Chapter Eighteen

Unexpected Guests

The Nocturne stood like a dark statue beyond the rusted gates.

His hood hung low over the dark pit of where his face should be. The shadows swirled there, almost coming close to looking like a face. His cloak was bulkier this time too, likely because he wore armor now.

Wesley wondered if that was in respect for his father’s prowess. Or perhaps his own. Though he’d shown he cared little for Wesley’s power.

The trolls, who’s cudgels were charred black from the impact on the shield, stumbled back at the Nocturne’s command.

Wesley’s focus had been solely on the Nocturne until they stopped and he saw the old, crumpled looking woman beside him, her skin hanging off her face like a month old corpse. The gold and silver hung loosely off her limbs and her shawl was almost as ancient and ragged as her. Around her neck was a black cowl, that like the Nocturne’s hood, swirled with layered darkness. There was something decrepit in the nature of her gaunt countenance.

She was a witch. And Elder of the Old Ways. A Woman of the Threads.

Wesley had seen people poisoned by dark magicks many times in his work. But few ever lived as long as she.

Her eyes were pits of wiry silver and black specks. They had seen much. Done much. Meddled, much. Tainted by that dark magick.

Wesley’s father stopped mere feet from the Nocturne, the veins in his neck, strained, though his body seemed calm enough. He was seeing his wife’s murderer for the first time in over a decade.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Behind the two figures, and the trolls, was a thick bank of fog that had come from nowhere. In it, Wesley could see the moving shapes of unknown creatures. Horses, spiders, dragons, at least one, and so many human-esque figures it made his head spin to count them.

“I’m surprised,” the Nocturne began, his voice like a metallic husk, grating and withered sounding. Wesley wondered what had happened to him since they’d last been face to face. “That you troubled yourself, Colonel.”

The Colonel stiffened. How long had it been since he saw his own son?

Wesley’s father spoke. “You’ve been busy.”

The swirling shadows around the Nocturne’s face quickened, as if conveying emotion. “You’ve no idea, dear lord Barstow. I wonder, what has my father promised you? Did he weasel the location of the hilt out of you? Or is he waiting?”

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Lord Barstow said, his chin lowering. “You won’t find what you’re looking for.”

“You know, I think he’ll wait till you’re near death,” the Nocturne mused. “He likes to wait till you’re desperate. It's when he does his finest work. You should have seen him at the Battle of Myrrhwood. Brilliant bit of treachery there.” The Nocturne leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you know he eked out the location of the Royal family’s heirlooms. Namely, their stockpiles of weapons.”

Wesley tried not to stare at the Colonel to see his reaction, but he couldn’t help it. The man was stock still, his block of a head tilted downward like a bulldog about to charge. Wesley suddenly felt very exposed.

Where had the Colonel's men gone? Were their wands pointed at their backs right now?

“We do not need your lies,” Wesley’s father replied. “If you insist on fighting, we will fight. You will die.”

The words almost felt like a physical force coming out of the Lord's mouth.

The witch cackled and when she spoke, her voice was scratchy and high. “You will fall, Barstow. It is written.”

It was Wesley’s fathers turn to laugh. “How did he get you out of your hole? Did he promise you more magic? More power? No…perhaps longer life? What, Murriel, is three centuries not enough for you?”

The witch hissed and electricity cracked at the ends of her long nails. Then she raked the shield charm and for a second, it looked like she would cut through.

Then Lord Barstow snapped his fingers. The witch was hit with a bolt of lightning that seemed to come from the shield itself. She was flung back into the thick layer of fog and disappeared.

The Nocturne chuckled. “I will thank you for that, Lord Barstow. She is useful, true, but tiring.” The gaze from those unseen eyes fell on Wesley, he could feel it. “Where is my rib, my knight?” he asked, almost cheerfully, as if this really was all a game to him.

“I am not your puppet,” Wesley said.

“No…” the Nocturne mused. “But I’m not done with you, Wesley Barstow.”

The words sent shivers down Wesley’s spine.

“Leave this place,” Wesley’s father said. It wasn’t a threat, nor a plea, but something else. Something between the two. He wanted this fight, but for the people who’d come to help, he did not.

“Then give me what I want,” the Nocturne replied. When he was given no response, he shrugged. “Then I’ll remove it from your corpse.”

A gloved hand disappeared into his robes.

