Reign of Evil

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.

CHAPTER 57

SANDRINGHAM ESTATE, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. NOW.

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.