The Return of the Arinn Read online

  ‘I’m Major Mackie – field surgeon!’

  Tajh spoke for the crew: ‘Doctor Mackie – thank goodness! We have serious casualties.’

  ‘So I gathered from your radio message.’

  They were exhausted – and lucky to have survived the journey. Now, at the entrance to HQ, they waited for the doctor to assess the wounded. They showed him Padraig, a collapsed plastic bag holding the last few drops of his saline drip, and then they explained what had happened to Bull, whose face and left side were peeling and red with blisters the size of marbles. Mackie judged Bull to be ‘walking wounded’ and allowed him to clamber out under his own steam. One of the orderlies sat Bull in the front passenger seat of the emergency vehicle. This cleared the body of the Pig for the doctor and the assisting orderlies to move in and tend to the unconscious Padraig.

  Mark and Nan hung behind to overhear the doctor summarise his findings over a radio-com to some team back in the field hospital: ‘We have one elderly male . . . barely alive . . . septicaemic by the looks of him. We’ll need a bed in ITU.’

  While the remaining orderly changed the intravenous bags according to Doctor Mackie’s instructions, the field surgeon emerged from the Pig to speak to Mark and Nan: ‘What in the name of God happened to the old fellow?’

  ‘He was tortured.’

  ‘How, tortured?’

  ‘We suspect he was beaten, starved, deprived of sleep, injected with psychotropic agents, sensory deprivation—’

  ‘But who did that to him? And why?’

  ‘We don’t have time to go into that right now, Sir. We can’t afford to lose him.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ The doctor went to examine Bull and he spoke his findings into his radio-com. ‘Heavy-set young male, with burns to face and right thorax, mostly second degree with small pockets of likely third degree. Also for ITU.’

  ‘Can you help them?’

  ‘The burns case should be readily manageable. As for the poor old chap, well, one can always pray for miracles. He’s obviously in deep shock. He’s grossly anaemic and dehydrated, but the main threat is the septicaemia.’

  Mark nodded. ‘The fact he’s still alive means he didn’t talk. Though they did all they could to make him.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Whatever the enemy wanted from him was important, but he didn’t give it to them. That makes it all the more important for Padraig to live so he can help us understand the situation. That’s what he went through hell for.’

  The doctor told one of the orderlies to get Bull to ITU without delay. He spoke into the com again: ‘I don’t dare risk moving the old man until I’ve initiated some emergency resuscitation. He’s centrally cyanosed. I’m going to have to bag him here. We’ll have to support him manually until we can get him to ITU.’

  Mark and Nan didn’t want to leave Padraig.

  Major Mackie ripped open the plastic packing over an endotracheal tube. He had the remaining orderly lift Padraig’s shoulders so his head fell back. Then Mackie flipped open the metal endoscope with a curved arm and a light on the end of it, stood behind Padraig’s head and forced open his jaws. ‘The bastards have broken several of his teeth, but that’ll wait.’ He curled the arm of the tube around the back of Padraig’s tongue and yanked it forward, so he could insert the tube. ‘Okay – now pass me the syringes.’ He anaesthetised Padraig there and then in the belly of the Pig. He connected the upper end of the endotracheal tube to a manual ventilator, coupled to a small oxygen cylinder. ‘We’ll have to keep bagging him till we get him into the ITU.’

  Mark said: ‘We’ll come with you.’

  ‘I understand your anxiety, but I’m afraid you can’t come with us. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to visit your friend later. But right now there are people who urgently want to talk to you.’

  *

  A sergeant in fatigues led the whole crew – minus Bull – to a cavern equipped with fluorescent overhead lighting and a simple rectangular table. He saluted a tall grey-haired man with the crown and star epaulettes of a senior army officer, who was seated between two junior officers. The sergeant bade them take a seat on a row of folding metal chairs before introducing them to the officers:

  ‘General Harry Chatwyn, commanding officer.’ He nodded in the tall grey-haired officer’s direction. ‘Colonel Graves to the CO’s left – Major Forsyth to his right!’

  Mark exchanged glances with Nan. They were meeting the man in charge of the crews at last. They exchanged glances again as a tall, red-haired woman in civvies arrived, taking a place to the left of Major Forsyth. Mark was astonished to recognise Jo Derby. General Chatwyn spoke. ‘Gentlemen – and ladies – please be at ease! I believe you are already acquainted with Miss Derby, who has been assisting us with information about the situation in London.’

  He nodded to Jo, who introduced each of the crew in turn. As she did so, General Chatwyn leaned across the table to shake the relevant hand. ‘Miss Derby has also been bringing us up to speed about you. You’ve all been through quite an ordeal. The Resistance is fortunate to have you on board.’

  Cal spoke for all of them: ‘What’s going on, Sir? If you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I don’t mind in the slightest. But first I’d like to hear more about you. We have much to discuss. But first, what’s the situation with your casualties?’

