Seven for Tanelorn
Two
Elis, Greece, c1500 BCE
Kratos' lip curled. The cluster of buildings around the shrine was dark and empty. The devotees of Athena who dwelt here had stayed despite the undead Servitors, the Harpies and Minotaurs that Ares had sent, but the mere whisper that the Ghost of Sparta was on his way was enough to send them fleeing to the woods and caves. Cowards! He thought. But so be it, he was accustomed to battling alone, and at least there would be no foolish civilians underfoot.
Athena herself had sent him here, to this, one of her most favoured shrines. Kratos had accepted the quest eagerly, since Ares was the aggressor. His blood-feud with the increasingly unstable God of War was perhaps the only thing that prevented him from taking his own life. That, and the eternal hope that the other Gods would eventually grant his wish, and cleanse his mind of tormenting memories.
Kratos had come with the dawn, and as he strode forward, his blocky form cast a long shadow before him. There was a broad path leading to the centre of the little settlement that was already in ruins, the houses broken or burned. Corpses littered the area – peasants in rough clothes, priests in robes and many armed warriors. Athenians, judging by their gear; skilled and disciplined soldiers, but lacking the raw ferocity and indifference to pain and death that characterised the Spartans.
The shrine still stood in the square at the centre of the town. The statue of the Goddess still guarded its portal, aglow with Athena's will and power. But with her worshippers fled, that power would soon fade, and if the image fell, the temple would be next. Kratos went forward and set himself before the image.
He did not wait long. They came quickly along the path they had made: grey-skinned undead soldiers in rotting armour, towering, axe-wielding Minotaurs, a massive, lumbering Cyclops. The air filled with the shrieks of Harpies. They entered the square and halted, quivering like leashed hounds. Kratos felt the will of their God holding them back, trying to teach him fear, but it was much too late for that.
"Ares!" He bellowed. "Coward! Come and face me yourself!"
The god's voice was sardonic in his mind. I do not waste my time with mortals, Ghost of Sparta. Remember, I made you, and I reserve the privilege of watching as my minions put an end to your treachery and insolence.
"Let them come!" Kratos growled. "None of them will see the sun set this day!"
The horde charged in a cacophony of sound, the clash of armour, the roars of the Minotaurs and the ever-present scream of the winged she-demons. Kratos unlimbered the heavy, axe-like blades that hung at his back. They flared with red fire, and the Spartan allowed himself a grim smile at the irony of slaying Ares' servants with the very Blades of Chaos that the war-God had gifted him so long ago.
He fought as he had fought a thousand times before, the heavy blades swinging out at the end of the chains that secured them to his forearms. They sliced through flesh and armour with ease, and burned as they cut. Undead soldiers went down by the dozens, but the other creatures held back. Ares was playing a clever game, seeking to wear Kratos down with lesser foes before unleashing the more powerful minions upon him. Well, it would either work or it wouldn't. A Spartan succeeded or died, and Kratos didn't care which happened to him.
Then the battle changed. It began with a Minotaur giving a terrible scream of pain and rage. The fight paused as even the undead soldiers turned to look. The Minotaur stood rigid, its' head thrown back, and two feet of black blade protruding from its' chest. Then the blade wrenched, splitting the beast open and letting it fall. The slayer emerged from behind it, a tall, slender figure clad in black, with a bone-white, not entirely human, face and flowing white hair. The face was stretched in a fearsome grin, the crimson eyes glowing with battle-fury. He wielded a great, black, two-handed sword that looked too heavy for his slender arms. The blade was crooning, and black light spilled out of it as the white-skinned warrior hurled himself into the fray.
This unexpected intervention had clearly thrown Ares' plan into disarray and he responded with rage, goading all his minions at once into the fight. It became clear that the albino stranger was easily Kratos' match in ferocity, and his sword was even more powerful than the Spartans' blades. What the black blade touched, died, and the more he slew, the more strength the stranger seemed to gain.
Even so, the odds were still terrible, until another warrior arrived, leaping from the roof of a half-wrecked building into the heart of the fight. He also wore black, a lithe, well-knit man with brown hair and a neat beard. Not as strong as the other two, he was fast and agile, wielding a straight blue-white blade that seemed to be made of pure light and cut through anything in a single sweep. At the same moment there was a sound like thunder, and dead Harpies began to rain down onto the battlefield. Kratos risked a glance around to see a giant figure standing atop the temples' portico, aiming some kind of weapon that spat fire, tearing the swooping demons to shreds before they could touch him.
