A subgun chattered, sending a burst of lead pouring down the stairwell. The men on the steps cursed and flattened as bullets chipped notches and struck sparks from the risers. Phin ducked back, though no rounds came near him. "Fuckards!"

  Kane smiled wryly. "They've got balls, you've got to say that."

  "Not for much longer, if God grants," Phin spit.

  The gunfire didn't resume, and the Celts and Brits contented themselves with exchanging insults instead of shots. Grant and Kane found them interesting but mystifying.

  "What's a shaggin' scouse git?" Grant wanted to know.

  Before either Phin or Fand could elaborate, Bran and his companion returned, bearing a stack of shields between them. Some were triangular, others round and even a couple of rectangular scutum from the era of the Roman legions. Most were made of hammered brass, reinforced with iron plates and bronze bosses.

  Kane hefted a big Norman shield, ovate in shape, narrowing down to a sharp point at its base. It was nearly five feet long and three feet wide at its broadest point. He inserted his left arm through the handles and hefted it, gauging its weight at around fifty pounds.

  "Are you planning to lead the charge?" Fand asked, a line of consternation furrowing her smooth brow.

  Kane didn't answer. He asked, "Do any of your people have grens?"

  Phin looked puzzled for a second, then comprehension showed on his face. "Grenades? No, we found very few of those in the depots. The ones we did appropriate were used weeks ago."

  Grant picked up a round shield bearing an embossed boar's head. "You have rocket launchers. One of those or a bazooka would clear those stubborn assholes out in a hurry."

  "True," replied Phin. "But all of our long-range missile throwers are out in the field. It would take some time to have one brought here, and by then the bastards could figure out a way to open the door and escape."

  "Besides," interjected Kane, "I want at least one of them alive for questioning."

  "Questioning about what?" Grant demanded. "The whereabouts of Quayle."

  Phin's and Grant's eyebrows lowered at the same time. Phin asked, "Why do you care about Evil-eye?" Fand stated quietly, "There are reasons."

  Oisin suddenly pounded up, red-faced and breathless. He gestured upward excitedly. "We found the door. It's got a heavy lock bar—that's why the dragoons couldn't get it open."

  "How many of our men did you find?" inquired Phin.

  "Six."

  Phin sighed in exasperation and Oisin snapped defensively, "All I could round up. They're well armed, though. I told them to wait ten minutes before they opened the door and went through. That was—" his brow furrowed in concentration "—six minutes ago."

  Phin ordered his men back from the stairs and distributed shields among them. Kane detached an Alsatex concussion gren from his harness and moved to the doorway. Grant moved to his side. In a low tone, Kane addressed the warriors. "When I hear your people come through the door, I'll throw this. Then I'm heading up as fast as I can. Everybody understand?"

  There were nods and murmurs all around. Everyone fell silent, waiting tensely, straining their hearing. A bit of the tension reached the dragoons on the landing.

  The young man who had spoken before called down, "What are you Paddies up to now?"

  Before the echoes of the question died in the stairwell, they heard the slamming crash of metal, the rapid scuttle of many feet, and cries of surprise from the dragoons.

  Chapter 21

  Kane moved swiftly to the foot of the stairs, unpinned the gren and hurled it with a looping overhand, seeing it bounce on a riser just below the terrace. He ducked down behind the shield a second before a stunning, painfully loud thunderclap battered at it. Simultaneous with the bone-knocking concussion of compressed air, a nova of white light of dazzling intensity erupted.