  ‘Both being cared for, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘As you already know, the situation is grave. We need to get down to business. You’ll be doing the talking and we’ll be doing the listening, if you wouldn’t mind. We’d encourage you to speak with absolute frankness. We’ve already been briefed to a degree by Miss Derby, but what she’s been telling us hardly makes sense. Something about the old man now being treated in ITU and, if my information is to be believed, a magical sword? But then, dare I say it, what’s currently happening in London doesn’t make much sense either. So please, where would you like to start?’

  Nan looked sideways at Mark, who took a breath and spoke. ‘Sir, the Reverend R Silas Grimstone is my adoptive father.’

  Chatwyn glanced at the rather austere looking officer to his left, who had been introduced as Colonel Graves. Graves now nodded, as if in affirmation of this.

  ‘When and where did he adopt you?’

  ‘He adopted me in London. As far as I know, I’m a native Londoner. I was an infant when it happened, so I have no memory of it. But I did once meet a man in the streets who handed me this.’ Mark produced the harmonica he kept with him always. ‘I thought he might have been my real father. How the adoption took place, I don’t know. Grimstone never really spoke of it except to tell me, as he also liked to tell my adoptive sister, Maureen, that our parents were hobos. In my case, English, in Mo’s case, possibly Australian aboriginals, though I wouldn’t necessarily take any of this as truth. Grimstone was – still is – consumed by hate. I don’t know why he felt it necessary to adopt us. He didn’t pretend to love us, or even to like us. His wife, Bethel, treated us with equal callousness. I now suspect that he was instructed to adopt us by his master, who saw some purpose in keeping us under his control.’

  ‘His master?’ It was Colonel Graves who asked.

  ‘That’s where it gets a bit difficult to explain. Grimstone’s master is not human. This being, for want of another word for him, lives on another world, called Tír. Tír appears to be some kind of sister world to Earth. On Tír he is called the Tyrant of the Wastelands.’

  All three officers sat back in their chairs. Chatwyn laughed dryly. ‘Well,’ he said to his companions, ‘we did invite frankness.’

  Mark continued: ‘I was . . . I suppose the word is “entranced”, or something like it, into travelling to Tír with three friends: Alan Duval, an American visiting his grandfather, Padraig, in the town of Clonmel, in Ireland; Kate Shaunessy, a local Irish girl; and my adoptive sis
ter, Mo. When we got there we found ourselves in a world that has known nothing but war for thousands of years. But the war on Tír wasn’t like we know war here. They don’t have our modern technology, but they do have weaponry of their own. Besides the medieval type of stuff, like swords, spears and javelins, they have . . .’ Mark hesitated, his eyes lifting to meet Chatwyn’s. ‘Well, what they have is weapons that would appear to be magical to us.’

  There was a silence in the room, which lasted for several uncomfortable seconds.

  Chatwyn broke the silence by coughing into his hand. ‘Would you like to introduce your foreign companion, Mark?’

  Nan piped up: ‘I can introduce myself, Sir. My name is Nantosueta, though Mark calls me Nan. Here I am a member of the Resistance, but on Tír I am queen of the Vale of Tazan, and once upon a time – and a very long time ago – I lived in its former capital, the fortress city of Ossierel.’

  Chatwyn studied Nan for a moment or two. ‘You don’t look so very old.’

  ‘It would take a great deal of explaining, Sir.’

  ‘This Tír you speak of is another world – an alien world?’

  ‘It is not alien to me.’

  ‘Point taken. But you say you came here from another world?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which is . . . where?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Somewhere out in the far reaches of the galaxy?’ It was a sceptical looking Graves who asked the question.

  ‘I do not know if it is far out in the heavens, which you call the Milky Way. Or whether it might be a variant of Earth in an alternative universe. The existence of Earth is as alien to me as the existence of Tír to you, Sir.’

  ‘If you are alien, how come you speak our language? And why do you look so very human?’

  ‘I don’t speak your language. I translate my language into yours as I speak it, through the power of the oraculum in my brow. I know not, any more than you, why I look human, as indeed you look like an inhabitant of Tír to me. Tír does resemble Earth in many ways, but it is also unlike Earth in many other ways. For example, there are many non-human sentient beings on Tír. I think if you were to visit it, you would find it very strange.’

  Colonel Graves spoke again: ‘You bear crystals of power – I believe you just called them oracula – in your brows?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Mark replied.

  ‘Can you explain what these are?’

  Mark did his best to explain how he, and Alan, had acquired their oracula, and what the First Power and the Third Power meant. Nan then spoke about her own experience, and how she came to share the Third Power with Mark.

  ‘So this Third Power, the power you share through your crystals, is derived from Death? Or rather should I say Death as a divine power?’

  ‘From Mórígán, the Third Power of the Holy Trídédana.’

  ‘Who personifies Death?’ Graves made no attempt to hide his continuing scepticism.

  ‘She is the goddess of Death – and the battlefield.’

  Chatwyn lifted a hand for silence. He paused, thoughtful for several moments. ‘I’ve just thought of a name. I’m holding it in my head. Can you tell me what it is?’

  Nan replied, ‘It is a very peculiar name – Rumpelstiltskin.’

  ‘You read my thoughts. That’s remarkable.’

