《The London Phantom: A Superhero Webnovel》


 Prologue: Historia Regum Britanniae

    Brutus! there lies beyond the Gallic bounds


    An island which the western sea surrounds,


    By giants once possessed, now few remain


    To bar thy entrance, or obstruct thy reign.


    To reach that happy shore thy sails employ


    There fate decrees to raise a second Troy


    And found an empire in thy royal line,


    Which time shall ne''er destroy, nor bounds confine.


    The Goddess Diana to Brutus of Troy


    Geoffrey of Monmouth, Historia Regum Britanniae


    London is an ancient city. Legend speaks of Brutus of Troy who defeated the giants of Albia and founded the city of Troia Nova, from whose halls he ruled as the first King of Britain, naming the island in his honour. All that is known is that a settlement has existed on the bank of the Thames in some form or another since before the days of Imperial Rome, when this city came to be called Londinium and it served as the seat of authority in the province of Britannia. But Rome fell, and the city stayed. It stayed through the defeat of the Britons at the hands of the Angles and the Saxons, it stood firm amidst the Viking invasions until ?thelstan, King and Chief of the whole realm of Albion, brought together all the realms of the south in Imperial union. These walls of Roman stone proved unmatched even when the armies of Duke William the Bastard began to bear down upon the city, and the Norman took up the name King William the Conqueror. But this Conquering hero, who killed King Harold Godwinson on the fields of Hastings, saw the towering walls of London, built of Roman stone, and knew that he could not defeat the city. And so, he drew up a contract that would stand for millennia. London stands a part of England, but separate from the whole. Though the walls of Roman stone have long since been overshadowed, and the city has spread like a tumour from its original foundries, the sacred square mile still stands independent from the rest of the British state, an inviolate sanctuary that even the monarch must ask permission to cross.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    This ancient city has stood its ground amidst struggles and civil wars, surviving the Anarchy of King Steven and Queen Matilda, the Wars of the Roses between Tudor and Lancaster, even the Military Government of the Commonwealth left the city alone whilst they cut off the King¡¯s head. Kings and tyrants come and go, but the city must survive. No deal is too great, no price too high, as long as the ancient privileges are maintained. In all its vast history, only once has London fallen to a military power, when General Monck marched on the city, destroyed the walls of Roman stone and saw the restoration of King Charles II to his rightful throne. Even then, the new King chose to respect the privileges of the city that had turned on him.


    Such is the power of London, and such is its nature. It is a fickle place, ruled over by Guilds and Corporations that look to their own interest above all others. If London is the heart of Albion, then it is a fickle engine indeed. Even William the Conqueror, who first placed London upon its preeminent position, recognised the terrible danger it could pose. His rule was defined by Castles, great bastions built to cement the position of his invaders as the true rulers of England, and the greatest of these castles was the Tower of London, built on the city¡¯s doorstep.


    The Tower is as old as England, and played many roles over those thousand years. It has been the seat of Royal Authority, where William the Conqueror first set about writing the Domesday Book. It has played host to conspiracies and murder, as when King Richard III cemented his right to rule through the murder of the young princes in the Bloody Tower. It has been a prison reserved for the vilest traitors and enemies of the crown, where treasonous nobles would meet the headsman¡¯s sword in the shadow of the White Tower. It has been a military Armoury, storing first black powder and then the shells of the Royal artillery, and home to the defenders of the realm. Now the Tower once again projects its power into the streets of Greater London. It holds the protectors of the Crown Jewels, the guardians of this vast metropolis, the defenders of its people and the wonders of the modern world.


    It holds superheroes.

 01 Disappearance

    Along the twisted roads of the City, the omnibus swayed from side to side. It heaved with the teeming mass of humanity, garishly dressed tourists rubbing shoulders with tracksuited Roadmen or the bulky jackets and flat caps of the Firm. It was the start of the day, and the streets were filled with a sea of suits emerging from under the earth, where the Tube lines crisscrossed Greater London like the arteries of some horrific organism. The bus passed through the city in fits and starts, held back by the traffic that forced its way through the winding streets. In truth, this traffic was transient. Five thousand people lived in the Square Mile, the rest travelled in from other districts, or took high speed trains to leave the green fields for the monotonous grey of the city, bringing the number of people within the ancient boundary to five hundred thousand.


