Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 46

Ian ordered Magerts and his men to hold at the bottom of the stairs. The other man had argued to let him be part of the attack, but Ian wouldn’t have it. This was something he had to do alone and was his cross to bear. One thing he vowed was not to kill any more of his men. He was well aware that the lip-sewn woman had them under her control and would use them against him. But that didn’t matter. He would not participate in her farce. If he could get to her first, then maybe he had a chance; otherwise, he’d wade through an avalanche of bullets until they brought him down.

He drew the blackened-iron sword of Guy of Warwick with one hand and pulled a Fairbarn-Sykes commando knife with the other. Then he marched to the bottom of the stairs. She hadn’t moved. Neither had his two men beside her. One’s name was Jim. He didn’t know the other’s, but Jim was saving his money for a trip to Australia, where he knew some blokes who would teach him to surf and introduce him to a platoon of sheilas. If everything worked out, he wouldn’t be coming back. At least that had been his plan.

Ian felt his amulet warm as she tried to work arcane magic on him. He met her gaze and he saw something there that gave him hope. Frustration. He’d seen it enough in his life. His ex-wife had owned the look. He’d been known to kindle it in the last few years of their horrid ten-year marriage. Now to see it in this vessel for a rogue Tuatha spirit gave him hope.

And he took advantage of the hesitation by storming up the stairs. He took them two at a time, his sword in First Point position, his knife held low. Although he was focused on the woman, he saw when his men raised their rifles. He heard two shots and flinched, but no bullets took him. Instead, his men went down.

He shouted, “NO!” as he took the last two steps and plunged his blades into her. Her body went rigid, but she didn’t go down. She clawed at his face with her hands. He pulled the sword free, stepped back, and swung it through her neck.

Her head rolled free as her body fell, blood gushing with the last pump of her heart.

He stepped aside, remembering that she’d been a victim as well. Then he went to his men. Instead of dead, they were merely wounded. Magerts had shot them in the legs.

Ian felt a hand on his back and turned to it.

“Couldn’t let you be the Light Brigade, sir.” Magerts smiled apologetically. “I thought there might have been another way.”

Ian stared at him.

“They’re my men too,” Magerts added.

Finally Ian nodded. “Have someone bind their wounds. Let’s see what happened to the rest of our men.”

Five rooms ran off the landing. They checked the two on the right and found men and women zip-tied, much like downstairs. The Marines had made it this far. On the other side of the landing were three rooms. One was a bathroom and was empty. They opened the door next to this one carefully and also found it empty. So where were they?

He exchanged a glance with Magerts, who appeared equally vexed.

When they opened the final door they found what they’d been looking for. It was an immense bedroom with a second sitting room off of it. Seven of his men stood like statues around another seated in a chair. His face was contorted around the stitches that had been applied to his lips, pulling them shut at odd angles. Blood had seeped from the inexpertly made seam of his mouth but was now dried. He wore so many wounds his skin had taken on a reddish hue. He had holes in his hands and feet like he’d been crucified.

“Oh, Trev.” He pushed aside the men, who appeared to be waking from a trance, and fell to his knees beside his man.

He pulled away the sign they’d hung around his neck. Trevor was no Lord of Misrule. He was a hero and would always be a hero.

Ian turned and saw the bathroom. He rushed into it and grabbed a washcloth and wet it with water. He turned to leave but felt a presence. He paused a moment, then jerked aside the shower curtain. A fat man stood trembling.

“Let me explain,” he said.

Ian grabbed him by his hair and jerked him from the shower and threw him into the room.

Several Marines recognized him and made exclamations.

“Take care of Sir MacDonald. Do not let him up until I am done with my man.” Ian flashed his rage at the men. “Do you understand?”

They all nodded hastily, then stared fearfully at the Member of Parliament. They’d been placed in a precarious position, but for now they were more afraid of Ian, so they followed his order.