“Look at this,” he began, pointing with his free hand to his father. “My own father does not tell me to stop. What a fool you were to let him in there. He cares not for you or me.” He cut the air with a forced laugh. “The Court of Nine. What fools. There is only one court, and it is his. He wants the same thing I do, only he cares more for our family name than I.”

He removed his hand with a flourish, holding the glowing Orb.

“I will get there first.”

A lot of things happened at once. The Nocturne said something and the Orb began to glow red hot. The Colonel raised his hand, his wand suddenly in his hand. But Wesley’s father was quicker, his wand was a blur.

The Colonel was lifted off his feet with a bang as a jet of dark blue light punched through the shield and hit the Nocturne’s outstretched, empty hand. Instead of him catching the spell, like he’d done to Wesley’s, his hand was jerked over his head violently.

The very light in the air became gray and the Orb pulsed pale light.

In a vicious uppercut, Wesley’s father yelled a curse and the earth shook for a moment, grumbling beneath their feet. Then a vine of red wood tore from the ground under the Nocturne and snatched the Orb from his hand.

It whipped back toward the ground and was gone before Wesley really knew what had happened.

The spell released the Nocturne and he rose, stiff and heaving, his breath like that of a rabid dog. His hands were fists and the air crackled with power.

“Good,” Lord Barstow said. “Now we can begin.”

“As you wish,” the Nocturne said and turned and disappeared into the fog.

Wesley followed his father as they started back toward the house. The Colonel was still finding his feet.

“Where is the Orb?” he asked, straightening his robes, wiping the dirt off them. “What have you done with it?”

“It's out of play. Now we focus on the Nocturne.”

The Colonel stared hard at Wesley’s father, wanting to push him. But he backed off.

Then the trolls started again, redoubling their efforts. The world shook as the shield shuddered.

“The witches,” Wesley began. “They are going to be a problem?”

His father stretched his neck. “They will be…annoying. They are a coven from Greenwich.”

Which means they’ll be able to draw a lot of power from the converging ley lines there. The place was known for its power. And they had chosen the Nocturne…

“Why are they…”

He didn’t have to finish the question.

“Power. It's almost always power,” he all but growled. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. “He’ll betray them. They are just tools like the others. To be cast aside when he gets what he wants.” He stopped, turning to face the trolls that had just resumed their work on the shields. “Colonel, if you would please join your men on the roof. We’ll coordinate from there.”

The Colonel, not used to taking orders, stared for a long moment, then grunted, stalking toward the house.

Before Wesley could say anything, his father turned to him. “Listen to me, son. Many things are going to happen here tonight. The most important thing is that he does not get his hands on that hilt. If he does, then this becomes infinitely more difficult. Do you understand?”

Wesley nodded.

His father sighed, as if about to say something he didn’t like. “You will have to leave.”

Wesley stood there, dumbfounded.

A sudden pressure pressed his ears. His father had cast a silencing charm around them. The sound of the trolls disappeared and all that was left was his own labored breathing.

“Listen carefully and I will tell you what is about to happen. The Colonel being here has complicated my plans. But you are still the key to this.”

“I will not leave you,” Wesley said, his throat tightening for some reason.

“For this to work, you must. I do not think we can kill the Nocturne here. He’s still too powerful. But we can slow him down. I know where he’ll go once he’s got the hilt. We just have to get there first.”

“Father, I will–”

His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Do this for me, Wesley. We are a small part in a much larger game. If he gets the keys to Avalon, then we will be ants to him. He’ll wipe us away and play god with our world.”

Wesley sucked in a breath, not liking one bit of it. He felt the same cold fury and anger he bore reflected in his father.

“What do you need me to do?”

He drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Wesley. “There will be a moment when I go after the Nocturne. You’ll know it. When that happens you need to get as far from this place as possible. Then read the note.” He was keeping his words short. Still afraid someone might be listening despite the silencing charm. “You will go with Cecelia. She will know what to do.”

Wesley nodded. “I will do it. But until then?”

His father smiled, showing his teeth. “Until then, we will fight. Take as many of these bastards down as we can.”

He flicked his wand and the silencing charm vanished, letting the sounds crash back into them. All around them there was shouting. The dome shield was failing and the trolls were tiring. Their blows came more delayed after each swing, the charred stubs of clubs crumbling down to nothing. Soon, they began to use their fists to finish it and their roars of pain shook the night.