    Alexander sat on the top deck of the bus, watching the rain slide down the thick glass and looking out into his home. The streets of Whitechapel were a warren of tall brick buildings from the turn of the last century with the occasional, optimistic, high rise tower or office block breaking the skyline. Aleksander¡¯s family had lived within these buildings since his great grandfather had followed the retreating Polish army in its desperate exodus from Gdansk. He had earned his revenge in the Royal Air Force, and had decided to accept the British offer of permanent residence when the World War turned Cold. Most of Alexander¡¯s neighbours were descendants of the King¡¯s Polish Legion, as the exiles came to be known, and the thought of their lost homeland created a unique sense of loyalty to their adoptive state. Yet even the most fervent idealism must bend to reality, and though the area was relatively crime free Whitechapel still owed fealty to Old King Kray.


    The bus wound its way down a warren of old streets, the beam connecting it to the overhead cabling swinging wildly from side to side, before suddenly emerging into the relatively open sky that surrounded the Tower of London. Once the tallest building in the City, the Tower now looked like little more than a squat fort in comparison to the skyscrapers that now filled the city. However, even sunk into the ground, it was still an imposing site that seemed menacing in comparison to the statelier palaces of Buckingham and Windsor. Atop the battlements stood the Tower¡¯s Guards; National Servicemen with the Royal London Fusiliers, in camouflage uniforms with rifles ready, patrolled alongside weathered veterans in the dark blue of the Beefeaters. These old soldiers chatted animatedly with their young colleagues, keeping a watchful eye on the streams of tourists that flowed in and out of the Middle Tower.


    Flocks of Ravens flew from the tops of the towers, darting in and around the ancient masonry. Should the Ravens ever leave the tower then England will fall, and the sight of these vast flocks had become a symbol of hope in recent years. Alexander could faintly make out the master of these birds standing atop the White Tower. In the aftermath of the Gunpowder Plot, the Beefeaters had only managed to save a single bird from Fawkes¡¯ attack, and for a while it looked like the Ravens would die out in their entirety. Then the Raven first revealed himself by bringing in hundreds of birds from the Forest of Dean, a cloud of black feathers clutching onto the roof of a high-speed train, and sending them flying throughout the streets in a masterful display of aerial acrobatics. Rumour said the Raven was not local to London, but no-one could deny that he had earned his place in the Bow Street Runners.


    Alexander had grown up in London, and the Bow Street Runners had been his childhood idols, stalwart defenders of the realm and a symbol of hope in the slums of the East End. Every child of the city grew up to idolise the heroes who defend the Crown Jewels and moved through the streets with an easy confidence that could only inspire. It was a tragic irony, he reflected, that most of those children ended up working for the gangs in some way or another regardless of who their idols were. Still, the superheroes were a welcome sight, and most people cheered when they delivered a key strike against criminals or supervillains, the city had always loved spectacle.


    His journey would have been much faster by Tube, but at this hour those carriages became packed with people, and the bus offered a decent view of the city. Right now, the view was of the strange mixture of monumental late Victorian architecture and glass-fronted modernist towers that surrounded the Bank of England. As the bus passed in front of the Bank itself, fittingly built in the style of an ancient Greek temple, Alexander caught a glimpse of the soldiers patrolling atop the building: distant figures in camouflaged uniforms and khaki berets that only made them more distinct in comparison to the black and red check of the City of London Police. Soldiers had been an almost universal sight on the streets of London for months now; the city was still reeling from the Gunpowder Plot of two years ago and the city¡¯s villains had recently begun capitalising on the weakened government presence. London was a powder keg, and most believed it was only a matter of time before it went up in flames.