  While the air still shivered with the echoes of the explosion, Kane bounded forward, racing up the first ten feet of stairway, taking two at a time. He heard howls of pain, then blasters crashed and flamed from above. The shots were sharp reports on Kane's ears, the impacts of the bullets clanging heavily against his shield. A hailstorm of bullets struck the shields of the men following him, making a racket like a gang of blacksmiths hammering repeatedly on anvils. He heard Grant mumbling breathlessly behind him. "Oh, I love this, I really get a fucking big kick out of this—"

  Then Oisin bulled past him, shouldering Grant out of his way. He fired his Beretta in a frenzy, the pistol bucking and flaming in his fist. His cry of "Erin go bragh!" blurred to a shrill scream as a spray of auto- lire knocked his shield sideways. Chest spurting banners of blood, he cartwheeled down the steps, taking down Grant and two other men with him in a thrashing tumble.

  Kane squeezed off six rounds, holding the blaster around the rivet-studded rim of the shield. The men behind him hammered up a ragged volley. The bullets sliced past Kane's ears, and he lowered his head quickly, not slowing his pace up the steps.

  Handblasters cracked sharply from above, and men screamed in pain and defiance. Kane was forced to throw himself to one side to avoid being bowled off his feet by a red-jacketed corpse somersaulting down the flight of stairs. He glimpsed the vermilion-rimmed cavity of an exit wound in the rear of the man's skull. Skull shards and brain matter slopped onto the back of his neck.

  Another dragoon pitched down, and Kane used the shield to slam him aside, jumped over the body and shot a bereted man who tried to wrestle past him in a screaming panic.

  The dragoons' autofire, which a second before had verged on the overwhelming, now tapered off, replaced by the grunts and thuds of hand-to-hand combat. Kane scrambled up the last few risers onto the landing. It was a miniature slaughter yard of smoking, broken furniture, blood and mangled flesh.

  At least eight Imperial Dragoons lay in a heap. Only two of the soldiers were still on their feet, and they were being brutally pistol-whipped by the Celts. He didn't see any injuries among the Irish. The concussion gren had blinded and deafened the dragoons long enough for the warriors to swarm all over them.

  As Grant, Phin and the others crowded onto the landing, Kane yelled, "Enough! That's it!"

  The Celts paid him no heed, battering the pair of dragoons to their knees, kicking and clubbing them. Phin roared, "Stop, you murderous bastards!"

  Getting in among the men who wanted to avenge a near humiliation, Phin shoved them back, swearing and snarling. He hauled a dazed dragoon to his feet. Despite the blood masking his face, Kane saw he didn't possess the scaled brows or slit-pupiled eyes. He also looked very young.

  Phin dragged him over to Kane. "You wanted to ask him something?"

  Kane demanded, "Where's Quayle?"

  The youth fingered a lacerated lip and spit a jet of scarlet on the floor. "You're a Yank," he mumbled. "Why do you care?"

  "You should care that I care," retorted Kane grimly. "It's all that's keeping you alive right now."

  The young dragoon swayed on unsteady legs. "All I know is that the captain sailed for an oil platform in the North Sea."

  "I don't suppose you have the map coordinates?" The man shook his head. "I've got shit, Yank. Thanks to you."

  "One more thing—you said you served under Quayle?"

  The dragoon nodded. "For the past four months." "Does he know you by sight?"

  He blinked at him in confusion. "No reason why he shouldn't. My name is Harper. I was his orderly."

  Kane turned and descended the stairs. Grant said, "We got off lucky. Only one casualty. Oisin."

  Kane smiled wryly. "The last defenders of the Imperium have had their collective asses kicked. England and Ireland are united just like in the old days—at the point of a blaster."

  Though Grant chuckled, Fand stared up at them solemnly as they approached. In a voice so low it was almost a whisper, she said, "Until we find Quayle and Morrigan, both of our nations may very well be united in death."

  "Morrigan?" Grant echoed in annoyance. "What's she got to do with this?"

  "Yeah," said Kane, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. "I was under the impression she was in still in Ireland, with the Priory of Awen."

  Fand's lips parted as if she were groping for a response. Phin and his warriors chose that moment to clump down the stairs, pushing the wounded dragoons ahead of them. Clapping hard hands on Kane's and Grant's shoulders, he exclaimed happily, "Brilliant strategy! It was desperate enough to work."