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“You need to kill that damn witch. Her and her coven are blocking some of my magic. They’ll need to be dealt with.” He’d become like a general in the space of a second. “Cecelia will hunt the rest of the coven but that one needs to die as well. Melt her to charred bone, if you will. We don’t need any postmortem magick messing with us.”

Wesley nodded, taken aback slightly by the sheer brutal nature of the task and how calmly his father had expressed it. And…how calmly Wesley himself accepted it.

A chill passed over him as his father put his wand to his own neck and began speaking.

“The Nocturne has come to take more from us.” His voice danced around Wesley’s ear like a warm cloud. “Our livelihoods, our loved ones, our very lives, were not enough for him. He wants more. He would have us give up our hearts, our minds, everyting, for his petty little game.” He let it sink in. “We will not give it to him. If he wants more, then we’ll make him pay for every inch of ground. Every second of our lives we’ll never get back. Every person we hold dear that we will never be able to hold again.” He sounded like he almost choked up and Wesley looked up at him. There was something close to tears in his eyes. “Give them hell and don’t look back.”

A roar went up from all those around the grounds. The defenders, they were ready.

And it was good that they were because in that very moment, as his father dropped his wand from his throat, that the shield exploded in a great show of silvery, bright sparks.

They came like a wave, thunderous and feral, from the mists beyond.

***

Wesley was frozen beside his father, watching them come.

A wave of beings of all sizes and kinds. He saw witches and wizards in their robes, sprinting. What was left of the trolls, trying to run toward the house. The centaurs, shooting their arrows as their hindquarters kicked up dirt. And what looked like goblins, with their knife sized blades, riding atop their backs.

Then there were the wolves and the werewolves, from the looks of it. Half transformed…Wesley had never seen something like it. Somehow under the Nocturne’s artificial night, they had been able to tap into their transformative power.

There were mortals too, with their guns. Some magically enhanced, others just simply firing away. Bullets aglow with some imbued magick skipped off the ground and danced around, exploding and burrowing into anything they hit like supercharged bees.

Shots rang out all from the roof behind them. Men and creatures alike dropped like pebbles in the oncoming horde. Their spells shot passed the two lone defenders on the lawn, flung wildly.

A shield materialized in front of them, taking the brunt of the onslaught. It burned silvery blue from all the impacts but never wavered.

Wesley blew out some air, impressed. His father barely looked like he was worried or even strained by it.

But Wesley braced himself and drew his blade.

At the last possible moment, when they were about to be overrun, his father did two things. First, he knelt and put his hand on the ground. Secondly, he raised his wand and flicked it silently.

The ground began to shake as dozens of portals opened right in front of them. The charging force ran right into them at the last second, most unable to change course. Those that did not find themselves transported away, were entangled in roots and vines. The ground suddenly looked like a centuries old forest floor. The poor attackers were ripped apart, pulled underground, and crushed.

Some tried to leap over the ambush, either with magic or with their powerful limbs only to be blunted by about ten different gunshots.

It was a masterstroke of surprise.

In his awe of it, Wesley was nearly beheaded by the wild swing of man twice his size. Almost literally. He must’ve been damn near eight feet tall and stacked with pallets of muscle. His two handed sword scarred the air with a red, lingering stripe.

Some kind of berserker with an enchanted weapon.

Wesley guessed he was a mercenary. Probably from the Hinterlands near west Russia. They were blunt objects, meant for breaching and butchering. Skilled in killing, it was sure, but not much use against highly skilled opponents.

His blows were powerful and Wesley barely parried the first two, but he’d wasted too much energy then. They were meant to overwhelm but if you just held on long enough…

He took a page out of his father’s book and shot a spell at the ground beneath the big man’s feet, making it instantly muddy.

The man, surprised, stumbled but still tried to swing. Wesley took his hand at the wrist, cut his throat, and disemboweled him all before he hit the ground.

“Good!” his father called as he dropped two small wolves with a wave of his wand, charring one and mangling the other with some unseen force. “Find the witch!”

Wesley nodded, not happy to be leaving his father like this, but determined to do as he was told.

As he began to run, things began to fall all around him. So many in fact they had him diving for cover beside an old yew tree. Then he realized exactly where those portals had taken the attackers as a thoroughly squashed centaur hit the ground not five meters from him.

His father had sent them into the sky, dropped them from the clouds. Damn clever. And they’d been falling for almost a minute and a half. A grisly fate.