    On and on the bus went, through the city, past the still-shattered dome of Saint Paul¡¯s, now shrouded in scaffolding and teeming with labourers in high-vis clothing. Past the statues of rampant dragons holding the Cross of Saint George that marked the boundary of the city. Fleet street now; where Alexander disembarked before the gates to Temple, from whose stone arch the white cross on black of the Order of Saint John hung proud. The banner was little more than a concession to the Temple¡¯s owners, and the majority of the district had been leased by law firms for centuries. Still, the rents from this place helped to fuel the Order¡¯s work in supporting the practice of medicine across the world. Alexander slotted himself into the crowds of lawyers that flowed into the district, his suit and tie a perfect fit in the crowd. He was not one of them, not yet, but soon his placement would be done and he could begin his career as a barrister.


    The offices of Smyth and Jenkins had stood on this site since the Regency, and they had an illustrious pedigree that placed them on good standing with the corporate community. It was perhaps unsurprising that their office did not conform to the modern standards of wide-open spaces and glass walls. The firm was housed in a delicate old building that was all plush upholstery, panelled wood and deep red carpets. Alexander loved it; it was everything he thought a place of power should look like. Sometimes he found the work of drawing up forms and collating case files tedious, but he was determined to make something of himself. His great grandfather had fought in the Second World War and, upon returning, had decided to open an electronic shop that had been passed down to his son, and then again to Alexander¡¯s father. His father loved his shop, but Alexander could see that everything he was doing was to ensure Alexander got the chances he hadn¡¯t, the chance for a life beyond a corner shop in Whitechapel.


    Currently, opportunity had Alexander sifting through fifty-year-old documents he had copied from corporate archives, seeking to put together a complete package of information so his superior could support the client in a dispute over patent ownership. It wasn¡¯t pretty, and it wasn¡¯t overly fun but there had been some enjoyment in hunting through the old archive. Ultimately, this was potentially a very lucrative contract and though Alexander¡¯s wage was small, if they won then he would receive a not insignificant cut of the fee. There was something he enjoyed about all this hunting around for information, something in it that fulfilled his fantasies of adventure. He had fallen into his role with eagerness, and he was dressed to match. In a snappy black suit with a white shirt and a rich red tie which he had concealed between a thick wool overcoat he looked every part the city professional. This effort to conform was marred by a face far more youthful than his peers, most of whom were already qualified lawyers, and his unusual height that saw he would always stand out from the crowd.


    The day went on, and Alexander fell into the usual routine of filing paperwork, taking calls from his equivalent in the client¡¯s corporation and making small talk over the kettle. The culture of Smyth and Jenkins was somewhat old fashioned and the firm encouraged its staff to get to know each other, with the aim of building upon a professional network that the employees could call upon should they need to leverage their influence. It may have been old, and a little nepotistic, but it allowed the comparatively small firm to punch far above its weight. Alexander didn¡¯t have his own office, like many of the firm¡¯s senior members, but he enjoyed working in the small communal area with ready access to other¡¯s ideas and opinions. It also helped that he didn¡¯t have much of a social life, and viewed his work as a way to make the friendships that he had lost back in Whitechapel.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Glass shuddered in the window frames as the low hum of a busy office was shattered by the distant thumps of explosions and the sharp retort of gunfire. Panicked shouts spread throughout the room as people¡¯s worst fears came to roost. ¡®It¡¯s Fawkes!¡¯ some cried in terror, while others shouted the names of supervillains, anarchists, criminals or terrorists. Some crowded against the windows, others began to crawl beneath their desks whilst most simply sat stupefied, as if they could not believe the evidence of their ears. Alexander ran up to the window, looking over his crowding colleagues, and saw tall pillars of smoke rising from beyond the next rooftops. In the haze of fire and smoke he could almost make out what appeared to be a distant figure, twisting and turning in the pillar like some sick celebration. His scrutiny was interrupted by the sound of a metal cane rapping against the marble floor and he turned to see a hunched figure step out of the grandest of the firm¡¯s offices. Sir Nathaniel Smyth, ruler of half this ancient firm, raised his arm high and shouted as far as his raspy voice would carry.