  The Celts crowded around the two Americans, shouting their congratulations and voicing ribald jokes. The reality was finally sinking in—the Imperium Britannia was inarguably and undeniably overthrown. Thirty years of tyranny ended in an underground stairwell. Kane figured by the end of the day some self-styled bard would compose a ballad, "The Battle of the Stair," wherein he and Grant obliterated an entire platoon of dragoons by breaking wind in their direction.

  He looked around for Fand and, when he didn't see her, he pushed through the mill of men. He instantly knew where she had gotten herself to, and his nape hairs prickled with a preternatural chill.

  Kane went down the corridor in a fast, long-legged stride, turning the corner. He saw lights shining brightly from an open doorway, and he set his teeth on a groan of dismay. He went in fast, passing the pieces of medical and surgical equipment, pushing a wheeled dissecting table out of his way.

  Fand stood motionless before a long, deep transparent-walled vat. "Don't," he said urgently. "Don't look at that thing, Fand."

  She cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder. "What thing?"

  Kane rocked to a halt, staring wide-eyed. The vat was empty, drained even of the preserving gel. The horribly distorted form of Enlil no longer floated within it.

  Fand's huge eyes glinted with sudden comprehension. "Enlil isn't here. Did you believe I wasn't aware of his contribution to my life? After I regained my mind, my mother told me how Strongbow—then called Laurence James Karabatos—arranged for her abduction and rape by the last of the Serpent Kings of old. And therefore broke the pact struck by the Tuatha De Danaan millennia ago."

  Fand moved close to him, saying quietly, "Your concern touches my heart, but I am no longer the wretched, mad creature who forced you to relive your incarnation as Cuchulainn. When Strongbow vanished, my sanity, my sense of self, returned."

  She stroked his face with soft fingers, gently tracing' the hairline scar on his cheek, as she had done in his jump dream. "But one thing remains the same...my soul's desire for you."

  Fand suddenly threw her arms around him and kissed him with a passionate possessiveness. He felt her heart thudding fast, even through her combat vest. "How you fought," she husked out. "How you fought, beloved!"

  Kane's own heart pounded, and he felt his body respond to her wild ardor. She felt it, too, and smiled with a wicked innocence into his face, her golden eyes seething, seeming to pour molten heat through his skull and down into his groin.

  Carefully, he disengaged himself, stepping back half a pace. "In my dream, you showed me a vision of imminent destruction. You said time was short. Were you speaking the truth?"

  The corners of her lips turned down in disappointment, but she said, "I was. And time is exceptionally short. Let us fetch Phin and Mr. Grant, and I'll tell you what I know."

  THE BABBLE OF RIOTOUS revelry wafted in through the open study windows. The conquerors of New London celebrated with an unrestrained joy, singing, piping tunes on their tin-whistle flutes and beating drums.

  Phin, Fand, Kane and Grant occupied Strongbow's former office, a wide room with aggressively masculine furnishings: a wide oaken desk, intricately carved; four leather armchairs and high bookshelves of dark, brooding wood. A large oil portrait of Oliver Cromwell occupied one wall. The study also contained a liquor cabinet, the contents of which Phin sampled enthusiastically.

  In a little adjacent room, not much larger than a closet, Grant found several file drawers built into the wall. While Phin slugged down a bottle of wine, Fand, Grant and Kane brought the folders to the desk and went through them. Most of them appeared to be personnel records and the only entry under Q was Quayle, Philip Aubrey.

  Kane skimmed it quickly, noting how unremarkable it was. The man's service record was undistinguished, except for a notation recording a wound received in the line of duty. Quayle had been promoted to the rank of captain a little more than a year before and placed in command of a small group of regulars, a patrol unit.

  The only entry that he found impressive was the man's height and weight. Quayle was truly a human leviathan, a man who dwarfed Grant in height and outweighed the late, unlamented Guana Teague by more than a hundred pounds.

