Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

The hound leaped again, spearing itself just below where his gladius was stuck. Walker pushed hard against the spear, shoving the length through the beast until he could grip the end of his gladius once more. Then he jerked it free and hacked at the creature’s neck until it was no more.

Walker sought out Yank again and saw that the tables had turned. Instead of fighting King Arthur, he was now trying to defend himself from three hounds. Walker began to run to his aid, but Hoover bounded past him, as did YaYa. Walker slowed. He found himself in the middle of a quiet space as everyone fought around him.

“Walker, look out.”

He was shoved to the ground by Laws, who took the blow meant for his head. But Laws was taller, so the great sword sunk deep into his shoulder. His face immediately paled as he fell to the ground.

The stocky king pulled the sword free and swung at Walker. But he rolled to his right, managing to come up in a standing position. Somehow he still had his gladius.

“Fucking hell.” He leaped backwards, barely able to keep from getting skewered. He studied his opponent. Arthur’s crown was made of old beaten metal. His beard was cut rather than ragged. His gaze was fixed and steady. He looked just like what King Arthur should have looked like, just as if he’d walked right out of Central Casting. His armor was made from beaten plates attached to a leather background. He wore a ring on one hand and a watch on the other wrist… a watch?

Then Walker understood.

Of course. It might be the Tuathan spirit of King Arthur, but they needed a body to use in order to make him the King. This was never really about the need to have King Arthur from the days of old return. That was just the vehicle the Red Grove was going to use. Arthur was to be their tool so that they could prosecute their program of national segregation. With him would come magic and a promise of a return to proud times and in turn they’d remove all non-Britons from the country and have a beautiful white oasis of peace and prosperity.

So they had to have a human who looked like the popular ideal of Arthur.

Which meant that Walker finally had a target for his rage.

He waited until King Arthur swung, sidestepped the sweeping blade, and hacked at the right arm holding it. His blade missed taking off the arm, but it tore the skin open from wrist to elbow.

The man howled, but even as he did, the Tuatha inside of him worked its magic and the wound began to heal.

“Oh no you fucking don’t.”

Walker feinted in, then ducked back.

King Arthur switched his grip and shoved the blade at Walker. It hit his chest plate and slid to the left.

Walker trapped it with his left arm and shoved the gladius toward the King’s chest.

Instead of taking the blow, King Arthur released his grip on his sword and backed away, searching the ground for a weapon.

Walker took two steps and hacked at his opponent, missing with the first swing but catching the King on the upswing. Then he swung again and again and again, his rage and pain fueling his increasingly expert slashes.

King Arthur staggered backwards.

Walker caught his target on the shoulder.

The man who would be King Arthur reached out.

Walker sidestepped. “I don’t think so.” He knew what it was trying to do. If he let it touch him, the Tuatha could transfer, then it would probably make him kill himself.

King Arthur turned and ran.

Walker spied a spear on the ground. He snatched it up, brought it back behind his head, ran forward a few steps, and threw it. The spear went true, piercing the back of the man, sending him careening to the ground. His crown fell free and rolled several feet before it came to rest at a pair of high-heeled feet.

Sassy Moore reached down and picked it up. She looked at it, wrinkled her nose, and tossed it over her shoulder.

“Don’t touch him,” Walker warned.

She pulled a bag from her cargo pocket, opened it, and dribbled it along the ground until King Arthur was surrounded with a circle of what appeared to be white dust. “The other Tuatha ran. I’ll not let this one get away. This is bone dust from the Giant of Castlenau and it has trapped you in this place.” Her voice was ragged from use but contained a power that compelled. “Hold my hand, Walker. I need your anger.”

He gave her his right hand and she took it with her left. Her right hand began to manipulate the air. She began to speak in guttural German.

He stood watching, noticing when the figure on the ground began to writhe, legs and arms beating against the ground. Walker focused his entire being on his anger for the murders of Jen and Trevor and everyone else who’d lost their lives in this attempt at a white hegemony. He focused on Preeti and knew how terrible she’d felt at Trevor’s death, knowing it because he’d owned the very same feeling. He thought of Jen and their last night together, how he’d swept a stray hair from her forehead right before he kissed her. He focused on it all, letting memory after memory after memory shoot through him and into Sassy Moore to fuel her spell, until he was once again face-to-face with Jen’s soul-forged hound of the Wild Hunt. His hand now felt like it was holding on to an electrical current. He couldn’t let go of the witch even if he wanted to. Sobs ripped from him as he screamed at the creature in the circle. Soon he couldn’t hear anything except for his own shouts of outrage.

Then there was silence.

He realized that his eyes had slammed shut.

He opened them and saw that only black ash remained in the circle of white.

Sassy pulled at her hand. “You can let go of me now.”

He opened his hand and stared at it.

She put her other hand on his shoulder. “You loved her terribly, didn’t you, son?”

He nodded dumbly.

“She’s in a good place now, thanks to you.”

He felt the truth of her words. He closed his eyes once more. An image of Jen flashed and held in his mind. She was smiling. He smiled back at her. She waved and turned and was enveloped by light.

Hands gripped him.

He turned to find YaYa and Yank.

“Come on, bro.” Yank pointed toward the helicopter. “We’ve got to get Laws to a hospital.”

Walker realized the battle was over.

He let himself be pulled until he was running with them.

“Anyone else get hurt?” he asked.

“Nah.” YaYa flashed a grin. “Just all of us.”

“You’ll be okay,” Walker said to Laws as he climbed into the Sikorsky and it took to the air.

Ever the goofball, Laws grinned. “I know. It’s merely a flesh wound.”

SEAL Team 666 sat in the main salon of the priory, sipping from mugs of dark local ale. They wore civilian clothes and could have been a group of footballers, if they all weren’t sporting bandages on their arms, faces, heads, and hands.

Sassy Moore had just left after paying her respects to Preeti. Ian and the team had held a private ceremony for Jerry and Trevor, one that had begun with solemn ritual, then ended up a circle of tearful laughter as each of them began to tell story after story of how the two men affected their lives. When Preeti had told her and Trevor’s origin story, Yank and Laws, who hadn’t heard it before, had both cried.

Preeti returned from the ladies’ room at the same time as Ian arrived with a platter of fresh pints.

“What’s the plan now that you’ve been given the building back?” Holmes asked.

“Magerts is coming on as my second. Of the fourteen Marines who survived the battle, eleven have agreed to join us.” Ian passed out the beers, then sat down, bringing his own two-cubed glass of scotch to his lips. He closed his eyes and made a relishing sound. Then he continued. “We still have a long way to go, but it’s a start. The thing about disaster is that it tends to remind people what’s important.”