Now the servants of Ares were falling rapidly, and the God of War made his last move. With an earth-shattering roar, the Cyclops lumbered forward, raising its' huge club. The agile warrior with the sword of light was directly in the beast's path, and neither Kratos nor the black sword warrior would be able to reach him in time.
Then the impossible happened. The warrior lowered his blade, and raised a hand. From a nearby ruin, a heavy beam lifted and floated toward him. One end had been broken off, leaving a spear-like point. As Kratos watched, astonished, the beam came to hang between the warrior and the Cyclops, the pointed end toward the beast. With a quick gesture, the warrior sent the beam flying forward swiftly as an arrow, so that the pointed end punched through the Cyclops chest. The one-eyed giant pitched forward, impaling itself more deeply on the beam, its' mouth opened to spew black blood, and it died.
There was little more to do after that. The last of the Harpies had fallen, and the giant on the roof turned his thunder-weapon on the ground troops, spreading ruin among them so quickly that the three swordsmen had no need to do more than mop up stragglers.
At last it was done, and by unspoken agreement the warriors made their way toward the statue of Athena.
"Who are you?" Kratos demanded bluntly.
The bearded man did something to his weapon, and the blade vanished like a snuffed-out candle. He hung the handle on his belt and sketched a bow to the Spartan.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight," he introduced himself, "and a 'thank you' might have been nice, Captain Kratos."
"Thanks can wait until I know who you are and what you want." Kratos growled. "You know who I am, but I do not know you. Were you also sent by the Gods?"
It was the albino who replied. "My companions do not, I think, have any truck with gods, Sir Kratos. As for me, I deal with gods far different than those of your world. I am Elric of Melnibone, and if my theories are correct, this world has long since forgotten me and my people."
The giant had leaped down from the temple, and now addressed Kratos. The Spartan noted that he was at least a foot taller than any man he had ever seen, and was clad in blue armour, edged with gold, that made an odd whirring sound whenever he moved.
"My name is Captain Titus, and my comrades and I need your aid, Kratos of Sparta."
Kratos considered. There were many who considered the Ghost of Sparta to be a dim-witted killing machine, an unthinking berserker who lived only for battle. They were wrong. Kratos had been a Captain in the Army of Sparta, and such men required more than mere strength of arm. Few would credit it, but Kratos had been educated in tactics and strategy, and was learned in the classic poetry of Athens, the great tales of heroic deeds. More importantly, a Spartan Captain needed to be able to measure men at a glance, to tell a coward from a brave man, an honest one from a liar or braggart, a warrior from a soldier.
The albino Elric was a warrior, he decided, a gifted amateur who fought because he wished to, or for a cause, or for gain or honour. The Jedi – whatever a Jedi might be – was something different, having the air of both a soldier and a priest about him. Kratos had known soldier-priests and respected them, in his way; they fought only when their ideals permitted them to, but when they did so, they remained true to the end, and feared nothing. Titus was a soldier, with the carriage of a professional fighter; his scars marked him a veteran, and the spotless condition of his obviously ancient armour as one who had been through military training. What did such men want with a feared killer?
Then the statue of Athena spoke:
"Kratos, these men are on no quest for us. Their purposes are their own. There will be no gain for you in this, be warned!"
Before anyone could answer another voice floated to their ears. An insinuating tenor, full of old and joyous evil.
"Beware, little cousin!" It said. "I have permitted my own devotee to join this endeavour. Has your arrogance grown so, Child of Law, that you will refuse where I have allowed?"
"I did not ask your permission, Arioch." Elric said coldly. "We have a bargain, it is true, but your part of it has not been well-kept thus far."
Athena also replied. "Have a care, Old One! This is not your world, and you have no power here save your voice."
"Enough!" Snapped Kenobi. Both god-voices fell silent, and the glow of Athena's statue seemed to flicker. "This is for Kratos to decide, and I for one will not permit interference!"
It was that which decided Kratos. He turned to Titus. "I'm with you." He rumbled, "I've had enough of gods and their quests for now. I wish once more to fight beside mortals, for the sake of mortals. There's much I would forget in my life, but there are some things I wish to remember, and the fellowship of men in battle is one of them."