  A medical transcript detailing a serious illness was almost unreadable due to the words Unfit and Rejected stamped across it in bright red letters.

  Phin leaned out the window, guzzling the wine, laughing and occasionally exhorting the people to "Dance, you bastards!" He was a happy man. When Kane tossed aside Quayle's file, Phin turned toward him.

  "Let Evil-eye float around in the North Sea;" he said, his voice slightly slurred by drink. "He's a fuckin' exile now. Got nowhere to go and nothin' to do."

  "He has the black ship," Fand reminded him severely. "That makes him far more dangerous than a bushelful of frightened soldiers trapped in a stairwell. You thought they were worth your time."

  Phin snorted and took another pull from the bottle. "Found it," announced Grant, holding up a folder. "Northstar 40."

  Fand and Kane moved to his side. Grant's finger moved over the copy typed on a sheet of paper. "According to this, it was built in 1980 by British Petroleum and cost forty-five million dollars." His eyes darted over the specs. "Goddamn, the thing is huge. Predarkers really went in for size."

  He detached a grainy black-and-white picture from a paper clip. A long view of the Northstar 40 platform gave an impression of a skeletal iceberg, its six gigantic legs seeming to be the mere tips of shafts extending all the way to the bottom of the sea.

  Kane, reading over Grant's shoulder, saw that, on the contrary, the bulk of the rig floated above the ocean surface. Voluminous ballast tanks were filled and emptied with seawater to raise and lower the platform and, more importantly, to keep it balanced. He made a mental note of that.

  Another square of paper displayed an aerial map, containing longitude and latitude coordinates, distance in miles from New London and pinpointing Northstar 40's location by concentric circles.

  "So we know where it is now," Grant declared, fixing an unblinking gaze on Fand. "You need to tell us why it's important. I agree with Phin—Quayle can't do much harm sitting out there on it, even if he has a Stealth ship."

  "True," admitted Fand. "Presuming he stays there. But he won't."

  Phin voiced a raucous, scornful laugh. "Let him take the black ship to Ireland. Let him try. The selkies will settle with him like they did the last time the dragoons tried."

  "He won't be sailing to Ireland," she retorted. "He'll set his course for Lyonesse."

  Phin's liquor-glazed eyes slitted, widened, then slitted again. "The place is nothing but a legend, lass. And if it wasn't, it sank thousands of years ago."

  "The sea eventually gives up its secrets," Fand replied. "Lyonesse rose again, or at least a portion of it did. The selkies reported it to the Priory and the Priory to me. The place is there, make no mistake."

  "And if it is?" Phin challenged. "How is another ruddy rock important?"

  Fand folded her arms over her combat vest, leaning an ample hip against the corner of the desk. "Haven't you wondered where Morrigan has been this past fortnight? She was deeply involved in the initial planning for the invasion because of her inside knowledge of the Imperium's workings."

  Phin acknowledged the comment with a nod. "Aye, without her we wouldn't have known what parts of the coast and countryside were underpatrolled." He shrugged. "I just assumed she was still in Ireland, waiting for news."

  Fand shook her head. "She's with Captain Quayle aboard Northstar 40."

  Phin glared at her in angry incredulity. Then a torrent of outraged Gaelic burst from his mouth. He shook the wine bottle accusingly in Fand's direction. Turning, he hurled it across the room where it shattered on the gilt-edged frame of the Cromwell portrait.

  Grant and Kane eyed each other, not knowing what Phin shouted at Fand but gleaning the meaning nonetheless. He was enraged that plans were made without his input or consent and, as commander of the invasion forces, he felt he'd been deliberately omitted from the loop.

  Fand let him rant for nearly a minute, then interposed sharply, "It was all of Morrigan's doing, Phin. It wasn't approved."

  Reverting to English, Phin half snarled, "What wasn't approved? Another one of her spyin' missions?"

 

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