I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.
At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation.
The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.
Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.
We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France,
we shall fighton the seas and oceans,
we shall fightwith growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be,
we shall fight on the beaches,
we shall fighton the landing grounds,
we shall fightin the fields and in the streets,
we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.
Winston Churchill, 4th June 1940
The Cold Scottish wind is cutting at the best of times….
The castle was a warped ruin on the precipice which looked over the desolate loch. From its dead windows, rooks cawed and dead trees long grown into the walls of dark stone shook in the early morning breeze. The tall main tower rose high above the ruined walls, the age worn battlements perforated like a rotting corpse. No ivy grew along its walls, though rabbits frolicked among the fallen stones, their burrows running deep beneath the walls.
A single row boat lay abandoned on the beach, the oars leaving marks in the shale, deep foot prints visible where someone had dragged the boat ashore. They then moved away from the boat, the deep shale having some effect on the passage of the individual, as he made his way up the beach.
Dark cloth fluttered from one of the door arches as Renfield mounted the long sweeping steps to the keep; his head tilting back to admire the carved stone gargoyles cut into the shape of wolves which were leering down at the other occupants of the tower. Men and women, each bearing the signs of fatigue, their hair streaked with grey paused beneath the black stones, each silent as Renfield approached. They were all clad in the same dark brown cloaks, their faces light though hard and oh so cold.
Renfield paused beneath the arch, arching his head back as he took in the lone carved stone wolf head which watched him from the arch's high point, its eyes picked out in two pieces of jade. It almost seemed wise; the snout was not etched into a snarl and was bereft of any expression of anger. Pure peace and serenity was the only thing that lone grey wolf truly expressed.
The Vast Irish Wolfhound waiting beside the door yipped as he approached, the huge tail stirring the dust at its feet where it sat. It didn't move however, not leaving its lonely vigil. Renfield patted it on the head as he passed, noting the brown eyes watching him in an almost human like way before dropping back to stare at the sloping steps.
"You are late, Alfred" the elfin features of Lucy Renfield came into view, her trim figure perched on top of a large pillar of rock. Her pitch black tresses were spotted with grey flecks; the many changes to her wolf form had finally begun to take effect, even if the bags below her eyes were covered with makeup. There were others too, lounging on low rocks, some were ancient and dark, their true nature making their faces haggard and wolfish. Others were quite young, their faces defined and still bearing some signs of youth, even if a Wyrewolf's life span went far beyond that of any human.
There were no children however, their weakness labelled them as prey and prey alone, they did have the iron will to take the mantle of the Wolves just yet. The youth of the group seemed almost unkempt, embracing their wolfish desires to satiate their own needs and leaving the pack behind with such delusions of grandeur and power. And then were the middle age, only 30 years or over, that was around two hundred in human years. These were of such calibre where they were still in control and not stricken mad by their own curse or blood-rite. They dressed in black, coats neatly tied and hair perfect unlike the messy youth and the wolfish elders. They stood among the stones, pure and quiet of soul and face, their hair grey or nearing that. It was what all the wolves of old had strived for, to be at peace with the beast within as some put, unlike the new upstarts which existed in the world today. There were too many new ideas, too many new thoughts which had corrupted the old ways and sent most into solitude.
Here within the ruined walls however, the new world seemed a world away. Renfield embraced his sister, holding her to him for a second before releasing.
"Have the Elders arrived?" Renfield murmured as he turned to acknowledge the other members of the pack.
"Old Man Vagner has never left this place…" Lucy's broader Scottish accent rang true as she spoke, any inheritance to her brother's softer tones non apparent. "…and he wants to see you personally."
"Now? Even before the Pack is fully assembled"
She nodded, her eyes hooded as she glanced nervously round the cold stones, her eyes flicking to each youth and each warped and haggard elder.
"The others…..they grow restless at your arrival, their patience is wearing thin."
"Let them wait…" Renfield lowered his head, his unruly mop of white hair falling down over his eyes even though his vision remained fixed on the others "…though the loyal to the pack, do they feel the same way?"
