Ted Bell - Warlord

Myths about the place were common, most generated by the presence of a Pagan tombstone, six feet high, with hieroglyphic inscriptions. It stood in the center of the graveyard in absolutely pristine condition, despite countless centuries of horrific Atlantic weather conditions.

Pulling hard against the fierce rip of the narrow strait, Smith recalled the first day he'd seen this desolate, uninhabited place. He'd been drawn to it for any number of reasons. Not the least of which were many outings like this one, a beautiful fair-skinned lass seated in the bow of his rowboat, looking for adventure with the handsome stranger.

He timed and caught a wave that carried them high up onto the smooth rocky beach. He shipped oars and waited for the wave to recede, leaving them high and dry, so to speak. Once they'd climbed out, he fastened the long painter round a large boulder. Then he took her hand and led her across the slippery rocks to a pathway he often used. It led to the graveyard. Climbing it, he began to perspire.

They reached the top.

"It's lovely out here. Makes you wonder why no one ever comes. Lived here all me life and never been."

"Mind your step," he said. The weather-worn stone tablets of ancient graves had been heaved up topsy-turvy, as if the soil itself was rejecting them. Thick tendrils of fog had wreathed themselves into the ruins, and the graveyard had suddenly become an altogether more haunting place. She was shivering. She hadn't dressed for the cold sea wind.

"Who is buried here? So many graves."

"Children. Centuries ago."

"Sad."

"Yes. Death comes and we go."

"And what might that be?" she asked, pointing at the six-foot obelisk and wrapping his worn woolen blanket more tightly about her. "The grave of some great laird, I wonder?"

"A Pagan tombstone, certainly. The grave of an infidel. A kafir."

"What's a kafir?"

"Someone who doesn't believe in God."

"Who doesn't believe in God?"

"You'd be surprised."

"There's writing on it."

"The hieroglyphs are proving much harder to decipher than I first imagined. But I'm working on it."

"You're some kind of…archaeologist…then, are you?"

"Yes, something like that," he said, walking toward the old stone building. "I make a study of graves."

"And that building there? It seems to be the only one still standing, if you can call it that."

"I call it the schoolhouse. It was probably a church since it's adjacent to the cemetery. But I like to think of it as the place where I do my work. Teaching. And learning, of course. Oh, the things I do learn."

"Oh. You seem to know an awful lot about this frightful place for someone who ain't local."

Thunder rumbled overhead and there was a searing crack of nearby lightning. The air was suddenly charged with electricity. Fat drops of cold rain began to spatter on the upended stone markers of death. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes.

"You'll catch your death out here," he said. "Come inside the schoolhouse. Quickly. I want you to see something. In fact, I want to teach you a lesson. About life and-"

"Teach me a lesson, eh? Cor, the way you do go on!"

"It's my sense of humor. I simply can't help myself."

She looked at him quizzically but went through the low opening, peering into the gloom.

He followed her into the one-room stone structure. The floor was covered with small white pebbles. There were no windows and only the single heavy wooden door. Faith thought it odd that the door looked so new, and had a bolt, but said nothing. She was staring at the strong shaft of light that came through a crack in the roof.

There was a rough-hewn stone table directly in the center of a jagged beam of sunlight slanting between the rain clouds. Beneath the table she saw a large wooden hatch, as if it covered a set of stairs leading below to…what? A cellar?"

"Look at the lovely light in here," she said, turning to smile at him over her shoulder. He had his back to her, fussing with something about the door. He turned to her and smiled. An odd smile, rather queer, nothing like the easy smiles on the cliff overlooking the sea. It made her uneasy, like a small cold ache in the pit of her stomach.

"Why did you close the door?" she said as he approached her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it all. The cot. The books scattered on the floor. The rotting food and empty wine bottles on the ancient stone floor. Lightning struck close by, filling the room with white light.

This was where he lived.

Horror began to steal its way into her mind, hot blood racing upward, flooding her skull.

He smiled. "If you were granted one wish, Faith McGuire, what would you wish for?"

She tried for a laugh. "To stop drinking with strangers."

"I promise you, Faith, today will be the day you stop drinking with strangers."

She edged toward the door, blindly reaching out for the handle.

"Don't bother, Faith. I locked it."

"Locked it! Why on earth would you lock this door?"

"So you can't get out. Not until you've answered every last one of my questions about your brother's regiment. I need this information, you see. It's my trade. I'm rather a spy. I trade information for favors. Simple, isn't it."

"Ah, yer full of it, ain't you? Trying to scare a poor young girl like that? I know your kind. Open that door and I'll give you a kiss, but only one. You don't scare me a lick."

"You should be scared, my dear girl," he said, moving toward her. He pulled something from his jacket pocket and held it up into the light.

"Oh, my God."

"If you have a god, my dear, now would be a good time to have a quick word."

"What is it? What are you going to do? Have your way with me? It ain't necessary, mister. I'm no virgin. I like it, y'see, can't get enough. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll do as I say. But now it's time for the Q & A, my darling."

He pressed the tip of the carving knife against her cheek.

She screamed once, found herself backing away and hit the edge of the table, hit it hard with her hip. She put a hand down on the table to steady herself. It was covered with a crusty dried substance that flaked off onto her hand. In some dim recess of her brain she knew instantly that it was old blood.

"It's covered with-"

"A sacrificial altar," he said quietly. "A Pagan ritual. Centuries old."

"Please. Don't hurt me. I know how to make men happy. I'll do it for you. Anything. I swear it! On my knees, I'll swear it, only don't-"

"Oh, don't worry about all that nasty business. I'm not that kind of man. I find all that rubbish rather messy and disgusting, to be honest."

He moved closer. She opened her mouth to scream as he raised the knife.

He jammed his fingers into her mouth, hooking his left thumb under her jaw, and pushed her back onto the table. Her large breasts were heaving beneath the low-cut white cotton peasant's blouse, and he yanked it down at the neckline, ripping the cloth away from her shoulders with his knife hand.

"Will you talk now, Faith? Will you tell me everything I need to know?"

He missed the hand coming for his eyes. She screamed as she went for them, intent on gouging, and he'd time enough to turn the other cheek, as they say, and all she managed was to rake three shallow wounds down the side of his face.

He slashed her with the knife. She was moving frantically now and the wound was only superficial.

"Faith. Your brother's unit is charged with the protection of Lord Mountbatten. I want to know how many men are assigned to his unit, and I want to know what their rotation schedule is!"

"No!"

He slashed again and the blade struck bone, a rib, but the blood was spurting and he gripped her jaw harder, slamming her head against the table with a hollow thud.