I flipped the control to my handheld shield emitter before I'd had time to consciously register exactly how totally screwed I was. The orange-yellow cone of light shot up around me, a dull thrum of ritual magic forming a circle around me. It was really a genius little bit of ritual magic – an interface within my gauntlet powered by a pinky sized chip of the magically reactive stone to empower a barrier capable of repelling both physical and magical attacks. It wouldn't be quite as powerful as a shield empowered by my own magical reserves, but it didn't require the active use of my own magical reserves, freeing them up for offensive uses if necessary.
The Russian soldiers were a problem, but mostly one of logistics. Bullets weren't going to get through my defenses, but they also tended to ricochet. I didn't want to get any of my companions killed by bullet aimed for me. For that matter, I didn't overly want to kill some poor soldier who'd gotten dragged into a war between supernatural nations. There was no way that either the Archive or the White Council had told these guys the whole story about what they were getting into.
There was also the issue of how to disable the Soldiers without accidentally killing one of them with magic. Yes, by the standards of the White Council, I was probably already too far gone for them not to consider me a warlock, but I wasn't going to intentionally violate one of the Seven Laws. Not while there was breath in my body.
And to be sure, any fight between me and the White Council's brute squad would involve magic. It would be loud, it would be showy, and it would be downright explosive. If the Wardens were the US army, the Brute Squad was something more like Delta Force. I'd been a wizard for most of my adult life and I had only a vague idea of what they actually did other than kill any inhuman who got fresh ideas about attacking wizards.
And I was standing, smack dab in the middle of them, wearing a Warden's cloak. Hell, my actual title was "Lord Warden." I hadn't really thought about it, but there was no way they weren't going to take that as a personal insult. Stars and stones, they probably thought I'd possessed some unlucky warden and was just wearing his skin. It wasn't exactly like I could correct that impression either.
I mean, really? What was I supposed to say? "No, no. I'm not a god possessing your warden. I'm a warden from the future who ended up possessing a god's corpse after a mishap with the Darkhallow written in the Word of Kemmler because a fallen angel forced my soul into it after necromancy was used on me to bring me back from the dead. I just look like what happens when a god possesses a Wizard and rises to the pantheons of old because I accidentally enacted a ritualistic necromantic ascension as part of a forbidden ritual that was hidden by the ancient gods because they misused it in their interactions with outsiders. You can just check my identity with my past self, you know the guy who just started a war with the vampire court by breaking the rules of the Unseelie Accords at an official event."
Christ, I was really going to have to put some thought into wording that in a way that didn't make me sound like the new Kemmler if I ever wanted to actually go back to Earth. Because as of right now, the glares leveled at me by the Brute Squad almost felt earned. I got the distinct sense that if they were running the show, we would have been flash fried the second we got out of the gate. But I might be projecting on that one I supposed. It felt like a very "Morgan" solution to the problem. Cut its head off and then ask questions after it was dead so you could be certain you could ignore the answers without anyone to disagree with your logic.
Even without the brute squad or the Russians, I couldn't be sure of victory.
I wasn't going to underestimate Ivy.
Ivy wasn't the little girl's given name. She didn't have one. It was the name I'd given her because I felt strange referring to a seven year old as "The Archive" rather than calling her a name like a normal person. She'd been the mediator between the Red Court and White Council regarding a duel between Duke Ortega and myself. I didn't know much about the Archive, other than that she was scary powerful and just downright scary when she felt the need to be. She was a signatory on the Unseelie Accords, meaning that she was effectively considered her own independent nation within the magical world. More importantly, it meant that the signatories of the Accords felt that she'd earned the right to be considered their peer.
The entire White Council was one such peer organization. The Red Court of Vampires was another. I did not want to end up in a tussle with her if I could avoid it. I had only the vaguest idea of what she was capable of doing or what her weaknesses could possibly be, which in the supernatural world was effectively entering into a fist fight both blindfolded and with one's hands tied behind one's back. My own weakness in fighting her was all too obvious.
Even if I could hurt her, I wasn't going be able to bring myself to do so. She was a six year old child, a six year old girl at that. Her dress had little pink flowers sewn into her pockets with goofy eyes and smiley faces. There was no way that I could bring myself to hurt a kid.
Ivy was innocent. She was a little girl who liked playing with kittens and had a sweet laugh. I liked her.
My companions, however, would not show similar restraint. The pair of pre-biblical badasses came from an era where the punishment for mouthing off to one's elders could agreeably be death by stoning, and that was from the more liberal minded parents. Ammit had very likely already sized up the little girl as a potential entrée.
