Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

She snatched the metal wand from the ground. It no longer held power, but it was still a weapon. She strode toward them and managed to separate Arthur from the others. Still recovering from her spell, the man he inhabited found it hard to keep his balance. He fell twice. Enough so that she was upon him, thrusting the wand through his heart.

As the light went from his eyes, so did the Tuatha. She knew the truth and somehow understood the rules. It could only enter another through touch. She watched it travel near the ground like a miniature dust devil, collecting sticks and leaves and twigs, until it was able to form the figure of a man made from debris and detritus. Then it ran, not toward her, but toward the bank of fog now roiling across the lawn several hundred meters from them.

She turned and found the other.

This one didn’t run.

It turned to face her.

It wanted to fight.

She smiled grimly, knowing that her entire existence was meant for this very moment. Her, Sassy Moore, once a child afraid of her own shadow, now a Thirty-First-Degree Magister Templarus witch of the Fraterni Saturni against the greatest magician of the Western canon–Merlyn.

She began to battle.

Walker climbed to his feet, the vile taste of possession still in his mouth. He wanted to lash out, to hit, to beat something until its insides splattered all over his uniform. In fact, he’d been searching for the location of the Tuatha when he’d been struck by such a wave of pain, he couldn’t remember when last he’d felt so awful. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it had originated with the witch. Perhaps it was the sheer outrage he felt in the force of her power or maybe it was the residual image of a little girl hiding in a bomb shelter, but she’d somehow saved herself and them all by sharing her pain.

He saw her now, squaring off against a Royal Marine. Although the young man had a knife at his belt, he made no move to use it; instead his hands were moving in a complex series of manipulations. Walker had no doubt who it was. Walker made to move toward him, when Holmes grabbed his arm. The commander was on his knees and trying to stand. Walker helped him to his feet, then looked around to see if he could help the rest of the SEALs, but they were all standing, if not a little unsteadily.

The sound of a hunting horn made him turn.

Through a bank of fog appeared King Arthur riding an imperial white stag with a menacing rack of horns. Beside and behind him were men dressed in all manner of clothes. Some carried swords and knives. Some carried spears. Still others carried longbows. Intermingled with these were hounds, each one slightly different, their eyes the link to who they’d been before their souls were stolen and reforged into these unholy beasts.

Ian began screaming for the Marines to form a defense. With Magerts on one end and MacMasters on the other, a ragged line began to take shape as the confused Marines picked themselves off the deck and formed to confront the enemy.

Holmes called the SEALs to him as he ran back toward the helicopters. Walker glanced back to see if Hoover was coming, then, once assured, hurried after his team. Patrick was spooling up the rotors as they arrived. Walker was the last on the helicopter. Hoover had leaped in before him.

“What’s the plan?” Laws asked.

Holmes pointed out the front window as he spoke to the pilot. “Can you take us up and behind that bank of fog?”

“Yes, but that’s not your only problem. We just got word that a battalion is coming up the road from RAF Markam.”

“Whose side are they on?”

“Can’t be sure.”

“How long until they get here?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe sooner.”

“Then we need to hurry.”

“Hold on!” The helicopter jumped off the landing pad and over the copse of trees. Beneath them they could see the approaching Hunt a mere fifty meters in front of the line of Marines. Even as Walker watched, the Marines opened fire. Their combined fire should have knocked down the first rank of hounds and hunters, but they had no effect. Magerts’s men and Ian had swords. They drew the swords now, explaining to the other Marines what had to be done. With only their combat knives, they had a lot of close combat to look forward to.

King Arthur leaned back in his saddle, staring up at them as they flew over. Fire glowed in his eyes.

The fog wrapped the helicopter in a claustrophobic embrace. Gone was the world of man. Gone was everything they knew. For a moment, there was nothing except the feeling of displacement. Then they were on the other side and the crisp, clean wintery light embraced them. Patrick lowered the helicopter, keeping the wheels six inches from the manicured lawn.

“I knew it.” Holmes pointed opposite the fog to where a line of seven red-robed figures stood. “Take us there.”

Walker remembered the last time he’d encountered one of the robed figures. “Don’t let them touch you.”

“They’re never going to get near us.” He clapped the pilot on the back. “Mow them down.”

The helicopter gathered speed as it roared across the lawn.

The figures not only wore red robes, but their heads were covered by conical red hats also, with holes cut out for their eyes.

Walker felt so much magic coming out of them he felt nauseous. His head rang with pain. His skin began to vibrate.

The pilot lowered the nose until the blades were almost clipping the ground. “Hang on.” He slowed almost to a stop, then surged forward, the propellers eating through the line of druids, transforming them into red mist. The druids had probably counted on the Wild Hunt being the target rather than themselves. Holmes had demonstrated his tactical genius by realizing that the Hunt had to have been manipulated from elsewhere and had guessed the location correctly.

Walker turned back toward the fog and noticed that it was quickly burning off, revealing Marines and the Hunt fully engaged in battle.

Holmes didn’t have to say anything. The pilot was already turning the helicopter toward the action. The windscreen was covered with blood and gore. An ear slid free of the glass. The SEALs dropped their rifles in the cabin and drew swords and knives. Ten seconds later as the helicopter lowered to the ground they leaped out the open door, each of them finding targets.

Walker hit a huntsman, knocking him to the ground. His bow, which had been pulled back, flew from his hands, the arrow breaking as it struck the earth at an awkward angle. Walker picked himself up and swung his gladius, catching the huntsman down the length of his back. Then Walker stepped to the side and swung, severing the huntsman’s head. Instead of disappearing like the hounds had, he remained in place. He’d probably been human once.

Walker moved to his next target, another huntsman who’d just shoved a spear through a Marine’s stomach. Walker brought his gladius around again and hacked it halfway through his target’s neck. Blood spurted into the air, drenching the Marine, whom the huntsman fell against.

Laws, Holmes, and YaYa were similarly engaged, using the advantage of coming from behind to their benefit.

Beyond them Yank stood toe-to-toe with King Arthur. While the King swung a great two-handed blade, Yank swung his two blades in a dizzying Filipino weave, catching the other’s blade, deflecting it, then slicing the Tuatha with his blade.

A hound leaped at Walker and he shoved the gladius in its chest. He tried to pull it free, but the hound pulled back, jerking the weapon from his grip.

Walker had no choice but to dive to the ground and pick up a spear that had fallen. He had no idea how to use it other than to hold it out in front of him, so he did.