The Castineau Farm, Normandy, 1817 CE
Lucille Castineau paused on her way to the field, to watch her man work. Stripped to the waist in the late summer sunshine, he looked magnificent to her as he finished mowing the last field. A couple of young boys, borrowed from nearby farms, were completing the haycocks and Lucille was carrying a midday meal for all of them. They would sit in a shady corner of the field and Richard would entertain the boys with tall tales of his adventures in the war.
That had been a worry – how her French neighbours would react to the presence of an English soldier among them. But it had proved needless, the tall dark man with the scarred face inspired respect simply by his appearance. His French was fluent, especially when it came to swearing, and his capacity for hard work and the local cider soon won him acceptance.
"I've had to work for everything I've ever had." He once told her. "So a farm is just another job, Lucille."
Still, she was grateful to the Duke of Wellington, who, as the victor of Waterloo, had managed to make Richard's field promotion stick this time. The pension and prize-money of a Lieutenant Colonel went a long way towards making the farm a working proposition again. Then he spotted her and hailed her cheerily. Lucille shook herself and carried on into the field with her basket.
Later that evening, as she prepared a simple supper of bread and cheese, Lucille watched him from the kitchen window as he sat on the back porch smoking a cigarillo. This time her thoughts were different. There was no doubt Richard loved her as she loved him, and that he was happy here, but there was a restlessness about him lately. He had been a soldier most of his life, after all, and unused to staying in one place for too long. Something would call him away, soon, she knew. But she also knew he would come back to her.
Sharpe's instincts remained as keen as ever, and he knew that the four men who appeared out of the woods in the twilight were dangerous. But he also knew they meant him no harm – their approach was too open, too relaxed. He sized them up, one by one.
A well-knit man with sandy hair and beard, wearing a simple black uniform and moving with a quiet assurance that impressed Sharpe more than his rather ordinary appearance. He carried no weapons that Sharpe could see, but nonetheless gave the impression of being armed.
Another man of average height, but very thickset, with muscular arms, legs like tree-trunks and a bull's neck. This man had a shaved head, a straggly beard and intense dark eyes in a scarred, brutal face. His skin was ashen white, but marked with a spiral red tattoo that began over his heart and ended on his cheek. He wore a simple leather kilt, sandals with thongs that reached to his knees and gauntlets that covered his forearms. He had two nasty-looking blades slung at his back.
The next man also had white skin and his features were odd, a long skull and jaw, with slanted scarlet eyes and a pointed chin. He was as tall as Sharpe, but more slender. Sharpe had encountered albinos before, in the travelling shows that came to the village, but this man was different. He was not clothed in ragged motley, but in black britches and shirt, with a black leather jerkin and boots, and a long black cloak with a crimson lining. A massive broadsword hung at his side and he carried himself with an unconscious arrogance Sharpe had only seen before in royalty.
The last man was a true giant. Sergeant Harper was the biggest, strongest man Sharpe had ever met, but this fellow would have dwarfed Patrick, standing more than seven feet tall, and built to match. He wore a blue uniform with a good deal of gold braid, but the skull and Omega badges didn't belong to any regiment Sharpe knew of.
It was the giant who spoke: "Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Sharpe, of the Prince of Wales' Own?"
"That's me. And you are?"
"Captain Titus, Second Company, Ultramarines. My colleagues and I would like to speak with you, Colonel."
You could tell a lot about a man, Sharpe thought, by the way he ate. Soldiers ate in one of two ways, either bolting the food down on the move, or relaxing and relishing every morsel. Three of these men, then, were soldiers. Titus, Obi-Wan and Kratos applied themselves to Lucilles' home-baked bread and local cheese with every evidence of simple enjoyment. The tall albino, Elric, was different. Sharpe could tell the man was an aristocrat by his manner and his speech, and the delicate manner in which he ate confirmed that. But unlike some 'gentlemen' Sharpe had known, he didn't turn his nose up at the plain fare. Instead he seemed to savour it as much as he might any spiced and princely banquet. Indeed, his eyebrows had shot up in approval at his first sip of the local wine Lucille served.