If I didn't want Ivy to end up on the wrong side of Ammit's jaws or Enlil's Zat I was going to need to diffuse the situation, fast. I faced Ivy and referred to her by her title rather than the name my past self would give her a year in the future. "To what do I owe this visit, Archive?"
"Oh, Uncle, we hardly need be so formal." Ivy smiled at me, an expression entirely devoid of mirth. "After all, you and the Father of Words were the ones who cursed my lineage with knowledge unending."
Muminah gasped, whispering "The Scribe of Thoth yet lives?" as she looked from me to the Archive and back. Yet another piece of Goa'uld history I would have to research, just perfect. I didn't want to have to bash my head against the wall, yet again, struggling to find anything on Thoth's folly. The great library of Nekheb held twenty thousand years' worth of meticulous record keeping with a thousand year gap in which virtually every book and scroll had been tossed into the fire. If I ever met that prick I was going to punch him in the face, just on principle.
The immediate use of the girl's title without introduction drew a cautious look from the man standing behind her. He glared at me with predatory hatred. Jared Kincaid was the bodyguard of the Archive, her attendant for all activities which she, as a six year old, would be unable to complete herself, and effectively her second in command. The man was a scion, the product of a human and a demon. He was easily the second most dangerous person in the room. He was a damn good shot and I'd never seen him miss – ever.
According to my Mentor Ebenezer McCoy, the man was known as the Hellhound in some circles. Specifically, he was known as that within the community of supernatural assassins. I didn't know the specifics of my mentor's feud with Kincaid, but I hadn't felt much like talking with Ebenezer after he revealed his own position as Blackstaff – the resident assassin for the White Council. He was armed for bear, carrying a large weapon that I knew would be loaded with an array of specialized rounds.
I was careful to keep him in my field of view as I continued to address the Archive. "I am a bit confused at the need for such force. And while I can understand the presence of the Brute Squad as a representative of the White Council's interests, I really must question the necessity of brining the mortals into a supernatural affair. This is highly irregular behavior for a signatory member of the Unseelie Accords."
The little girl arched a tiny brow, her face betraying no apparent surprise at how well-informed I was about her companions. She replied to me, a spiteful edge to her cultured voice. "It would be a highly irregular interaction between accorded nations, "Lord Warden," however – as I hardly need remind you – the Kingdom of Nekheb is not a signatory member of the accords. We were entirely effective at repulsing your Empire prior to requiring such pleasantries."
"Not entirely." Ammit grinned, flashing a mouth full of fangs.
"Ah Ammit – yes, I do recall you devouring one of my predecessors." The Archive's face turned a slight shade of green. "I shall not repeat her mistakes."
"Yes, yes." I shot Ammit a glare that I hoped communicated "stop antagonizing the scary little girl" even through my mask. "I would prefer that we resolved… whatever this is… peaceably."
"Dear Uncle, I am well aware of how you consider peaceful solutions to be the exclusive provenance of losing battles. If you had any chance of victory without horrific casualties you would have slain me just to avoid having such obvious evidence of your own failures." Ivy smiled, a sadistic gleam flickering in her young eyes. "But you are correct. It is best for both of us if this goes easily. You will be coming with us Lord Warden. I cannot allow you to continue to throw the orderly procession of the galaxy into chaos. I will not allow a Second Folly to come to fruition."
"You don't have to do this." I spoke in a voice of forced calm. "We can talk. Come to an accord – reach a conclusion that doesn't require armed men and soldiers."
"I remember eight thousand years' worth of Goa'uld peace, "Lord Warden." I remember every second of the 'peace' of Ra. I have seen and read every record of your continuing 'peace' since your people were censured by the Queens of Summer and winter." Ivy shook her little head, putting more force into in than she strictly intended to in a display of youthful enthusiasm. "The Archive took the knowledge of how to become what you are from the pantheons. Your ascension is a blight, a violation of the limitations placed upon you to prevent what came before. It can not be permitted."
"I'm not the monster you think I am." I replied.
"You are exactly the monster I believe you to be Warden." Ivy replied. "You sacrificed an immortal in the heart of a galactic leyline. You have embroiled planets populated by millions of mortals in war, death, and famine – on little more than a whim and a pretense of 'humanity." She shook her little head. "It must end."
"Oh come on. Chronos started that war." I protested. "He was the one who went and started tossing shoggoths around like they were a viable weapon of war."
"The Titan's time will come. Perhaps even at the hands of your warriors – but you will not be among their ranks when they do." Ivy sighed. "I grow weary of this conversation, it benefits no one. Kincaid – do it."