    ¡®Everyone, stay calm! This is the heart of the United Kingdom! We are surrounded by thousands of police and soldiers, not to mention the Bow Street Runners. All we need to do is bunker down and await rescue. Now, I need a stalwart volunteer to bar the doors.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m on it, sir!¡¯ Alexander shot up, determined to do his part and prove his grit.


    ¡®Good man, Laszewski.¡¯ Sir Smyth spoke as he hobbled over to Alexander, placing his arm on the young man¡¯s shoulder. ¡®The doors are solid oak with wrought iron fittings, a stout piece of metal between the handles will hold till judgement day.¡¯


    He began to walk to his office, beckoning Alexander to follow. Once their he reached up to a wall fitting, and removed a curved sabre before sliding its gleaming metal surface into an ornate scabbard. On a gold disk embedded in the scabbard were the letters KBE.


    ¡®Her Majesty gave me this, at Windsor castle in ¡¯86, for my service in the Coldstream Guards. It¡¯s Damascus steel, should stop anyone coming through those doors. Twenty-eight years it has hung on my wall, I think it¡¯s long overdue some use.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯m honoured, sir.¡¯ Alexander exclaimed, holding the sword with all the reverence he¡¯d show a priceless artefact.


    ¡®Now get to it lad, I¡¯ll keep order up here.¡¯ His face, which normally held the kindly expression of a grandfather, was a rictus of grim defiance and Alexander knew that he was resigned to his fate, whether salvation or death. Outside the silent confines of the office, the rest of the firm had taken to cowering beneath their tables or behind dividing walls, just as they had practiced in anti-intruder drills. A few of the more enterprising employees were moving furniture into an improvised barricade before the main doors, but with a word from Sir Smyth the pulled back the bulkiest of the requisitioned furniture to allow him to squeeze through a small gap. He could hear the scraping of furniture behind him as he left.


    The firm occupied a four-story set of rooms with a single entrance through a pair of large double-doors. Alexander practically leapt downstairs in his haste, determined to make it to the door before whatever was happening outside could spread this far. Throughout his descent he could hear gunfire and explosions, now mingling with the sound of screaming, getting closer and closer. He took the last set of stairs in a single leap, staggering as his feet made contact with the checkered stone floor. The lobby was empty, everyone was huddled together in their offices, and Alexander sprinted across the room until he could reach out and touch the door.


    In an instant the ancient oak shattered into splinters as it was torn apart by an explosion. Caught by the heat from the blast, and the largest chunks of debris, Alexander was flung clean across the room, his arm scraping against the floor until he crashed into the stairs. His courage fled, and he staggered to his feet before scrambling up the stairs. Around his feet bursts of dust spread as bullets cracked the marble and, as he turned onto the next flight, he caught a glimpse of two men dressed in green fatigues and balaclavas, each wielding an assault rifle. As he passed the next flight, he heard the sound of yet more boots filling the hall, followed by another ear-shattering explosion as a bomb blasted through whatever barricade the first floor had put up.


    His hearing returned as the sound of screaming intermingled with gunfire echoed up the stairs. Almost muffled in comparison, but delivered at a deafening yell, was the shout of ¡®T¨ªr na n¨®g!¡¯ that followed the gunmen¡¯s entrance. Alexander fled even further upstairs, pursued by advancing footsteps and yet more shouts, and it took all his effort to keep ahead of the attackers. Some distant part of him was aware of the blood that was flowing down his leg from a vicious piece of shrapnel, but adrenaline was coursing through his veins and he pressed on, heedless of whatever damage he may be doing to his body. Mere metres below him, the gunmen moved systematically up the building, cracking open barricades like the shell of a lobster before moving with zealous fervour through the offices. There was something manic about their cries, and they acted more like revellers than their professional appearance would imply.