He knelt again in front of Trevor. Wiping gently at the blood on the man’s beaten and sewn face, he spoke to him in a low voice, promising him that he’d take care of his mother and Preeti and that his death would not be in vain. He cried as he said these things, eventually bringing forth a knife that he used to cut the threads that had been used to sew Trevor’s mouth shut. Then he untied his hands and legs and brought him from the chair. Cradling him like he was his own child, Ian carried Trevor to the bed and laid him in state, crossing his hands over his chest and closing his eyes. He said a simple prayer over the body, then turned.

Ian gazed upon Sir Robert MacDonald, unabashed at the tears that had flowed and were now drying upon his face.

“You were part of this.”

Sir Robert held up his hands. “It wasn’t me; I swear.”

Magerts came from the sitting room. “Found these two trying to hide.” He presented two women in their thirties, fit, naked, and tattooed. Their eyes were dull and dilated. “I asked them what happened, but they’re too stoned to even talk.”

Ian returned to the task at hand. “Then who was it?” He pointed to where the women were being zip-tied. “You going to blame them?”

“I—I—“

“Speak up!” Ian slapped the MP in the face. “Had you any honor at all you’d be ashamed. This man was defending your country.”

“Found this in the other room beside his pants.” Magerts held out a leather pouch. Inside were long curved needles used to reupholster leather. Also present was a half-used roll of string-like thread.

Ian took it. He glanced from the MP to the pouch and back.

Sir Robert turned away.

Ian’s eyes shot wide as rage fired through him. “You.”

“It wasn’t… you don’t understand. They have power… power like you’ve never seen before.”

“What does that have to do with my man?”

“Listen. It’s not too late.” Sir Robert glanced at the Marines who stood watching. “There’s going to be a return to greatness. Remember when England ruled the world? Remember when we had colonies? Remember when we meant something?”

The Marines began to look at one another.

“There was a time when being English meant something to the world. There was a time when we carried ourselves proud. If it weren’t for David Beckham and the fucking Beatles no one would even care about us now.”

Ian had only one question. “What does that have to do with my man?”

“His death can mean something. It has meant something. His soul went to power the new king.” Fat and pallid and naked, with his penis lying flaccid against his leg, Sir Robert suddenly smiled beatifically. “You should see our new king. King Arthur. He’s wondrous.”

Ian delivered a blow that sent Sir Robert across himself. His head bounced off the floor. Ian pounced on him, flipped him over, and straddled him. He stared into the man’s eyes. “What does that have to do with my man?”

“We needed a Lord of Misrule. We needed someone.”

“It was supposed to be him,” came a slurred feminine voice.

Ian held Sir Robert by the neck but turned to the speaker.

It was one of the women. She could barely hold her head up, but she managed to say, “Sir Robert was to be the Lord of Misrule.”

Ian stared at the MP as he processed the information.

“You chickened out.” How this man had been elected, Ian couldn’t fathom. There wasn’t a single redeemable molecule in Sir Robert’s body.

“Once King Arthur rules we will take care of you,” Sir Robert said. “I can make you an earl or a duke. I can give you anything because I’ll be his trusted man.”

Ian stood and kicked the MP in the stomach. He reached for the pouch, which Magerts handed over. “I don’t have a king. I have a queen and I’ve devoted my life’s work to her and the people of England.” He nodded toward the door. “Magerts, please leave us for a moment. Take your men with you.”

Magerts appeared to be ready to say something, but one glance at the bed silenced him. He ushered his men out the door along with the two women. Then he closed the door behind him.

Sir Robert MacDonald began to cry. His sobs turned to screams by increments as Ian did what he felt he had to. When he was done, the former MP no longer bled from his crotch, nor could he speak. His lips were sewn shut and were forever full.

Ian washed his hands in the sink but never once looked at himself in the mirror. When he was done he walked to the window and stared up at Glastonbury Tor just in time to see a tall figure wearing a crown pause beneath the arch to St. Michael’s Tower. Ian wondered if he’d turn. He wondered if the King would regard him. But then the King continued, disappearing into the tower.