After they had all taken the edge off their appetites, Titus came to the point, explaining what he needed. Sharpe listened, then said:
"But what are we actually doing?"
"I'll explain the full details to everyone when we have a full team." Titus said. "For now, suffice to say that the task is an honourable one."
"Honour's nice, I suppose," Sharpe pointed out with a wry grin, "But if you know as much about me as you seem to, you'll know I'm no gentleman. I think I'd need something a bit more substantial than honour."
The big Spartan, Kratos, gave a snort of approving laughter, and Elric raised his cup to Sharpe in a silent toast. It wasn't that Sharpe didn't want to go, he'd been feeling restless lately, and been plagued by a feeling that he was losing his edge. Still, there were other considerations. Titus seemed to understand, and produced something from his pocket, placing it on the table in front of him. Whatever the thing was, it produced a cone of light, in the middle of which floated an image Sharpe recognised immediately. It was the large, heart-shaped ruby that had been stolen from him in India many years ago.
"How the bloody Hell did you get hold of that?" He asked.
"We didn't," Titus admitted, "but the people we're working for have it, and will give it to you in return for your help, Colonel."
Sharpe hesitated. They were no longer exactly poor, but the price the ruby would fetch in Paris would make a lot of things very much easier. The Lucille grabbed his arm and whispered urgently in his ear. His eyes widened. "Are you sure?" He asked. She nodded. Sharpe swallowed hard, then said to Titus, "I'm with you."
Alberta, Canada, c.1987
The man called Logan stretched and grimaced. The aches and pains were vanishing quickly, as they always did. That was part of the problem, of course. Cage-fighting, between the purse for winning (he always won), and careful side-bets, was reasonably profitable, earning enough for his few needs. But it entailed a lot of moving about. His tactic of allowing the other guy to beat on him until he got bored, then taking him down fast and hard, was good for helping the odds, but it meant getting beaten to a bloody mess every night. Not a problem in itself, but turning up the following night without a mark on him did make people suspicious. Tonight, the bar-owner had asked him outright if he was one of a pair of twins, fighting turn and about!
It was getting toward time to move on. Fortunately, logging season was about to start, so that would give him a few month's regular pay. Then maybe in the winter, he'd head up to Yellowknife. He still had his truckers' license, maybe he'd drive the Winter Road a season?
Who are you kiddin'? He asked himself. Ten years he'd been following the same route – round and round Alkali Lake. This place mattered to him, but he didn't know why. All he had was a blank in his memory, and dreams of pain, fire and blood.
He considered another beer, maybe a bourbon, but he'd been down the booze road before, and it was no help. He went to the window and threw it open. The air was sparkling-cold, but he could smell spring in the wind. That was good. Summer out in the woods, in the logging camps. Clean air with no smells of beer, tobacco and blood-lust, set him up for another winter of run-down bars in one-horse towns.
The whirring sound was a familiar one, but Logan couldn't recall where or when he'd heard it before. All he knew, almost by instinct, was that that sound spelled trouble. Trouble is my middle name, he thought. He looked out again, and realised one of the stores opposite had suddenly acquired a new building. Looked like a small, shabby storage shed, but it hadn't been there a few moments ago.
Logan dressed quickly, locked his RV, and made his way, silent as a ghost, to the new building. Quiet as he was, the door swung open as he approached, and a bright light shone out. Silhouetted against the light was a giant figure. A deep voice said: "Colonel Logan, codenamed Wolverine? Your skills are needed."
Grimmauld Place, London, 2012 CE
The whirring noise brought Harry and Ginny Potter dashing into the ballroom. They looked about them for the familiar blue box, but saw nothing. Then Ginny said: "Harry, we seem to have acquired a new cabinet..."
Kreacher, his timing always impeccable, appeared out of nowhere and silently handed them their wands. "Keep an eye on the children." Ginny told him, before turning to Harry. "You told me that the Doctor was the only TimeLord left!"
"That's what he told me." Harry replied. "But he also said it was a big Universe..."
The cabinet door opened, and a giant of a man stepped out, stopping short when he saw the two wands levelled at him. He raised his hands.
"I am unarmed, Mr Potter, and mean you no harm."
Harry considered the man carefully. "Unless you've done a really spectacular regeneration, and repaired your TARDIS a bit, you're not the Doctor!" He pointed out.