"Maury still has some sway…" Lucy murmured, signalling toward a tall, grey haired woman leaning on a corner stone several metres away "…but there are rumblings among the other families, murmurs of dissent which I and old man Vagner are unable to quell. But just for you brother….Fernir…" she paused as she grasped his arm powerfully as she used his childhood nickname "…the Renfield Clan has your back and you would do well to believe in us."
Renfield smiled grimly, a rare expression of affection and turned to leave, his large brown catching the breeze. He left the others behind, passing into the still standing sections of the castle. High above, the rooks flew, cawing loudly to each others as the Wyrewolf strode on below between the pillars and fallen battlements, a clear path cut among the fallen rocks until, broken only by a small doorway in the path, he stepped into a wide space.
Amidst the stone walls, a courtyard waited him beyond the arch. Plants grew in the shelter of the tall walls split into raised beds and a small lawn where a deck chair rested, an open book resting on brightly coloured cloth. Between each neat section a gravel path wove its way to a small metal studded door dug into the opposite wall. Beside it, a single glass paned window lit the vegetables growing up against the side of the house and a stone water trough which bubbled from some spring. And there, resting on the cobbles was a pair of large, hobnailed boots.
Renfield paused by the door, reaching for his boot laces. It was custom, for old man Vagner, to take boots off when entering his home, though that was more a tradition on Vagner's part. The old wolf had a thing for cleanliness. He gripped the thick iron handle and pushed on into the small, softly lit entrance hall of the Elder's quarters. It was covered with coats, wax jackets mainly, each suspended from a rough wood peg. Alfred pushed among them, making for the door at the end of the small space. They reeked of gun smoke and heather moorland, a pass time of the elder's. From each peg hung a flat cap, the tweed material it was made of studded with a single broach of raven plumes.
The large Irish wolfhound bounded from its bed as Alfred stepped into the warm space beyond. Throughout the arched chamber, candles glowed where the small square windows couldn't illuminate and pictures hung, their rich colours spreading vibrancy across the walls.
Alfred dug his feet into the thick carpet and remembered when his parents had first brought him to meet Vagner, around two hundred years ago. The old Wolf had been old then, his lined face only broken by the eternally twinkling eyes which tore the attention away from time's own ravages. However, even without his youthful appearance, Vagner had refused to curl up like most of the ancients and go live his life in solitude. His was a Laird, a local hero to most mortals. Even those who knew his darker, wolfish nature had always respected the old man, even if he insisted on staying in this dilapidated old ruin, a place where most tourists were warned to avoid.
Renfield ruffled the head of the slavering mass of dog and patted its back as he passed. Before him, a fire roared, a large pine log spitting and crackling. There was chair with its back to him, its beautifully carved surfaces running with deer and wolves in close pursuit as two knights in armour guarded the rear legs, their helmeted heads eternally frozen in wooden watchfulness.
A pair of feet shifted before the fire, the chair's occupant raising a single dram of whiskey to their lips as a gnarled hand fell from the chair's arm, summoning the large grey-haired hound to the chair's side with a click of its fingers.
"So how long has it been, Alfred?" Vagner spoke with a rasping Scottish accent. Renfield could still hear the bark in the Elder's tone as he approached, pausing before the fire.
"Ten years"
Vagner was slumped in his chair, the tweed shirt he wore open to expose his narrow chest covered by a thick woollen vest. His face was lined with age, his nose hooked as long grey side burns gave him an almost wolfish appearance. His eyes, as ever twinkled stared into the fire, his whisky hanging from his long fingers. Panting, the dog nudged his elbow with his nose and sat down beside the chair, rumbling happily when the old man placed a hand on its wide skull.
"It is too long Renfield…" the old wolf didn't turn "…you must return more often. I was beginning to worry what had happened to you in all these years…."
"Sir….I…."