The Hellhound raised his odd looking weapon, pulled the trigger and I was greeted not by the thunderous sound of exploding gunpowder but instead by a thup-hiss of compressed air. A blurry shape soared across the room, slow enough that I could actually follow its path with my eye. I reflexively raised my arms to protect my face and yelled in surprise as a silver dart pierced the shield around me. I swore as I ripped the dart from my arm, looking down at the fletched silver tube with a long needle protruding from one end.
I could already feel the sedatives beginning to cloud my mind as I attempted to muster a shield of my own magic – realizing the gap the Archive had exploited in my artefact shield. Goa'uld artefact shields were incredibly powerful, capable of casting aside the most incredible violence and magical power cast at them, but they had been designed to allow their bearer to grapple with a foe if necessary. A sufficiently slow moving object without magic to empower it would circumvent the shield, and my armor was made of ensorcelled leather laced with rings of naquadah and iron. Good against arrows or bullets, but not needles.
I raised the hand holding my shield bracelet to create a dome around me, but it was too late. I'd been focusing on the Brute Squad and the Archive – I should have been paying attention to the mortals. They all had weapons similar to Kincaid's air gun. I was a pincushion before I'd even had a chance to consider casting a spell. I don't know how many of the darts were required to render me inert, but I was willing to wager that the forty or so that actually managed to make contact were effectively overkill. I staggered, unable to stand, and mouthed in horror as I watched my companions suffer similar fates to my own.
Enlil had dropped down in an undignified mess of tunic and beards, his eyes bulging as they darted around from person to person. I knew the man well enough to know that a series of horrific phrases were being directed to me in Babylonian, even if his lips weren't cooperating enough to actually speak them. Muminah actually managed to dodge the first salvo, a lifetime of training as one of the priestesses of Heka having prepared her for any number of attempted assassinations.
She spun around in a dance of sliks, shedding the loose garments as she went to prevent as confusing of a target as she could while advancing on a Brute Squad Wizard. The man raised a shield between him and the priestess, only to discover how useless magical protections were against the warding tattoos of my clergy. She planted her foot firmly in the man's solar plexus, pushing her full weight behind the kick. He actually coughed up blood as his sternum collapsed inward, pushing a wedge of bone into his lungs.
A horrified Russian raised a pistol to shoot her, earning a broken arm for his trouble when talons ripped into it at twisted up. Ammit's massive bulk was apparently less susceptible to whatever chemical they'd pumped into us, she roared before biting down into the man's shoulder and shaking side to side like a shark on its prey. His gargled cry of shock was mostly reflexive. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
"Not again…" Ammit ripped the darts from her body, her reptilian eyes glazing over as she dropped to one knee. "I won't be taken again." Her attempts to bat away the darts were futile. The Russians could fire them at her as fast as she could rip them out.
Muminah cried out, screaming, "My Lord Warden" before there was a resounding crack of green light. I watched in horrified fascination as vines enveloped the priestess, growing out from the moss covered floor to trap her within their thorny manacles.
Ivy sighed, striding across the room towards me. I took in a series of labored breaths, struggling just to maintain consciousness. Kincaid made a sound of protest, but she just fixed him with a hard glare – or as close to a glare as a six year old glare could manage – and he stayed behind. Her tiny footsteps clicked ominously as she crossed the room. Hells Bells, she was actually skipping towards me.
She stopped immediately in front of me, reaching her little hand into my helmet to retract the mask covering my face. I reached up towards her hand, but I didn't even have the strength to repel her tiny frame. My arms just sort of floundered against my body, fingers jiggling limply.
She looked at the paper-white skin and endless pits of stars filling what had once been my mouth and eyes, watching the flecks of star strew sky flow out from my mouth and eyes, before shaking her head in what might have seemed a morose gesture on someone who wasn't wearing a hair ribbon with a bright pink Hello Kitty logo. "You should have stayed in obscurity, Uncle."
"I…" I forced my lips to move, willing my tongue to form words as I exhaled. "I sur… I surre…" The excess saliva in my mouth was making it difficult to avoid slobbering on myself. "I surrender."
"Yes." Ivy agreed, using an an all too pleased tone. "I very much suspect you do."
She turned from me and walked away as her bodyguard took up the spot in which she was standing. She spoke over her shoulder. "Kincaid?"
"Yes Archive?" Replied the Hellhound as he towered over me.
"Don't be gentle." Intoned the Archive as she waved her hand in front of the Stargate, summoning a shimmering blue portal within its ring. On a less drug addled occasion I would have found that trick to be extremely impressive.
But in my hazy state of mind the only thing I could really focus on was Kincaid whipping his leg up and towards my head. The last thing I remember is the feeling of Kincaid's boot cracking against the side of my face, knocking the living daylights out of me as I fell into blackness.