The visitor grinned: "You know the Doctor?"
"Worked a special job with him last year." Harry told him. "He told me there weren't any other TimeLords left."
The big man shrugged. "I doubt he'd have mentioned me. I'm only half a TimeLord anyway."
Harry lowered his wand a little and nodded. "I got the impression that the Doctor isn't a man who tells everybody everything. Talks a lot, but doesn't say any more than he needs to!"
Ginny, typically, got straight to the point. "Who are you and what do you want?" She asked.
"My apologies, Mrs Potter." The stranger inclined his head. "My name is Titus, and I want, or rather need, your husbands' help."
Tersely, Titus explained where and how he had met the Doctor, knowing that this was perhaps the best way to gain Harrys' trust. It worked, both Harry and Ginny nodded.
"That's the Doctor." Harry stated. "I can't think of anyone else who would do just that in just the way he did it!"
"I presume," Ginny said, "that this help you need involves going somewhere to kick somebody's arse?"
Titus nodded. "I'm putting a team together, and I need a wizard. Word is, Harry, that you're the best of the best, so here I am. Interested?"
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm the best..." Harry began, but Ginny cut him short.
"I would, pet, because you are." She stated flatly, then turned to Titus. "What kind of job is it?"
"If you know the Doctor, you'll understand why I can't give too many details here and now." Titus replied. "What I can say is that some poor, good people are under threat from some rather unpleasant types."
"If it's bullying you're talking about, then Harry's up for it." Ginny said immediately.
"Oi! Don't I get a say?" Harry protested.
"No, you don't." She told him. "We didn't go through all that crap with Draco Malfoy – not to mention Voldemort – for you to start letting bullies get away with it, Harry! Titus, bring him back in one piece, or I'll know the reason why!"
Titus and Harry exchanged wry grins.
"Yes, ma'am." Said Titus.
"She Who Must Be Obeyed." Muttered Harry.
Ginny absently cuffed Harry across the back of his head and said to Titus: "That thing's a time machine, right? OK, be back for tea, all of you, including those blokes who're peeking out through the TARDIS door! I'll make extra and you can tell me all about it, and it had better be good!"
As Harry stepped through the TARDIS door, a tall, dark man with a scar on his face grinned at him and said: "With a wife like that, this should be a holiday!"
The Redoubt, Moon Tanelorn
The tallish, slender man with dark hair and saturnine features relaxed on the throne-like chair and stroked his neat beard.
"You are sure that the Mercenaries are not here to reinforce the town?" He asked. His voice was silky, but the underlying menace was unmistakable.
The person addressed came closer to the bottom step of the dais. He was grossly, immensely fat, a fact that made his elaborate dark robes, beringed fingers and pomaded hair faintly ridiculous. But the eyes, almost hidden in folds of fat, were dark and cold. He moved with an odd, bouncing gait, and a keen observer would have noticed subtle bulges around his vast waist, hinting at some kind of technological support for his enormous weight. When he spoke, his voice was a rumbling basso.
"I am sure, Master." He spoke the last word with a slight hesitation, a hint of reluctance. "They came to deliver a message, and some goods, which my sources tell me are parts for agricultural machines. True Merc missions are not so frequent that such men do not supplement their income with trade, especially in areas of space outside military control."
"Your sources, then, are reliable?" The Master asked.
"Absolutely." The fat man averred. "It is as I have said, there are always enough people who seek their own advancement in any community. Advancement, or satisfaction of desires. It is necessary only to know those desires to bend them. All intelligent beings have a price. Give me time, Master, and they will hand the town to us."
"Thank you, Baron Harkonnen." The Master waved a negligent hand. "Leave us, I will send for you again when I need your counsel, or have a task for you."
The Baron's brows knit, for a moment he looked as if he might protest, but his eyes flicked to a figure standing beside and slightly behind the throne. A tall, powerfully built, manlike figure clad all in black, with an impassive, black and orange face and unwavering red-gold eyes that now fixed on him. Clearly thinking better of his protest, the Baron inclined his head and withdrew.
"What do you think, Tom?" Asked the Master. "Does the good Baron plot against us?"