    Rounding the fourth floor, Alexander slammed his weight against the heavy wooden door, but failed to break through the piled barricades into the office beyond. No help would be coming from the other side; there was no time to open and close the barricade to let him through, and even if there was then Sir Smyth couldn¡¯t risk the safety of the other employees for one man. That was why he had given Alexander his sword, which he still held in a death grip. He had been passing on the honour of his Knighthood to Alexander, a way of recognising his sacrifice. Alexander was not conscious of this reasoning, but some animalistic part of his instincts had worked through the logic and he threw himself off the barricaded door, instead making for the smaller staircase of wrought iron that led through the attic and onto the roof. In a stroke of luck, the long-neglected door separating the inside from the outside collapsed in a puff of rotten wood, and Alexander was struck by the cold light of day.


    The air was filled with spiralling smoke, and crackling gunfire mixed with the deep impacts of explosions, the rumble of collapsing masonry, the wail of sirens and the riotous shouts of ¡®T¨ªr na n¨®g!¡¯ from the mouths of several dozen attackers who smarmed through the streets. Alexander threw himself as close as he dared to the ledge and saw these figures in their green fatigues disembarking from a fleet of ubiquitous white vans. A distant thus below his feet signalled the fourth four barricade being destroyed and Alexander heard not screams, but a shout of grim defiance from his colleagues as Sir Smyth led a hopeless defence. He knew they would come here next, but there was nowhere else for him to run to and his wounds were beginning to catch up to him.


    As his vision faded, he gazed over the expanse of the Temple, taking in the shattered dome of St Paul¡¯s Cathedral in the distance. As he did, he caught sight of movement in the foreground. It was the same shape that he had seen swirling in and out of the smoke, but it was closer now. Injury had blurred his vision, but he could barely make out a female form swoop up the side of the building and pause before him. Its skin seemed an unnatural shade, and it was dressed in flowing scraps of cloth that accentuated the inhuman grace of every delicate movement, swaying in defiance of the breeze as if it was swimming in the air. The air behind its back was shaking a little faster as it gained more height to look down on Alexander, and he felt as if his entire life had been examined by those glowing emerald eyes, and found wanting. The monster laughed, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and yet to Alexander it seemed terrifying in a way he couldn¡¯t quite comprehend. Without a look back, it took to the skies once more, leaving Alexander with his arm outstretched in a futile effort to bring it back.


    Dejected, his body slid from the raided lip of the roof and fell into a seated position, looking at the cupola that he had emerged from. Through blurry eyes on the verge of unconsciousness, he saw a green figure step over the shattered remains of the door, clutching a metal rifle in its hands.

 02 Disappearance

    Before his death, a strange sort of clarity settled upon Alexander. It felt as if the pain of his wounds faded into a state of numbness, and his clouded eyes became unnaturally clear. He could see his murderer step onto the rooftop, a rifle held in her hands. She was dressed in olive green fatigues, with a set of webbing hanging from her chest, holding pouches filled with magazines. Over her shoulders she wore a bulky daysack, and Alexander could make out the long tube of a rocket launcher hanging from a strap. Her face was hidden behind a black balaclava, but the faintest hint of dark brown skin could be seen in the gaps around her emerald eyes. In her hand she carried a long rifle, its muzzle steaming in the cold morning air.


    Alexander watched as she stepped through, spotting his wounded form, and raised her rifle to her shoulder, ready to fire. He braced himself for the inevitable crack of gunfire, but it never came. His eyes, held tightly shut, slowly opened and he saw his attacker standing over him, still pointing her rifle at him, with her eyes darting from side to side, as if she couldn¡¯t quite see him. She shook her head, and that seemed to dispel whatever had happened to her. Ignoring Alexander, she wandered over to the edge of the roof, rested her rifle against the balustrade, and removed her daysack, opening the topflap to reveal a small stack of rockets.


    Alexander stared at her in disbelief, his heart racing wildly in his chest. She must have seen him, she must. And yet, she had acted as if he wasn¡¯t there at all. It couldn¡¯t have been mercy; Alexander had heard her, and her accomplices, slaughtering their way through the building and laughing among the bodies. With a start, he realised that the pain from his wounded legs was fading, and the bleeding gashes were slowly clotting over before his very eyes. Slowly, he pressed his feet against the floor in an effort to stand. His legs were unsteady, and he almost fell over as his right leg bucked on the ascent, but he managed to haul himself onto his feet. Again, the gunwoman made no reaction, occupying herself with loading the rocket launcher, and acted seemingly unaware of his presence.