  The third officer, who had been introduced to them as Major Forsyth, and who had been silent up to now, spoke with an educated Scottish accent. ‘I have an idea as opposed to a name in my mind. Can you tell me what it is?’

  Mark answered him, ‘The idea, Major Forsyth, is confabulation, meaning to invent lies to cover an otherwise uncomfortable truth.’

  ‘Remarkable!’

  ‘Well, now,’ Chatwyn explained, ‘Major Forsyth is a psychologist, who, like Colonel Graves, is sceptical of your story. It’s his job to be sceptical. We are relying on him to determine if you are telling us the truth, or dissembling.’

  He nodded to Forsyth, who addressed Mark and Nan directly. ‘I have been attempting to understand what is happening in the minds of these so-called Razzamatazzers. Do you have any idea as to what might be driving them to this insane pattern of behaviour?’

  Mark spoke: ‘Nan and I, we have both sensed what is driving them. We think it is the seduction of the Sword.’

  Forsyth sighed. ‘Ah, this magical sword!’

  ‘The Sword of Feimhin, Major. Grimstone’s followers stole it from a Bronze Age barrow grave that Padraig had been guarding in Ireland.’

  ‘But how could a sword from the Bronze Age be capable of seducing the imagination of people today?’

  ‘We don’t know. But it isn’t an ordinary sword, made of steel or bronze. Its blade is made out of the same black crystalline material as the daggers of the preceptors on Tír. And those daggers are infused by the will of the Tyrant of the Wasteland. We have to assume that the sword originally came from Tír and acts as a kind of focus, or conduit, of the Tyrant’s malice. And we have reason to believe that that malice is very powerful. On Tír he is close to gaining access to something called the Fáil, which is understood to be one of the most powerful forces in the universe.’

  Forsyth appeared nonplussed.

  Chatwyn spoke: ‘The Black Rose – could it be related to this source of power?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. We both believe that it must be so. The Fáil is the only thing we can think of that might explain what we saw in London.’

  Forsyth sighed again. ‘I presume that you would have no objection to demonstrating these purported magical powers in action for us.’

  ‘We would be prepared to do so if you really demand it, but I would strongly advise against it. The location of these headquarters is secret. The use of an oraculum might show up like a beacon to the Sword or to the Black Rose.’

  ‘If I might have permission to speak, Sir?’ chipped in Tajh, ‘We’ve seen these powers in action on many occasions. Nobody could have been more sceptical than Cal here, but even he wouldn’t deny that Mark and Nan have supernatural powers.’

  ‘Cal?’

  ‘I don’t pretend to understand a damn thing about all this,’ Cal replied. ‘But they do appear to have some weird powers. Just don’t expect me to explain it.’

  ‘We shouldn’t get overly involved in confrontation right now,’ Chatwyn spoke, once again specifically addressing Mark and Nan. ‘We will need to speak to your companions in the crew about what they have seen of your powers. I trust you would have no objection to that?’

  ‘None, Sir,’ Mark said.

  ‘Thank you for that. Miss Derby – have you anything to add?’

  Jo Derby smiled across the table and her voice was placatory. ‘Only that we should explain to Mark and Nan – and the entire crew – why we need to press them so hard on this.’

  Mark spoke softly: ‘The Black Rose?’

  ‘Yes, the Black Rose.’ Chatwyn looked from one to the other of his companions. ‘Our country is under threat. We don’t understand the nature of this threat. It is unlike anything we have ever encountered before. From the military point of view, nothing of what we have seen makes sense, any more than what you have been telling us about alien worlds. But then, maybe the lack of common sense is the key to understanding, or so I am led to believe after listening to your story. Assuming you can prove your powers – and Miss Derby also claims to have witnessed them – you may be able to help us understand the nature of the threat. That threat may be much worse that we had anticipated. Miss Derby, would you care to inform them of the latest tidings?’

  Jo linked her pad to a projector. It took her a few seconds to project a series of images onto a flat expanse of whitewashed wall. Mark, Nan and the crew watched, in shocked silence, as pictures of the burning streets and buildings of New York, Sydney, Ottawa, Berlin, Paris, and many other capital cities throughout the world, fl
ashed upon the makeshift screen. The chaos that had until recently been confined to London was becoming universal.

  *

  When the crew arrived at the medical facility, it was still only 5.30 p.m. They found Bull covered in dressings and growling with ill temper.

  ‘I want you to tell these medic goons to let me get up.’

  A new nursing orderly, a beanpole of a man inside his roomy fatigues, rapped a metal urinal against the head of the bed. ‘He’s been demanding to get out of bed since arrival. Get him to understand that he needs to give it time. He might get a try on his feet tomorrow.’

  Bull seethed: ‘How’re you supposed to piss lying on your back?’

  Cal grinned at him. ‘Get a nice-looking nurse to help you.’

  ‘Are you kidding? They’re all like him.’

  ‘Think of England!’ Cal turned to go.

  ‘Don’t think you’re leaving me here.’

  Tajh patted Bull’s shoulder. ‘We’re all a bit frazzled after a very disturbing de-briefing. I’ll come back and talk to you afterwards. Keep you up to speed.’

  Bull glared at her.

  ‘I promise you.’