“
Sé bhur mbeatha!
” The cry came from above—a lookout, Jack guessed. It sounded like a hail and, after a moment, he heard a reply. Squinting, he tried again to discern details. As he did so, a breeze stirred his hair and the mist eddied. He glimpsed a light, close but high up. Then another, then—
“Whoa…”
Out of the mist loomed a vast monolith—no, several. Lights peppered the surface, blinking as the fog eddied. He glimpsed walkways, gunmetal-gray and bolted in haphazard chaos to other structures still lost in the haze. They were so close Jack thought they were going to smash into the thing until he realized they were sailing through it—under a bridge that dripped with rusty moisture—and close enough for him to figure out exactly what he was seeing.
It was a city. A drowned city, and they were drifting past the derelict remains of its skyscrapers. It could have been Chicago under a hundred meters of water. And below… Jack O’Neill wasn’t easily creeped out, but the idea of a whole city down there beneath the black water made him shiver.
Looking up as they passed beneath the bridge, he heard other shouts—greetings, excited sounds of welcome—and he wondered how long this ship and its crew had been away. Then they were past the bridge and he realized where this place got its name—lights glittered through the fog on all sides, a weird and freaked-out fishing village welcoming
the fleet into the safety of its cove.
Only these were no fishermen, and there was no dry land to be seen. He could smell the rot and decay in the air, could feel the precarious sway of these damaged structures, and remembered Rhionna’s fear about the coming storm; it looked like the whole damn place would come crashing down in a stiff breeze.
The foghorn blared again, and behind him he sensed movement. They were getting ready to dock. Up ahead he could see the longboat, its shape recognizable even if no details were visible. Moving quickly, he ducked behind it. Hidden from the crew by its bulk, he risked standing up and watching through the transparent shielding as the ship drew closer to a platform—more of a dock, really—that had been built out over the water from one of the buildings. People had gathered there, amid excited chatter and sharp barks as ropes were thrown and secured. Further up, in another berth, Jack recognized the slim, fast ship he’d previously identified as Faelan’s. It hadn’t docked yet, and Jack figured he had only a few minutes to get himself down onto the dock and across to the other ship in time to stand a chance of seeing Daniel being brought ashore. If he missed him…
Well, there was no way in hell he could search this vast, moldering city before the storm struck. And one thing was for sure, the coming storm was going to rip this place apart. Jack O’Neill would be damned if he let Daniel go down with the city.
* * *
Dawn was heralded by a chaotic chorus of gunfire and cries. Ennis Channon picked his way through the Badlands. All around him the Elect Guard demonstrated the true power of the Lord to the heathens who huddled in this savage wasteland. Some of the hovels burned, lighting his path like the flames of the Sun, while above, on giant screens, the Message was spread. In less than an hour, the Lord would cast his punishing fire across this landscape; it was essential that their work be done by then, their goal achieved. Colonel Jack O’Neill had to be found.
A tall figure fell into step beside him. “This place reeks,” said Tynan Camus, his elegant face twisted in disgust. “These people are little more than animals.”
“They are worse than animals,” replied Ennis. “Animals have no soul to stain. These heathens are marked for eternity.”
Tynan raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”
Ennis ignored the note of mockery in his tone. “Has there been any sign of him?”
“No,” said Tynan, with a bored sigh. “The man has disappeared. We have demonstrated the penalties incurred for harboring a fugitive, and the people are frightened enough, yet not one has cracked and given us his whereabouts. I think it’s safe to assume they don’t know where he is. In all honesty, I’m not sure I even care where he is.”
“Your meaning?”
“He is a stranger to this planet, Pastor. He knows nothing of its caprice. Let him fall into the sea, or be incinerated by the Burn. What does it matter to us?”
“He spreads heresy.”
“Then let him spread it. As if these illiterates could even make sense of anything he might say.”
“I was under the impression that you shared Sister Nevin’s conviction that the strangers must be ground under the heels of our boots.”
Tynan snorted and looked down at his feet as they walked. “Not if it means that my boots must be muddied by the filth of the Badlands. I am reluctant to even guess what I might be stepping in. It was my recommendation to lock the doors and let God do the rest.”