    He stumbled unsteadily around the rooftop, massaging life into his legs, at one point passing directly in front of the woman, who offered no reaction. As realisation sank in, Alexander began to laugh before he quickly caught himself and stopped, in case he was wrong. Every now and then the news would be occupied by a bad ¡®awakening¡¯, as the accepted term had become. People who burst into flames in the middle of a school, or the victim of a bank robbery who suddenly took flight and fled. Some believed people ¡®awakened¡¯ through trauma, and threw themselves in front of trains in a fatal example of escapism, whilst others held that radiation was involved and blamed nuclear disasters on secret superhero projects. In truth, no one knew the cause but every child dreamt of waking up one morning with the strength of ten men.


    Alexanders reverie was interrupted by the sound of rotor blades cutting through the morning fog. In the distance he could see a small grey helicopter making haste towards Temple, scattering the fog as it went. The roof¡¯s other occupant saw it as well, and she ducked behind some cover, peeking out at the approaching aircraft. As it closed, Alexander began to make out indistinct figures dressed all in black, and the sound of gunfire changed as two opposing sides met in the streets. The counterattack had begun, and the Security Forces were scrambling to regain control of Temple. The helicopter closed the distance rapidly, flying so low that it was forced to follow the curve of the Thames. At Waterloo bridge, the aircraft rose abruptly and soared over the rooftop of the adjacent buildings, narrowly missing the flag post atop Somerset House. As it drew closer and closer to Temple, the gunman stepped out from behind her cover and shouldered her rocket launcher, her aim following the helicopter¡¯s path.


    Acting almost on instinct, Alexander leapt forwards and rammed the sword into her stomach. In his haste, he had neglected to remove the blade from its scabbard, but the woman bent double, and the rocket launcher clattered to the ground. She looked up in anger, and Alexander saw her eyes open wide in shock as he drew back the sheathed blade. Her eyes locked with his, he was sure she saw him now, and she reached to draw a short knife from a pouch on her lower back, but then her eyes glazed over again and she looked at the knife in her hand with obvious confusion. It was then she collapsed amidst a hail of gunfire, sending Alexander scrambling backwards, as one of the commandoes fired from the advancing helicopter. The aircraft swung over the rooftop and came to a hover above the building opposite. Alexander watched, quite confident they couldn¡¯t see him, as a team of commandoes dropped down on long ropes, before disappearing into the building through broken windows.


    Clutching the scabbard tightly in his hand, Alexander began the descent down the former offices of Smyth & Jenkins. Every part of him screamed to flee, to leave this place behind, but a kind of morbid curiosity won out. He had to see, to understand what happened, and so he stepped into the offices on the fourth floor. Carnage met him, his friends and colleagues lying scattered around the room either dead or very near to it. By the door lay the lone corpse of one of the attackers, his death made clear by the lacerations that covered his corpse. Resting against the far wall in a pool of blood, Sir Nathaniel Smyth was staring up at the window, wheezing through injured lungs. He was seemingly unaware of Alexander¡¯s presence, though the old man¡¯s eyes seemed to drift his way before returning to the window. Alexander knelt before him, and took his frail hand in his arm. Confused, Sir Smyth turned his head and his eyes widened in shock as recognition dawned. He spoke in a thin, rasping voice, intermingled with a strange gurgling sound.


    ¡®Laszewski. I had¡­ I had forgotten you. How, how had I forgotten?¡¯ His eyes were wide, almost manic, and they studied Alexander as if the two were meeting for the first time.


    ¡®It¡¯s alright sir,¡¯ Alexander said in an attempt to bring his employer back to the here and now, ¡®I¡¯ll go and get help. You¡¯ll be back on your feet in no time.¡¯


    Smyth laughed, coughing up small flecks of blood as he did, before speaking again.


