Gemini Thunder (19 page)

Easing his flat-bottomed punt up the shallow landing area of Swifty’s Island, Ike handed out the flour sacks to Ifor. Samuel Southee came down to the water’s edge to take them.

‘Anything else you want?’ Ike asked.

‘I don’t think so, you’re doing us proud. Any news?’

‘Bands of Viking all over the place. Taking what they want. Not much killing, only those that was silly enough to oppose them. Kept out of the inner Levels so far, but they’re all around the outside and definitely after your leader.’

‘You take care, Ike. Don’t come if there’s any danger to you and the boy. We’ve plenty of supplies now.’

‘See you next time.’ Ike waved as Ifor pushed the punt back into the water and deftly jumped in, pulling in the old jute rope attached to the front.

As they sat around the softly glowing campfire that evening, Twilight explained to them the death of Go-uan and the arrival of her mother, the new Norse venifica called Freyja, and the three thousand raiders she would be landing with soon. Evening fires such as the one they now had would be out; the Old Norse veneficus would be up in the sky soon looking for just such a sign. Also, movement in the day would be restricted until he and the pica had checked around for her aura. Guthrum’s first order to his warriors would be to hunt down Alfred, and he would know that they would seek refuge in the Levels. Luckily for them the Levels covered a vast area, and they were particularly well hidden on Swifty’s Island.

Desmond looked at Twilight.

‘What happened to the other gemini, the male one with the eagles called Go-ian’?

‘As far as I can tell, his mother has sent him home, probably in disgrace. Failure to the Viking is not an option, even for venefici. I will be attending to him soon.’

As he looked at Twilight and the purposeful way the Wessex astounder delivered the death statement, Desmond suddenly realized that the magic man he was the proud companion of was, and had to be, a cold, hard killer. The nice family man and husband image whose avowed intent was to contain the Equinoctial mists and protect Wessex against those who would dominate her by force would kill without a second thought anyone who threatened that intent. He shuddered. Thank goodness he was on his side.

‘Talking of mothers,’ said Alfred obliquely, ‘could you transform me to Wales? I would like to see Elswith.’

‘I could. When would you like to go?’ Having just come back from a short visit to his own family on Avalon, Twilight well knew the need for Alfred to see his wife.

The king looked at de Gaini and then the others.

‘Now?’

There were no dissenting voices.

‘Hold my hand,’ said the Wessex astounder.

‘Say hello to the queen from us,’ said Gode softly as they disappeared.

Ike Penbarrow’s wife, Gretchen, was excited and frightened at the same time. Her excitement was caused by the proximity of the Viking, a pagan force she felt would be much in sympathy with her worship of demonic idolatry. Her fright by the proximity of Christianity in the shape of King Alfred, the very antithesis of her worship of devilhood. Not that she knew anything about the Viking. A lifetime living in the obscurity of the Summerland Levels had not equipped her with that sort of knowledge, but she was good at putting together bits of diverse information and mongering with a self-belief in her own abilities as a spirit-layer, and reaching a reasoned conclusion. Sure, some of the rumours about the Viking brutality coming from the Chippingham refugees had been horrendous, but if you’re going to invade a country you have to fight to win, and they also had some good points. For instance, they believed in their deity with such ardour that they emblazoned their idols all over their bodies in the form of tattooed pictures. Wonderful, totally possessed hoodoo. If that wasn’t devildom she didn’t know what was. And, equally important, they opposed Christianity. Two points of view that chimed perfectly with her now ingrained and macabre apotheosis of cult devil worship. Further, she felt a great deal of pride that she had managed to teach and recruit devildom to her five daughters and two sons and the two sons-in-law, to levels of devotion and adherence that were beginning to show progress. Her only failures, and in truth she had never tried, knowing their togetherness and love of the outdoor life on the streams and marshes, were her husband, Ike, and youngest son, Ifor. When the day of reckoning came they would be the first ones to go.

See if they wouldn’t.

But they were up to something and she had a pretty good idea what it was. Ike was strutting about the place with a self-satisfied, smug look on his simple face, and Ifor was being furtive and wouldn’t look her in the eye. The rumours were that the Christian king had taken refuge somewhere in the Levels. If that was the case, and no one knew his way around the maze of rivers and marshes better than Ike, her husband not only knew where the monarch was but was probably providing him with supplies. And where Ike went, Ifor would be right behind.

If she could just find out where they went each day, she could do her and the rest of the family a big favour by telling the Viking.

Who knows, she might even get a reward from the invaders, become their chief witch.

Now wouldn’t that be something.

It was time to call a meeting of the diabolic family cabal; there was much to discuss, ghoulish curses to throw, foul fiends to unleash, and wraiths to call up from the flames of the underworld.

Much to Gode’s disgust, Guthrum decided to winter in the old castle at Combe, her former home. There was plenty of room for his reinforced army around the grounds, which now totalled over four and a half thousand men with the addition of Olaf Tryggvason’s three thousand warriors. The winters here in Wessex were nothing compared to those they were used to in their own land; therefore the campaign would go on.

He also felt much better having a fully powered and clever venefica alongside, someone with whom he had fought occasional battles in his earlier days and could trust. He’d never really taken to those giggling twins of Freyja, especially after losing seven hundred men at Winchester.

He called a council of war in what was the huge old dining hall of the castle. He looked around at the faces seated at the large oaken table. He had lost at least half of his regional chieftains in the two battles, which left him with fifteen, plus he still had Ove Thorsten, a rejuvenated Olaf Tryggvason, and Freyja. Hanging from the ceiling at one end, Edwin of Combe had conveniently left a large map of the whole of Wessex with the small area of Combe painstakingly filled in with red. Made of deer skins stretched tightly over a wooden frame, the map outlined the Summerland Levels, the larger rivers, forests, coast, and various castles.