“I am well aware of your recommendation, Brother Camus,” ground out Ennis.
The look Tynan slanted at him was almost amused. “Do you object to our decision with regard to your daughter, Pastor?”
Ennis took a breath. “You know that I do not.”
“Yet you still insist on this little excursion.”
“You saw what they found on
Acarsaid Dorch
. They seek
Sciath Dé
.”
“Whomever they speak to will assure them that they seek a myth.”
Both men came to a standstill and their gazes locked. It seemed as though Tynan was daring Ennis to contradict him. So be it. “Perhaps not so much of a myth after all.”
Tynan grinned, and in the light of the-low burning fires, his smirk glinted like a blade. “Be very careful, Ennis.”
“I would suggest that we all must be careful, Tynan. That is why we are here.” He looked over his shoulder at the dark squat of Sorcha Caratauc’s shack. “Come.”
Inside, the guards had misunderstood his order to search the place and were in the process of tearing the room apart. Papers flew, notes and drawings were scattered on the ground, boxes were upended and their contents strewn everywhere.
“Enough!” cried Ennis. The men froze in their ransacking. “I ordered a systematic search, not a demolition.”
Brushing past him into the shack, Tynan laughed. “What does it matter what happens to the crone’s collection of refuse.” A loose page fluttered by, and he plucked it from the air. “Tell me that this excursion is not on account of these worthless scribblings, Pastor.”
“Perhaps you should look and see exactly what she has been scribbling about.”
The smirk still on his face, Tynan scanned the page he held. Finally his amusement faded and his eyes narrowed. Then he pursed his lips. “The woman has been detained?”
“She has.”
“Very well, then. Have her nonsense burned and let the Lord take care of her heresy.”
Anger flashed through Ennis at the young man’s dismissive tone, at the smug grin he wore while handing out his judgments, at his refusal, and that of the Elect, to acknowledge
what was right in front of their faces. “Do you not understand?”
Conscious of the soldiers close by he lowered his voice, struggling to contain his fears. “She has Knowledge. Who else may know what she knows? Do you not see that we face the gravest threat to our way of life that we have ever known?”
Tynan grabbed his arm, fingers biting deep and his cool tone belying the anger in his eyes. “This nonsense matters not, Pastor. The Lord has sent a storm to wash away this vile place and the strangers with it, if you would but let His justice be done.” He stood back, lips curling into another sneer. “You are the Pastor, Ennis Channon, the security of the Ark falls to you—unless you feel the burden is too heavy?”
The threat was not subtle, and it stopped Ennis cold. With dignity, he straightened to his full height, still a head shorter than Tynan Camus. “It is no burden. It is my duty and my honor.”
Tynan gave an insincere nod. “Then do your duty—punish the heretics in your custody, and let those who have chosen to live beyond the Light face the Lord’s justice. If you do not…” He left it hanging, but Ennis did not doubt his meaning; Tynan Camus would be Pastor if he could.
At his feet, a rising breeze sent the papers flapping through the dirt. The stench of the place suddenly became overwhelming. This woman, this old crone of a heretic, living amid refuse and disease, had poisoned his daughter’s mind against him. Had driven Rhionna into the arms of the Seawolf and ruined every hope he had nursed for her future.
And now, just as his forebears had predicted, men bringing Knowledge from
Acarsaid Dorch
would destroy them all.
The world was changing. Everything that had once been order was turning into chaos. And he knew not whether it was the Lord’s will that Rhionna should perish with the godless, but as he watched Tynan Camus pick his careful steps through the filth-ridden alleyways of the Badlands, he wondered who it was that bore the greater sin.
* * *
There was no doubt that this was a homecoming. He’d seen it a dozen times on a dozen airfields: proud parents, crying wives, and bemused, awestruck kids. Felt it too, that disorienting clash of realities, stepping out of a war zone and into Sara’s arms, Charlie’s wet kisses like a candle in the darkness he couldn’t leave behind. Nothing beat coming home.