"No buts pup…." The elder didn't even look up "…you may forget your roots if you leave for such long periods of time. We are not blessed with the best of memories and seeing the youth of today, I thought you'd gone feral"
"Sorry, Elder…." Renfield too stared into the fire, it was useless trying to catch the Old man's eye "….I just lost track"
Vagner sighed "…that is an excuse an old man, such as myself would use. You are still young, Renfield…" the dog yawned loudly as Vagner scratched behind its ears "…let us not forget your roots, your family lest it be the end. You are one of the few…"
"Don't, old man…"
"….don't Old Man me, Pup….you are one of the few who can draw authority to the pack, however…." He took another sip of whisky "…it would seem that there are old murmurs from the Old Kingdoms and that worries me…"
Renfield nodded grimly, his own hard face never breaking his gaze with the fire.
"…I fear that when I eventually hand the pack to you, my boy…that it will be to lead it to war. You know it's coming….don't you."
"I do, Laird."
"The Vampires can sense it; the monsters who live in the world can feel it coming and those who can see beyond can feel its dread footsteps. And the Templar?"
"They are all very much aware of what we speed toward, though the less astute do not see it."
"In 60 years it will be so, Renfield. They are waiting for a suitable hole and they will be through."
"Then so be it..." The wolf, the man murmured. "…But for now, there are important matters to discuss"
"The war will end, this year in fact…" the old man yawned loudly, exposing large canines "…Hitler's Germany is flawed and we are all pushing for a close even now, though the Nazis' haven't shown their last card which will decide all."
"The Spheres I expect, they've been readying them since the beginning, testing them. That portal in Norway was just a test, just to see if it was capable of. And they created a wisp, a Wisp commune in fact of little power."
"It is just child's play. They believe they can create Freaks to be an invincible army, they also believe that if they lose, in one ditch attempt, they can wipe us off the face of the earth. It just seems so selfish…"Vagner paused, linking his fingers as the dog beside him licked contentedly at his discarded whiskey glass. "…but dangerous none the less. Though I doubt they'll be able to open a portal of any substance, they will, obviously weaken the veil and release what ever Fey wish to wage war on us. But Renfield…." His face softened "…without such responsibility weighing down on you, how are you?"
"I am fine, Elder…"
"Your sister worries about you terribly. She wants to see you more but after your brother….."
Renfield felt the bones in his left hand break as he clenched his fist at that word. Immediately, he felt the cloying cold of his skin, bone and muscle regenerating as the Elder looked away from the fire for the first time and stared up into the man's stony features.
"You still hunt him for his sins, Noble Wolf…." He looked back into the fire "…you ripped out his tongue for his crimes and yet you still wish to take his life. I truly believe you have been consumed by hatred against him, wherever he is…."
"He deserves my fangs around his throat…." Renfield snarled, his eyes darkening "…after all he did, for what he stole from me…."
"Do not let it consume. Such a dark path will only lead to madness and I do not care for watching you descend from sanity."
"My sanity…." The wolf spat "…will be saved by his death. For him to be alive when…"
He stopped, the room darkening as the dog on the floor beside the Elder's chair whined loudly. Outside, the murmur of voices could be easily heard as the others moved toward the Elder's quarters. Vagner sighed, his white coarse hair been pushed aside as he ran a rough hand through it. Beside him, Renfield watched the flames blaze in the hearth and took a long, deep breath.
"The pack will always have you…." The wolf rose from his chair, his tall form only reaching the height of Renfield's chin "…but please, Pup, Fernir, Alfred…don't lose yourself in your hatred…." He patted the wolf on the arm as Renfield turned back to the fire, leaning closely to the laughing, chattering flames "…now the others, they want to find what we are doing next. Hogmanay is upon us, young one…." He turned as he took a thick tweed jacket from a table "…I do hope you will not spend it alone."
The thunder of jack boots echoed through the low sandstone halls as shouted orders broke through the thin walls of Holmwood's room. He stirred, a lazy hand rising up to brush the stray blond hair out his vision. It took him some time to pull himself upright, the heavy set engineer yawning loudly as he scratched at his thick beard. The many days and nights patrolling the roof tops and streets of London had little time for him to shave.