Guthrum stood and gestured toward Olaf Tryggvason.

‘Once again we give thanks to
Tyr
for the return of our brother and his men.’ There was a roar of approval and a banging of ale-horns on the table at this. ‘He has twice faced that cursed rune-slayer Twilight and come through it. Without his warriors our cause here would have been over. Although we were victorious at the battles of Winchester and Chippingham, it cost us many lives. Now we are ready to fight again.’

Ove Thorsten and each chieftain then spoke. They talked of the bravery of their men and heroics performed. Each family would hear of their exploits in battle. Again there was no mention of the seven hundred who perished at Winchester in the siege-engine sector. Every one of them had been purged from the collective Norse memory.

Finally Guthrum called upon Freyja. The bent, withered old lady got to her feet and with a powerful voice began to expand on the situation in which they now found themselves. With frequent referrals to the large map, she explained the terrain, the Celtic customs, and the insular nature of individual fiefdoms.

‘These Celts are too busy looking after themselves and writing poetry to join together as a coherent fighting force. The only person capable of rallying them is Alfred. He’s done it once and will try to do it again. Find him and our troubles in Wessex are over.’

She pointed to the section marked ‘Levels’ on the map.

‘He’s in there, somewhere.’

‘What about this foul rune-slayer veneficus of his?’ Guthrum growled, still smarting at the memory of falling from his horse . . . twice, in front of his men, acts he was convinced were Twilight’s doing.

‘He will be with Alfred,’ said Freyja. ‘Find one and we’ll have the other.’

‘I’m going to personally kill that whore-mother,’ growled Guthrum, the knotted veins beginning to expand around his neck and face as his anger took over.

‘Not if I get to him first,’ shouted the red-bearded Olaf Tryggvason from down the table.

There was a chorus of encouragement from everyone. Freyja held up her hand and looked at Guthrum and Tryggvason.

‘You are mortals. It will be very difficult for you to kill a veneficus such as him. I, on the other hand, am not a mortal and have all the same enchantments at my command. The one difference is experience. In these matters there is no substitute for experience. That’s why I lost my little Go-uan to him. She didn’t have the experience. I, on the other hand, have an abundance of experience, every ounce of which I will bring to the destruction of this rune-slayer. Revenge for my little Go-uan’s life will be sweet . . .

‘So, great warriors, neither of you will have the pleasure. He . . . is . . . mine.’

Gretchen Penbarrow sat cross-legged on the floor of her hovel surrounded by her diabolic family. Ike and Ifor were long gone in their perpetual poling of the Levels in search of barter.

She felt very powerful, in control. Today would be different from all the other gatherings; today contact would be made, she was sure of it. Eyes closed she began the call to the foul fiend, Chaldean, the guardian of Satan. He and he alone controlled all access to the King of Hell. As she worked through the diabolic rites, the others added the appropriate responses.

‘We call upon you, Chaldean, the guardian and provider of all access to the King of Hell.’

‘We call upon you, Chaldean.’

‘Your master’s bondswomen and bondsmen on earth gather here today.’

‘Gather here today.’

‘We ask that you show us the way through the fires to the black door of his presence.’

‘Show us the way.’

We wish to ask for sanction to commit acts of demonry for the protection of his dark soul.’

‘We ask for sanction.’

‘Our flesh, oh Chaldean, will forever be dedicated to Satan’s mighty cause.’

‘Forever dedicated.’

Gradually a trance began to take them over as Gretchen repeated the call to the foul fiend and guardian three times.

Then the response that Gretchen had dreamed would one day happen . . . happened.

‘I am here, bondswomen and bondsmen, here among you.’

The voice was a deep bass, making the ground where they knelt tremble.

‘You are here!’ Gretchen exclaimed, keeping her eyes squeezed shut.

‘Open your eyes and you will see . . .’

As each one of them finally got their eyes open, they saw standing before them the perfect devil incarnate. Black-faced with heavy horns and slanted, triangular, yellow iridescent eyes with the body cloaked entirely in a black silken cloth and a sharp pointed trident held in his right hand. As they looked, the yellow eyes locked onto each one of them with an intensity they couldn’t hold. A quick glance was all they could sustain before prostrating themselves face down on the hard clay floor.

‘Tell me, my bondswomen and bondsmen, what is it you want of me?’

Gretchen swallowed hard, then plucked up the courage to reply.

‘Our demonry is threatened by other faiths here in the Levels. We are outcasts and would like you to destroy them, all of them, so that we may worship you without fear of persecution.’

The devil gave a deep-throated chuckle that seemed to rock the entire area.

‘Would one of these faiths be Christianity as practiced by that foul King Alfred?’

‘Yes, we are convinced he is here, close by. If he finds us we will be stoned to death because of our allegiance to you, Black Lord.’

‘Do you know where he is so that I might destroy him?’

‘No, but my husband and youngest son, who are boatmen hereabouts and nonbelievers, will know. We think that they are providing the king with supplies.’

‘Are they now,’ said the devil, followed by another deep chuckle. ‘You will be safe from all future persecution, my bondswomen and bondsmen, I will see to it. Now I am going back to my subterranean home to plan the death of this King Alfred.’

There was a long silence until Gretchen plucked up the nerve to raise her head.

He was gone. The only visible sign of his visit were scorch marks on the hard clay.

The joy on Gretchen’s face was absolute. She wept tears of vindication in her own now proven beliefs. Satan had answered their call. She always knew he would. They were saved, if still a little stunned. Every little devil rite she had studied and learned all these years had worked.

He had come. Her dark, soulless devil had come to her.

And he would again.

She was sure of it.