    ¡®That¡¯s kind of you my boy, but I¡¯ve seen enough battles to recognise a sucking chest wound. I¡¯ve not long left, but I¡¯m glad you survived¡­ Someone should.¡¯


    ¡®They won¡¯t get away with this.¡¯


    ¡®I know son. Still¡­ we made the bastards work for it.¡¯ He laughed again, and his eyes fell upon the lone green corpse by the entrance. ¡®Leave me here. It is as fine a place to die as any.¡¯


    ¡®I understand.¡¯ Alexander replied after some hesitation. He held up the sword before the old man. ¡®I have your sword sir; it wouldn¡¯t be right to go unarmed.¡¯


    ¡®Keep it lad, I hope it serves you well. You¡¯ll certainly need it more than I, if you are to escape this hell.¡¯


    At this, he fell silent. Alexander stayed with him until the end, unsure of weather Sir Smyth would forget him if he let go of the old man¡¯s hand. Scant few minutes had passed by the time he breathed his last, but outside the sounds of battle had drawn closer as the gunmen were driven back. He left Sir Nathaniel Smyth amongst the wreckage of his ancestors¡¯ firm, and descended the stairs until he stood once more under the cold light of day.


    He moved through Temple as if in a dream, passing isolated groups of gunmen exchanging fire with soldiers from a dozen different agencies and regiments. The commandoes were slowly gaining ground, but the gunmen were dug in. It was then that Alexander began to hear a new sound, intermingling with the crackling gunfire. It was a low whirring noise, like the beating of innumerable wings, mixed in with the occasional high-pitched cry. The sound grew louder and louder and gradually the firing stopped, as the fighters tuned their ears to the sky in confusion. The air filled with tension until, like a bursting dam, the streets descended into a wall of black feathers.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ravens filled the streets, looking more like a black cloud of feathers than an ordinary flock. They fell upon the gunmen with animalistic fury, burying them under beaks and claws. The remainder swirled through the streets in great spiralling masses that flowed up and down like an unnatural river. Alexander stood dumbfounded by the sight, immensely grateful that the ravens seemed just as ignorant of his presence. Unfortunately, that was a double-edged sword and he was almost bowled over as part of the flock collided with him. He retreated into a small alleyway, leaving the birds stumbling about on the ground.


    It was this hidden vantage that he saw a creeping mist fill the other end of the street. Unlike the white haze of the usual morning mist, this fog was a pale turquoise colour and seemed to glow with some inner light. As Alexander looked closer, it almost seemed like he could make out ghostly faces swirling in the fog. When the mist met a group of gunmen, it enveloped them and kept flowing. A few moments later, it lit up with strangely muffled gunfire and Alexander could hear banshee-like shrieks. Stuck between these two obstacles, the gunmen still on the street began to huddle together, still laughing and shouting but in a far more manic way.


    Without warning, an armoured figure ran out of the mist. He was covered from head to toe in crystalline growths that mimicked a suit of plate armour and he moved at an unnatural sprint towards the remaining gunmen, his fists balled. They spread out and began firing, but the bullets either ricochet off the edges of his armour, or impacted with seemingly no effect. Feirefiz was the heart of the Bow Street Runners, a fighter without compare who hit his opponents with the force of a freight train, bending the metal of their rifles with his armoured fists. The gunmen didn¡¯t stand a chance, and soon only the crystalline knight was left standing on the streets.


    The flocks of crows rose and separated, revealing a man dressed in a black doublet, with a white shirt showing through artful slices. The rest of his clothes were similarly archaic, and he paired black breeches with a wide brimmed cock hat, three black feathers stuck to its brim. The top half of his face was hidden by a masquerade mask that mimicked the beak of his namesake. The raven¡¯s face, for the mask ended below the nose, was dark skinned, and he sported a beaming smile that spoke of a natural cheerfulness. His head darted around, following his flock, and he looked upon the spiralling black birds much like a doting father. The Raven strolled up to Feirefiz whilst his birds swarmed through broken windows, darting in and amongst the buildings, amidst both avian and human.