Or tidy up for that matter, He staggered from the ruins of his bed, disturbing the remains of several metal devices scattered across the floor and made a face in the mirror. His room was a rather small affair; most of his workspace was reserved for the labs, a wide space several storeys deep where each work area was confined to large metal gantries to all dangerous fluids to pour away to the drains on the bottom floor. Here, his room was covered with technical drawings and old posters of West End Musicals. Charlie Chaplin, his hat and cane as ever in place stared down demurely from one of the walls. One of Holmwood's favourites, the black and white movie star was always in place, as ever, much to Marian's amusement with her vast collection of centrefolds.
He pulled on a loose cloth jerkin and pulled a leather belt tight around his baggy green felt trousers.
The corridor was full of soldiers, their boots slamming hard into the marble floors as they hurried to guard positions or waiting aircraft. Each bore the same determined expression, the same dead eyed glare as they stormed past, each ignoring the short man waiting just inside his chamber door. Holmwood sighed, probably a good time to go and find some chainmail.
Harker pulled the last piece of her armour into position and allowed her red hair to spill about her form. She could feel it receding into her scalp as her form shifted, the nearly waist length red cascade pulling up toward a more combat friendly length. It was slightly restricted by the mask, but so be it, she'd got used to the cloying, burning sensation of the iron against her skin a long time ago. That was of little interest to her now, she thought as she pulled on one leather glove at a time.
The armoury was in an uproar at this time of morning as heavily armoured 50th Columnists pulled on their own steel and ceramic armour plate and chain mail, slotting visors into position as on gantries set high above, Captains of various squads barked orders and signalled to others to hurry up. There was fervour among the soldiers, some shivered with blood lust as they each extracted their swords from holders beside their lockers and primed their rifles for use. Others were more at peace, carefully checking their weapons for rust of something which would restrict them working properly, their movements quick though controlled.
They all wore the green tan felt uniforms of the British Army. Held in place by thick leather belts however, were thick armour plates which were carved with a multitude of runes and graffiti, obviously an addition by the soldier's themselves to make it appear more personalised.
Harker reached a gloved hand into her own locker and extracted her jumble of knives and swords, running a green eye over each blade to check for nicks and cracks in the nearly peerless blade. Seeing nothing, she strung the shorter two of the three blades onto her waist, each handle facing outwards before running the thin stiletto blade down the arch of her spine into the scabbard built into the back of the black leather.
Tossing her now neck length hair, the elf ran a finger across the front of her heavily reinforced locker, a long digits leaving a trailing, looping path of frost behind it before she pulled her fingers away. The sealing ward glowed for a split second before disappearing from view.
Happy, Harker was gone, a thin lithe shape flickering through the corridors dancing sinuously between the hurrying soldiers.
The scythe made a dull humming in the air as Wrathwell flowed through the room. Already, perspiration was running down his face as the thick haft of 'Old Glory' roared with life, the wind whistling down each cut, each long sigil. He turned on his heel, the leather padding of the training mats squeaking as he turned was the only other noise. Around him, on the stone walls, the candles were flickering as the massively sharp blade passed by.
He was dressed in chain mail, the heavy chain held in place by several leather belts strapped about his form. The rest of his armour, the brown tan of his uniform was resting in the corner along with his carved breast plate, the symbol of the dragon emblazoned clearly on its surface. Beside that, littering a large bench beside the one small door in the room was a sequence of metal plates.
There was a soft knock on the door and the pale features of Lyra Seward came into view. Most people could easily show their emotions through facial expressions. Lyra seemed to manage to do that and more. She opened the door apologetically, seemingly able to transmit body language to whole new heights.
Wrathwell paused in his routine, hooking the scythe behind his back. Immediately, the candles lighting the room stopped flickering, the flames undisturbed by the moving blade or otherwise.
"Sir, we have orders to mobilise…" she tossed a large file to him "…this just came through from the War Office. They want us on a plane and on our way to Germany. The Allies are making one ditch attempt to push Hitler's Germany off their rather unstable pedestal for good"
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(Footnote; Templars' usually class themselves as under no national jurisdiction and therefore refer to Britain and their Allies as, the Allies. Their own concerns are their own, just like the Templar. However, most show some loyalty to Britain and will fight for Queen and Country, hence their involvement in the War. Though with such fighting skills, it is rumoured that if the Templar joined the war, it would have been over in a year, not in six. However, that was deemed unfair and the entire Templar force was only mobilised when the Nazi Occult Research division reared their ugly heads above the parapet and individuals with a certain magical tendency were called in where Men alone would fail. Amazingly enough this is first time the entire Templar force has even been fully mobilized)
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"Are the Russians pushing too?"
