without benefit of modern communications, the General Staff had laid on a series of diversionary attacks, raids, and reconnaissances-in-force to pin down the enemy, allowing these six Storm Knights to pass undetected into hostile territory. They anxiously awaited confirmation the diversionary operations had begun. They waited in the drizzle, each occupied with his or her own thoughts. After perhaps twenty minutes a door banged open and shut. They wheeled to see a soldier, headphones in hand, wave them on. "It's a go! Godspeed!" At Anna's nod, Colour Sergeant Black put heels to horse and led them off. Four hours of moderate riding got them to Tunbridge Wells at dusk.
Tunbridge Wells was on the edge of friendly territory. The plan was to wait until dawn, when, with luck, enemy forces had been drawn off to counter the diversionary attacks. Then the Storm Knights would ride hard, heading for Stonehenge, 100 miles to the west. The ride from London to Tunbridge Wells was to get them away from potential spies in London. As Brenden dismounted and grimaced, he suspected it was also to toughen certain of them to the rigors of the saddle. Brenden recalled that he had been this sore and worse during his jaunt up to York, but the nearly all-consuming fear inspired by his encounter with Orrorshan Horrors had made it seem insignificant at the time. Imagine that; a reason for thinking of Orrorsh in a favorable light . . . beyond Lady Lewellyn. As Brenden had foreseen, Shiro, too, was rather the worse for the wear; his stoic set did nothing to hide his unnaturally precise gait. Having prepared for this moment, Brenden shambled over to him and pulled open his leather jacket. "Psst, buddy. What you need, I got right here," he whispered in his best three card monte huckster voice. Shiro's eyes went wide.
That night, around their carefully masked campfire, the others wondered why Shiro shared of his sake stash so freely with Brenden. Thick as thieves, the two smiled enigmatically and held their peace.
They broke camp before dawn and rode under a blanket of dark, ominous clouds scudding low overhead. At midmorning, it was still an exceptionally dark day, with only flashes of green and purple lightning from the channel reality storm to the south contrasting with the gray horizon and the gray land. They saw no people, no animals, no birds; it would have been easy to believe they were the last living things in a colorless world. Colour Sergeant Black, who had dropped back to the rear position, disabused them of that conceit. "There are riders behind us."
The party reined in and looked back. Alain, who usually had the best eyes, added, "Perhaps a dozen riders on ponies. They are heading our way."
Colour Sergeant Black's eyes weren't as good as the elf's, but his 30 power field glasses were better. "They are not ponies. Wolves? Goblins on wolves."
"Do we stand and fight or do we avoid them?" asked Shiro.
Anna hardly paused. "Our mission is to get clear. We try to avoid them."
"There is a copse of trees about half a league off to the south." Conn would have preferred to stand and fight, but once Anna made her decision, his duty was clear. The party wheeled to the left and galloped for the copse. The occasionally snatched glance backwards told them their pursuers were gaining, but probably not quickly enough to hit them before they made the trees.
A flat whistle preceded the thunk! of an arrow burying itself in the pack of one of the remounts. Apparently, the goblins were close enough to pepper them with arrows. "Shit!" shouted Brenden and Shiro, who were beginning to fall behind the pack. A distant screech announced the arrival of additional problems. Conn reigned in his horse and wheeled around, scanning the skies. Sword in hand, the Ayslish warrior pointed to the north. "Harpies!" From their rate of decent, they were likely to be upon the riders before they reached the safety of trees. Conn put spurs to his mount and flew. He shot between Brenden and Shiro, slowing just long enough to whack the rump of Shiro's horse with the flat of Excalibur. Shiro's horse flattened its ears and bolted, Shiro barely hanging on. That's one way to help, assuming he doesn't fall and get dragged, thought Brenden grimly. An arrow hit him squarely in the back, bouncing off his mail. Another whizzed by a handspan from the side of his head, burying itself in the ground in front of him. The cries of the harpies grew louder in his ears. Brenden buried his face in his mount's neck. This is gonna be close.
Brenden, half a length behind Shiro, was ten yards short of the tree line when a ragged volley of shots rang out. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up, but he didn't look back. Once into the trees, Brenden swerved left to avoid Shiro and manhandled his mount to a halt. He quickly dismounted and brought his MP-40 to the ready.
