Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 37

Ian didn’t plan to survive the day. But that didn’t matter. He’d lost everything he’d cared about and he wasn’t about to lose England. A corporal drove them to the marshaling area, which was the parking lot of Warwick Castle. Magerts had thirty men and they’d need every one of them. They were in full kit and each carried an SA80 and a knife. But Holmes had different ideas about what weapons might work, based on a conversation he’d had with the Tuatha. So Ian woke the director of the Warwick Castle museum and forced him to open the museum to them. At first the man was squeamish about what he’d been asked to do, but after Ian pulled out a letter signed by the Queen authorizing them to do anything he so desired in the defense of England the man had no choice but to comply.

Ian had used the letter–what they affectionately call the Queen Letter—on less than a dozen occasions. She’d signed it back in 1973, long before he was part of the organization, but it was designed to provide them agility of movement, despite the ponderous reaction of British bureaucracy.

He first went to the display case and pulled out every sword he could find, noticing that many of them were irreplaceable national treasures. Lot of good they were doing gathering dust. He then ordered the curator to lead them into the storage rooms, where they found two dozen swords used by a local reenactor group who came together once a month to use the ballistae and pretended to attack the castle while others dressed up to protect it. The swords were cheap and had dull blades, but they had points on them. At least there was that.

Then, with thirty-three swords, he had all the Marines don the scabbards as best they could. Magerts passed around a roll of 550 cord, which they used to form sword belts. Soon they had the blades slung over their backs.

“Give yourselves a few minutes to familiarize yourselves with them,” Ian bellowed. “Just don’t cut yourself or a fellow Marine.”

He turned to Magerts, who wore an immense smile.

Ian had chosen Guy of Warwick’s sword for himself. Although several of the other swords, including the one carried by Magerts, had enough gems and gilt on the scabbard that he could probably trade one in for a London flat, Guy’s sword was old, flat iron. The grip had long ago lost any padding and was only black metal, as was the pommel and guard. The blade was of the same material but still held an edge. All told, the sword was fifty inches of black metal. It didn’t look like much, but Ian had a special place in his heart for the mythological hero of the twelfth century who was purported to have killed the giant named Colbrand, the Dun Cow, and even a dragon. If even a sliver of the legends was true, then this was the only sword Ian could see using this day.

“What are you so happy about?” Ian struggled to make his own sword belt. “I never thought I’d see the day when my Marines went to war wearing swords.”

“We’ll be lucky if they don’t kill themselves with them.”

“You’ll be surprised at how fast they pick it up.” He nodded toward them.

Ian turned and his mouth fell open. The Marines were moving the blades through the air in complex patterns. Although not at all similar to any way Ian had seen swords function, it seemed no less deadly.

“We’ve been doing Filipino Kali Arnis training for the last nine months. They learned some stick-fighting sequences. Looks like they’re applying the principles to their swords.”

Ian regained his composure and shook his head. “Isn’t it ironic that after four thousand years of weapons evolution it’s the simple sword that’s going to make the greatest difference?”

Magerts winced as one of his men dropped a sword. “Let’s hope they don’t have to use them too much.”

“They’ll use them as necessary. Using them might just be the only thing that will win the day. Have them form up. I want to speak to them.”

Magerts brought his men to attention.

Ian finished making his sword belt. He took his time putting it on, well aware that the men were watching him. When he was ready, he marched to the front of the formation, where Magerts stood waiting. They saluted; then Magerts stepped aside. Ian put the men at parade rest.

He took a moment to regard them, acutely aware that he might be leading them to their deaths, just as he had the men of Section 9. That he was the sole surviving member of his unit made him feel small and unequipped to lead, but there was no one else. He fought against an avalanche of self-doubt—after all, how effective could he be if he’d lost his whole team? Still, one incongruous part of him demanded he stay on the path. Whether it was the spirits of his men or his own damned desire to continue the mission, he needed to finish it. He believed with every molecule of his unworthy body that to quit was to lose England. Somehow, he had to convince these men that their lives might actually be forfeit, and a necessary loss for the preservation of England. It was a hard thing, but such was the lot of a soldier.

So it was with a heavy but proud heart that he addressed them. “You should be with your family. You should be getting baked ham, drinking too much, and making bets about who falls asleep first. You shouldn’t be here. Let me say it again, you shouldn’t be here.” He paused. “But you are here and you’re here because you are professionals. I thank you for that. The reason I thank you is that when you die, no one will thank you. They’ll never know that you tried to stand in the way of a supernatural force created for selfish ends.

“The things you are going to see this night, should you survive, will haunt you for the rest of your lives. But know, Marines, that without you, England is surely lost. With you, we have a chance to win her back. Now get ready to fight hard.”

Thirty curious faces were now stunned. Several of them glanced at their partners, but no one was laughing. He wasn’t sure if his speech did the trick, but it was something he’d felt compelled to do. He’d have wanted someone to tell him if he’d been in their place.

He brought them to attention.

Magerts stepped in front of him.

“Not exactly a Saint Crispin’s Day speech, was it?” Ian asked.

Magerts’s face was stone cold. “They need to understand the seriousness. I think you provided that.”

Ian turned the platoon back over to the lieutenant.

After a weapon and ammo check, they boarded into three vans and a car. The vans were white with dark smoked-out windows. The insides had been stripped and allowed room for ten Marines to sit. Each van had a driver. The car was a white BMW sedan also with smoked-out windows. The vehicles all had military license plates. Magerts would drive the BMW with Ian in the passenger seat.

Ten minutes later they were heading for Glastonbury Tor.