"The Nightwatch were dropped into the fray last night and Top Brass thought it would be a little sporting if they put in our top players as well"
"I guess that means us…." Wrathwell touched the Warded Wax seal and split the red cord, the string coming away in his hands as the package opened. Pictures and files spilled out, black and white images of a rather fat man talking with one tall captain by appearances, each dressed in Nazi Uniforms and rather uncomfortable smirks. Well, at least the taller of the two would if he didn't have the expressional capacity of a door knob, his nose buried deep in the high collar of the Nazi Greatcoat he wore. Not too dissimilar to Lyra's own. Andrew raised an eyebrow and fixed his lieutenant with gauging look. She was clearly ready to be deployed, her large eyes never leaving his face as her fingers tightly gripped the clipboard she had clamped to her chest.
"Yes, Sir. Command has also requested that all restrictions have full permission to be released…." Wrathwell's face split into a rather nasty grin "…as soon as the enemy is engaged and sufficient data is gathered."
The evil grin dropped from his face as she finished speaking, a slight look of disappointment knocking aside the rather macabre display of ambition.
"What are our order's, Sir?"
He leant the scythe beside his armour and pulled on the thick felt jacket, doing up the buttons as he did. He snapped the breast plate into place and strung the pauldrons from his shoulders, tightening the holding belts as he did, the chainmail causing his already large form to bulk up even further.
"Well, I think it's wise we brought a little hell to these Nazi scum. I can't stand little men who believe they can rule the world or destroy it. I cannot stand little Warmongers and their menagerie of freaks and I cannot stand Vampires especially ones with the will to destroy and see it a sufficient enough slaughter to ditch their honourable, solitary habits to pursue a more horribly human goal…"
He hefted the War Scythe. Within Lyra's peripheral vision, black rags fluttered as the candles each began to flutter violent.
"…so what's it going to be, Lieutenant Seward? Are we going to watch the Reds get all the glory or are we going to bring hell and heaven crashing down on these wankers?"
"Let's bring them hell, sir!!"
"Right you are…." Wrathwell leant the scythe over his shoulder and signalled to the large raven perched over their heads on a lighting bracket "…lets hear them scream at the feel of our jackboots against their throats"
The thundering of fists on the door had Arthur Helsing falling from sleeps soft arms and tumbling down onto the floor, bottles of whisky clattering under his heavy weight. His shirt was stained with last night's affair and there appeared to be a female form shifting the bed in the adjoining room.
"Alright, alright…." He swore loudly as he caught his toe on a nearby table.
Through blurry eyes he pulled himself across the mess of his apartment, disturbing books as he scrabbled for the door handle. The hard knock came again as the young man felt his hangover taking a board with nails in it to the inside of his head and groaned.
"Alright….Jesus Christ!! Why the hell are you knocking so early!!?"
The door opened, giving the man a face full of cold morning permeated by the faint smell of brimstone and ozone. Sir Winslow looked up from his pocket watch and gave Arthur's dishevelled form with a look of distaste.
"It is ten o'clock in the morning, Arthur. And after sending a child to Germany to finish this little vampire incident, I would of expected you to be up a little earlier, nary that. Not been asleep at all"
There was a defiantly feminine groan from the other room. Winslow's moustache twitched as he narrowed his eyes, his neatly parted grey streaked black hair matching his well trimmed moustache as usual.
"Well, not asleep I guess, more of a lack of awareness I believe…" Winslow stirred his cane as behind him, the corridor was not as empty as Arthur hoped. There, in full army uniform, stood another a man. He was very thin, his features well pronounced as he glanced around the rigidly. However, unlike the usual green tan of the British forces, he wore a dark brown, a large peaked officer's cap pulled down over his dark brown hair. He had a very thin face, his nose hooked and long which matched his thin form. From his shoulders downward on his left arm, several thick metal plates were attached, their surfaces carved with several thorny looking runes.