Turning back to the fray, he saw Anna, still in the saddle, twist like a snake to cover better than 200 degrees with three quick bursts from her H&K battle rifle. Three harpies crashed to the ground, still clutching clubs and maces in their talons. "About time!" Anna shouted, as Brenden and Shiro added to the volume of fire.
At the tree line, the goblins tried to overwhelm their opponents with the shock of their charge. Colour Sergeant Black shot one out of the saddle with his bolt-action rifle and then spitted the wolf he rode with his bayonet. Conn, wielding Excalibur in battle for the first time, felt awe as his quick backhand slash easily decapitated another onrushing goblin. Four more goblins went down in a heap as Alain drew a handful of metal shavings from a pouch and cast them at the goblins. Alain called the spell "Steel Shower." Everyone else mostly called it "The Magic Shotgun." The buzzing passage of the enchanted shavings partially defoliated several trees as they winged their way to and then through the unfortunate goblins.
After that, the melee quickly grew too confused to follow. A harpy clutched at the barrel of Brenden's smoking Schmeisser. He let go and went for the .44 magnum in his shoulder rig. It was a race to see if the harpy could rake the talons of its free leg across Brenden's face before he could draw. Brenden won. Another harpy went for one of the remounts, only to fall to Anna's unerring gunplay. Conn, always a whirlwind of fury in battle, was a terror wielding Excalibur. Two goblins discovered why Shiro disdained to draw blade, one with a 13 mm third eye, the other with a broken neck. The time for spell-casting past, Alain, longsword in hand, stalked wolves and goblins with Colour Sergeant Black.
The tide turned so quickly that by the time the Storm Knights' enemies realized they were overmatched, only two goblins remained. They jerked their mounts around and flew, jumping a fallen tree along the way. Colour Sergeant Black's rifle barked twice. Both wolves went down. Only one goblin rose, defiantly firing arrows from behind the carcass of his mount. Alain moved up to Colour Sergeant Black's firing position behind the fallen tree. She produced a ball of pitch. "Yield, fool!" shouted Black. Another arrow smacked into the tree trunk by way of reply. Shaking his head, the Colour Sergeant waited for Alain to finish the job. She did, pulling a small chunk from the pitch while she lit it. Muttering the incantation, she steered the large ball of pitch which flew from her one hand by moving the small chunk of pitch in her other hand. When the burning pitch was where she wanted it, she smacked her hands together, crushing the small piece of pitch. The large ball exploded in an angry, red fireball. No more arrows came their way. Suddenly, it was very quiet in the copse of trees. "Is anyone hurt?" asked Alain into the silence. No one was.
"Police the fallen," suggested/ordered the Colour Sergeant, momentary lapsing into his long-held role of unquestioned authority on the battlefield. His directions made sense, so no one took offense. While nothing of value or interest was found on the goblins and harpies, to their dismay, the party found two of the goblins and one harpy were alive, though unconscious.
"Now what?" asked Anna.
"We cannot slay helpless foes; to do so would brand us forever without Honor." Conn spoke adamantly.
"If we let them go, they will report this encounter. Our enemies may know of our errand. Can we afford the luxury of mercy?" Shiro's mind was equally set.
Brenden found himself vacillating. Shiro's reality was a cold, impersonal one where the bottom line was morality, and one did not leave survivors to later seek vengeance. In Japan, with the Marketplace reality whispering at the back of his mind, Brenden would have slit the throats of their captured enemies without hesitation; too much was at stake. His training and experience in the intelligence field also lent themselves to this cold-blooded conclusion. Here, however, different voices whispered to him. In Aysle, Honor and Corruption were tangible things. How could one who truly believed himself on the side of the angels, as Brenden did, forego Honor and embrace Corruption? "May I offer a compromise?" he asked.
Conn and Shiro looked at him expectantly. "Bind them. Leave a knife nearby. It will take them some time to free themselves. They will be otherwise weaponless and without mounts. By the time they can report to anyone, we will be long gone."
No one looked particularly happy at this compromise, but the baying of more wolves in the distance laid all arguments to rest. It was done, and they rode on.