Wesley’s shield lit up as a wizard, who’d had the wherewithal to slow his descent with magic, fired spells at down. The man wasn’t that accurate, but just fired an abundance of spells. Wesley didn’t waste his time on it.

Lifting his wand, he sent a torrent of loose wind up at the man and sent him careening off toward the ground somewhere on the other side of the estate.

Now, if only he knew where this damn witch was. He racked his brain on how to track her. There was too much magic to hone in on it. Too much mist to simply look. Too many dangers to run off willy nilly and hope to catch her. No…he needed…

Then it came to him.

Dark magick like the kind she summoned always left a mark. Yes, other wizards would be using it here, but not like her. Channeling from a coven was something else. Older, more primal. She would be close.

He needed something to enchant.

Wesley summoned a pair of glasses from the house. It took a long, almost tortuous moment for them to come. He didn’t know where they would be, but he knew they were there. Ten seconds later he saw them streaming toward him through the air. An old pair of his father’s spectacle, silver and gold rimmed.

He caught them deftly, thought for a second and said, “Vide malum.”

They glowed hot for a moment as the magic imbued and then cooled to almost freezing. He put them on. The world darkened for a moment, then became a shaky shade of gray, almost black and white. Welsey had to balance himself as his eyes swam with ethereal shapes.

Then he saw it. A darkened cloud emanating from the orchard just beyond the fence. That bitch was in his mother’s orchard. A jolt of visceral anger took hold of him and he went charging from his cover, only veiling himself as an afterthought.

Something about this place had brought out the rage in him. Kindled by his father, the change in the man he’d known into something he could respect and that he’d gotten so little time so far to speak with him. The battle raged around him as more of the Nocturne’s ghastly fiends came over the fence. So many spells were coming from the roof now that only one in three beasts made it over cleanly. Many were simply turned to dust or charred bone, leaving their claws to hand loosely on the metal bars.

Wesley climbed over it just as he had when he was a boy, flinging himself haphazardly. When he landed in the glade, surrounded by fruit trees of every kind, magically imbued to grow, of course, he found the palace eerily quiet. Someone had put a spell on the place. The mist was thicker here too, making the tree like barely visible sentinels. Even on the nearest ones he could not see above five meters to their bellies.

Whispering the spell, he recast his veil.

Then he began to hunt. The dark shadows the glasses showed was everywhere. It grew shades darker the further he moved into the orchard.

That's when he began to smell it too. The rot. The stench of dark magicks.

He also heard a soft, willowy chanting.

She was there, not three meters ahead, completely unaware of him, sitting hunched near the base of a tree. Her dark clothing clouding her like the darkest of shadows. The air shimmered around her as she channeled the dark magic, obscuring her.

Wesley crept toward her, surprised there were no guards. Surprised he’d tripped no magical barrier.

And in his haste to return to the battle, to assist his father, he missed it.

The little wisp of white bone where the folds of old skin should be, just beneath the chin. His sword plunged into her chest and she exploded.

Well, not quite exploded, but something did. An energy blast removed Wesley’s veil and threw him backward, leaving his sword stuck in the witch’s chest.

The witch, which was not actually the witch, rose, showing itself to be a skeletal creature. Some kind of reanimated corpse. The shimmering visage fell away leaving only its skinny body, with ragged, dried skin still hanging from parts of its decimated bones.

Then it ran off into the mist, taking his sword with it, the bones clacking with each step. Wesley stepped to give chase and paused.

Something was tingling in the back of his mind. That was an ambush, she had wanted to catch someone with it. If he’d been her, he would hide…

The screech came from him, accompanied by a crashing of branches. The old witch was fast, he’d give her that, and far more limber than he’d have given her credit for. But he was quick too and his instincts, though infantile compared to how long she’d been alive, were sharp.

His sword gone, he raised his wand, a shield expanding in the mere centimeters between his neck and her claw like hands. They crackled with electricity, lighting up the space between them. They met the shield with an ungodly sound, like a bone across gravel.

Wesley watched in horror as they tore the shield up, eating away at it as if it were no more than a simple slip of cloth. How could he forget she was channeling a dozen other witches. Soon those claws would tear into him.

A primal part of his brain, the same that saved him from the first attack, was telling him something else. Something he’d never done.