"Arthur, I have to inform you that I am not your personal wake up call and I must insist you get ready. Sir Islands has requested a quickly briefing to go over the last push especially after you sent your butler to deal with the Nazi facility in Warsaw…" he raised an eyebrow "…and a rather intriguing black box which looked a lot like a coffin I do believe was observed to being loaded onto that transport plane as well."
"How did you…..?"
Winslow tapped a silver cane, an object Arthur hadn't been aware of until that point, his hands now full of the once non present object.
"But we don't want sir Islands to learn about that do we?"
Arthur tried to muster his most threatening tone, even though it made him feel slightly sick. "Is that a threat, Winslow"
"No, merely an observation, it gains me nothing or is not a loss to me if he finds out so, in truth, I don't care. However, it isn't the only thing I'm avoiding telling the other Roundtable members, something I hope you will keep to yourself"
Arthur felt the room surge slightly as lack of sleep and major alcohol consumption finally got to his stomach.
"….and that is?"
"That the Knight Templar were mobilized this morning"
Arthur felt his stomach sink like a lead balloon, putting it down to fear rather than the hangover.
"How many?"
"All of them…..I believe that it is time we stuck our oar in as my men like to say."
The wolves' howls echoed across the valley as Renfield strolled along the path leading back into the village, the row boat left behind. Not one to stay with crowds, the wolf had left the celebrations behind and let his Pack Brothers and Sisters dance and sing and drink without him. It should be a time of great joy but memories of the ruptured skies above London and drone of bombers, killing all without discriminating. The Nazi vampires who feasted on the dead during battle and the splatter of blood which stained the clouds and the ground below.
To celebrate now? Too early, perhaps after the war had finished, there would be time for him to sit back with a whisky and watch the water on the loch. For now, however…
Renfield squinted with lazy eyes as stepped off the path onto the rough gravel track which ran down to the tiny village at the foot of the loch. Opposite the path opening, a black, unmarked staff car was waiting. Leaning against the front, nearest door, Marian Westenra looked up from her lighter as she lit another cigarette and fixed the wolf with a beady eye.
"What are you doing here?" Renfield barked, his face flushing as the sniper raised her head, her white hair now thinly braided.
"I came to collect you…." Renfield raised an eyebrow "…Ok, Wrathwell had us draw straws…." Marian stirred and pulled herself upright, careful not to mark the car "…Andrew wants us all back to Air Field"
"Why, are we dealing with another Nazi summoned Cauldron?"
Marian shook her head, the white braids rippling round her head as she moved.
"No, not this time…" a rather evil grin stole over her face "…we're going to war."
Glossary
50th Columnists;
A militant arm of the Knights Templar. Men and Woman recruited from the Wrens and the British Special Forces are called upon to serve as guards and bolster fire teams. Unlike rank and file soldiers, the Columnists are very individualistic. They follow orders and stick in small squads but rely heavily on self modified gear and equipment to get the job done. Fighting alongside the Templar forces on many occasions, the Mortals are surprisingly ruthless in carrying out their missions which has earned some respect from the Templar.
They are easily recognised by their black or dark brown armour, usually covered with thick ceramic plates, their faces blocked out with large gas masks. In more recent times they've taken to wearing black body armour with trench coats underneath, giving the armour 'coat tails'. Also, to give a slight feeling of fear, most wear goggles which glow orange, very much like the vampire red eye tint when light doesn't shine directly upon it. This has also meant that several of the 50th, mainly the sergeants paint large white skulls or fangs on the face plates.
They are referred to a Hells Legion by several surviving Nazis who were able to escape their battles. They have a strong aptitude for combat situations, though few in number and can deal with many magical and fey creatures which may appear. As military technology is also more advanced in the late 20th century, they're also known to field many prototype weapons due to their involvement with the Templar, Arcane Weapons Division along with some, old fashioned, sometimes medieval weaponry.