"Of course he does." The tenor voice belonged to another tall figure who glided out of the shadows. Thin to the point of emaciation, wrapped in green and silver robes, the man came to the foot of the dais and looked up at the Master. His head was hairless, and his face almost featureless, like a serpents'. His eyes were slit-pupilled, red, and more than a little mad.
"He thinks himself superior to us all." The thin man said. "He believes he should sit where you sit. He conspires with some of our troops, and with dissidents within the town. He plans to let us take the town, then assassinate you and, with the help of his faction, rule this moon himself."
"Quite so. A pig, but a clever and dangerous pig, and for now, a useful pig." The Master concluded. "But what of you, my Lord Voldemort? How does being the follower, even the chief counsellor, of a mere Muggle sit with you?"
The answering laugh was rather too shrill for sanity. "You are no 'mere Muggle', Master." Voldemort replied. "I am perhaps the greatest living Legilimens, and I have seen your mind. I am no match for you, and I am wise enough to settle for the position of ally when the alternative is destruction.
"Besides, you are an immortal, the very status I seek, and have sought for so long. If I serve you well, I may learn that secret from you. We are both too wise, I think, to speak of trust."
The Master smiled, then turned to the other side of the hall. "Your thoughts, First of Twelve?"
The person so addressed was a woman. At least, that part of her which was still recognisably human was female. She seemed to be clad in black, metallic garments, one of her arms ended, not in a hand, but in some kind of metal claw. She was hairless, her skin was grey, and one of her eyes was covered, or replaced, with an insectile compound lens. Her reply was in a level, inflectionless voice.
"The unit designated Baron Harkonnen should be assimilated. He is a threat to our Collective."
"All in good time." The Master admonished. "That shall be your last task, before the Cyberleader over there gives you and your Unimatrix a full upgrade."
The massive silver form standing beside the Borg nodded.
"When we have the town we will have the technology and power to fully upgrade all." The Cyberleader intoned.
"Perfection at last." First of Twelve said, now with some semblance of emotion in her tone.
"That was my promise to you," the Master told her, "and it will be kept. Leave me now, all of you. I must consider our next steps."
They all filed out, save the man with black and orange skin. He stayed beside the Master, unmoving, unspeaking. The Master turned to him. "You trust none of them, do you, my friend?"
Darth Maul shrugged and said nothing. As far as the Master could recall, he had not spoken since giving his name and pledging his allegiance. If the renegade TimeLord trusted anyone, it was this taciturn Sith warrior who had installed himself as personal bodyguard.
"Let no-one enter." He ordered. Darth Maul strode over to the door and stepped through it, closing it behind him. If anyone knew who it was the Master was about to speak with, his entire alliance would crumble in a storm of fear and loathing.
True to its word, his 'employer' appeared moments later. The thing was not physically present, though he knew it could be if it wished. A Dalek. Not a metallic, regimented Imperial Dalek, or a sleek, white, dangerously subtle Advanced Dalek. This was a larger, more menacing, more powerful version, that called itself a 'New Paradigm' Dalek. His TimeLord senses told the Master that the thing came from the future, or one future out of the thousands this uncanny moon swam through. This particular Dalek had an emerald green shell, and spoke in a deep, authoritative voice.
"Are your for-ces rea-dy?"
"My forces?" The Master gave a bark of contemptuous laughter. "I have a dozen Borg, six Cybermen, ten Cylons, fifty assorted outlaws, pirates and mutineers, a mad wizard, a Sith Warrior and a treacherous politician. If you can call these forces, then they are ready, or will be."
"You must at-tack in five days. If your fu-ture is to be se-cured, you must not move be-fore." The Dalek had been very clear on this point since the beginning, but in the way of its kind, it repeated orders given to 'lesser' beings frequently.
"Five days." The Master mused. "That would give my old friend ample time to summon allies of his own."
"Not poss-ible." The Dalek stated flatly. "To leave this moon would re-lease the Time Lock on your ma-chine. He can-not sum-mon help if he wish-es to keep you here."
"How do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?" The Master demanded.
"You do not." The Dalek replied simply. "But we re-quire a TAR-DIS. Yours is Time Locked, his is not. Once our com-mon en-em-y is ex-ter-min-ated, we will take his ship. If you still live, yours will be free. We have no int-er-est in kil-ling you. At this time."
That last sentence was ominous, the Master thought, but the Dalek vanished as soon as it had spoken.