Even if home was a half drowned city that felt like it could come down around his ears at any moment. Clearly the Cove was more than a bandits’ hideout, it was a community. Of sorts. As he pushed through the crowd, glancing up from beneath the wide-brimmed hat he’d lifted from a careless sailor, Jack saw poverty and hardship in the chiseled faces of these people. A community, maybe, but not a thriving one. Like the folk in the Badlands, this was a people living on the edge.
He kept his weapon ready, figuring it was mostly hidden by the long coat he now wore. He’d felt a pang of guilt when he’d taken it from the deck of the ship—these were poor people, and he supposed a replacement would be hard to find—but that had soon passed. Getting caught wasn’t an option, and if the coming storm was as ferocious as Faelan believed, then the coat’s previous owner would soon have more than a missing garment to worry about.
The mist was less dense here—either that or the rising sun was already burning it away—but it was still enough to allow his feeble disguise to work. Head down, he pushed through the crowd until he was at the far end of the docks where another throng had gathered. Some kind of walkway was being lowered into place as he arrived, accompanied by much shouting and the rattle of a chain being left to run. It landed with a clang that echoed against the walls of the surrounding buildings.
Jack worked his way forward, close enough to see, but not so close that Daniel might notice him and react. Before long Faelan made his entrance, all swagger and confidence—an assurance belied by the tension in his face. At the shouts of welcome, Faelan raised his hand in greeting. He seemed respected here, less surly than he’d appeared in the Badlands; a man coming home to his people. Grudgingly, Jack found himself impressed.
The feeling lasted approximately ten seconds, then Rhionna
walked down the ramp, Daniel on her heels. Faelan’s second in command trailed them both, a wicked looking knife tucked into his belt and one meaty hand resting on Rhionna’s shoulder, as if he expected her to run.
Like she had anywhere to go.
Behind them followed other sailors, shouting out to friends and family, and Daniel’s group soon disappeared among the throng of people. Keeping his distance, Jack tailed them. Faelan, it seemed, was leader enough to make the crowd part for him, and it was easy for Jack to stalk along in his wake without being noticed.
But the crowd thinned as soon as they left the pier behind, and Jack suddenly found himself exposed. He fell back, clinging to the tattered edges of the welcoming committee at the docks, and watched as Faelan led his prisoners up a short ladder and from there onto a narrow bridge about twelve feet up. Their footsteps clanged on the metal walkway, and Jack darted across the open space and scrambled up the ladder behind them, slowing at the top to watch as Faelan climbed a second ladder and disappeared inside one of the towers. Daniel had stopped to look back at Rhionna, earning himself a shove from Faelan’s lackey, which motivated him to climb the ladder himself and vanish into the darkness of the building. He wasn’t injured at least—that would make things easier getting out.
Walking as quietly as the makeshift bridge allowed, Jack followed, pausing at the base of the ladder to check the lay of the land. There was only one way out of this death trap, and that was by boat—he hoped to hell he’d be able to work out how to sail one. It couldn’t be harder than an F-16, right?
Cautiously continuing to climb, he could hear voices from inside the tower, women and kids, but none close, and he could smell cooking fish and smoke. Something rattled and whined, the noise masking other sounds for a moment, then it faded. With care, he unholstered his nine-millimeter and let the P90 hang at his chest. He wasn’t about to wave a sub-machinegun at a roomful of women and kids.
On a silent count of three, he slipped into the room.
No one seemed to notice. His eyes adjusted fast, and he saw a large space that might once have been some kind of office, but had deteriorated into a shanty long ago. Most of the windows had been boarded up, which explained the gloom. Hanging from the ceiling were pieces of tarp, carving out territory, and low-hanging lamps that gave off a warm glow and enough smoke to turn the walls black. He touched the wall behind him and his fingers came away covered in an oily black grease. Rubbing his fingers together, he sniffed, grimaced; like everything else in the goddamn place the black gunk stank of dead fish. Then, looking closer, he saw that next to the mark his fingers had left on the wall words had been scratched into the soot—
An Dóchas Deireanach
. And again, in larger letters above. And, now that he was looking for them, the damn words were scrawled everywhere.