“Fulgar,” he shouted, overloading his own shield with magic, pumping it full of electricity, not in a steady stream like her’s, but in one big jolt.

The witch screamed as it ripped into her and in the split second before she was flung backward, her eyes bright blue.

She hit the tree with bone crushing force and flopped to the ground like a ragdoll.

Wesley sagged, exhausted from the expenditure of magic. The amount he’d just channeled was almost double his normal rate.

And still he wasn’t finished. The charred, smoking remains coughed and spluttered. The smell was atrocious but somehow, she still sucked down breath. Dark magicks will do that.

The witch attempted to cast a spell, but it only sputtered out.

“You will die, little Barstow,” she whispered from her dry throat. “Die and die. You and your father…”

At the end of three centuries, all she could do was make threats.

When her last attempt at salvation came, Wesley cast a shield. The scorching heat of her spell collapsed on her and she burned herself alive.

A small shockwave of magick pulsed out as she died and the sounds of the battle were back. Gunshots and explosions. The cries of the dying. The scream of spells. Somewhere a troll shouted a battle cry which was met by an explosion that sounded like a rocket.

He left her crumpled corpse by the tree, hopped the fence and tried to find his father. It took him only seconds. Nearest the worst of the fighting at the stairs to the house, he found his father, back to back with the vampire Alaster, who wielded two long, curved and blood spattered blades.

They stood alone, defending the front of the house. Around them were piled corpses. Alongside the house was the Colonel, whose men surrounded him, also fighting like hell. As he should.

From the corner of his eye, Wesley saw something flashing towards him. Wicked fast and lanky as hell. It hit him like a boulder and lifted him off his feet. His armor took the brunt of the force, though the wind was still knocked out of him.

When they landed, he found the muzzle of a werewolf snapping down at his neck. The long fangs dripped with saliva and blood. He was lucky the thing wasn’t fully turned otherwise it would have snapped him like a dry twig.

He managed to grip its throat and push while its claws tore up his clothing, trying to get through his armor. Then something happened that he didn't understand. It reared back, deciding to bring both its hands down on Wesley’s chest, which might have just crushed him into pulp. But as its strike hit the armor, it was flung backward as if hit by its own blow.

Blood from its broken arms sprayed him and when he looked up, he found it impaled on a tree, a branch poking out from its chest.

He would have to remember to visit his grandfather’s grave and thank him for the armor.

“Lucky bastard,” came a voice from behind him.

He spun, raising his wand. But it was only Cecelia. She was covered in blood, almost literally. Her hair was matted with it. Her face, save for her eyes, was painted red. And her clothing, what wasn’t shredded, was covered too. And she seemed to be favoring her left leg.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Found the coven,” she grimaced. “Killed the coven.”

Wesley’s eyes widened. “By yourself.”

She nodded. “You and I are leaving.”

“I know. Just–”

Something in his gut made him turn around. Striding through the ruined gates was the Nocturne, undercover of a rolling mist cloud and surrounded by guards. Or…other Knights of his.

He was headed straight for Wesley’s father, who was still battling about a dozen ghouls, werewolves and other wizards.

Wesley started forward but found a firm grip on his arm. “You can’t. This is what he wants,” Cecelia told him.

“He’ll die.”

“He’s planned for it,” she implored as he tore away from her grip. She let out a frustrated groan. “I’ll shoot you in the leg.”

“I’ll crawl,” he said back.

She rolled her eyes, shrugged the gun off her shoulder, and leaned against the tree, sighting in on the Nocturne.

This made Wesley pause at the tree line. If she could catch him unaware…

Her shots were silenced and the gun barely kicked in her grip. The first hit him in the head, punching through the robe’s hood, kicking him sideways. The next three took him in the chest as he fell. It was the first time Wesley had ever seen him take a hit. First time he’d ever seen him even stumble.

But, as if caught by an invisible hand, he was flung upright as though he hadn’t been hit. And that darkened, eyeless gaze settled on them. The gloved hand rose and fell and lightning rained upon them in great swaths of fire.

Wesley was running hard for his father, trying to escape the heavenly holocaust.

As soon as he left the trees he heard it. The great beating of wings. The unearthly roar. Before he could turn, before he could even raise his wand, he was rising…fast and violently into the sky…held tightly by great black claws that dug painfully into his unarmored skin and scraping against the old armor.

“You should have bowed, Wesley,” screamed the madman over the rushing air. “Now you will die!”