    He was shadowed by another anachronistic figure, a short man wearing the overexaggerated beak of an archaic practitioner of medicine. This ¡®Plague Doctor¡¯ moved accompanied by the clink of dozens of glass vials, some held securely in bandoliers or cartridges whilst a worrying amount were simply tied onto his belt with string. This concerning collection of chemicals was kept separate from the Plague Doctor¡¯s unseen body by a long leather overcoat, that bore obvious signs of hastily improvised repairs, made with whatever scraps of leather could be found. The Plague Doctor¡¯s face was wholly covered by the seemingly archaic mask, though delicate filters dotted along its length spoke of some hidden sophistication. The overall effect was not dissimilar to the ruthless impersonality of the surgeon, and the Doctor seemed to have a presence beyond his diminutive height.


    The swirling cloud of unnatural mist flowed even faster as a small passage separated, and a silhouetted figure strolled through, moving with deliberate purpose and confidence. The last member of the Bow Street Runners made her appearance, the ethereal mist lapping at her heels. She was a young woman, though age was often unreliable when dealing with awakened, and long locks of flowing black hair accentuated her pale face. She wore a long dress of ragged pieces of leather and cloth, with a shoulder less top whose deep d¨¦colletage exposed an intricate design of interlocking runes that covered her chest, back and arms, glowing with the same turquoise light as her fog. Most of the Bow Street Runners were seen as symbols of hope and a source of inspiration, but Morgan the Fay¡¯s reputation was far less clear cut. Popular opinion held that her power drew upon the very dead themselves, and, having seen the indistinct shapes that swirled through her mist, Alexander was inclined to believe the rumours. Whatever her reputation the Runners clearly held no animosity towards her and the four heroes immediately fell into animated discussion.


    ¡®Barricades are up on either end of Fleet Street, there¡¯s a machine gun on the balcony of Somerset House, the Tube is sealed and the army have snipers on the other side of the river. They¡¯ve sealed off the exits. Our priority now is to find survivors and lead them to safety.¡¯


    The Plague Doctor spoke in a voice that seemed to carry natural authority, albeit somewhat muffled by his long mask. His briefing was interrupted as a lone raven flew down, perching on its master¡¯s reinforced gloves. After a moment spent, apparently, in silent communication with the bird the Raven turned to the other members. From his hiding place, Alexander noted that his smile now seemed a lot more forced than it had been.


    ¡®There¡¯s nothing on the east side except for death. The killers are congregating around the Church, I think they¡¯re planning a last stand. There are still pockets of survivors to the West and North, and the SAS have taken back the South.¡¯


    His voice was obviously more familiar with loud boisterousness, and sounded unnaturally subdued. Upon receiving this report, the Plague Doctor spoke again, his voice unaffected by the loss of life.


    ¡®Good job. We¡¯ll split up. Raven with me, we¡¯ll take the North. Morgan, Feirefiz, clear the West buildings. Any complications, get in touch over the radio.¡¯


    He set off at a sprint, accompanied by the chinking of glass, and the Raven followed shortly behind. The armoured bulk of Feirefiz moved as if to do the same, when he spotted his teammate engrossed in some distant object. With a start, Alexander realised that Morgan the Fay was looking right at him, though with the distance it was hard to tell weather it was he who had her attention, or any part of the building above him. With a gentleness uncharacteristic of his size, Feirefiz placed a hand on Morgan¡¯s shoulder which seemed to bring her back to the here and now.


    ¡®Are you alright Morgan?¡¯ He spoke, his voice, though reverberating strangely, conveyed a sense of familial concern.


    ¡®I¡¯m fine,¡¯ the eldritch figure replied after a moment¡¯s pause, ¡®just got a little lost in my own head. Sorry.¡¯ In spite of her wild appearance, her voice was surprisingly soft.


    ¡®Are you sure you¡¯re up to this?


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about me,¡¯ she shrugged off his hand, ¡®I can handle it.¡¯


    ¡®So long as you¡¯re sure.¡¯ He didn¡¯t press the issue any further, instead beginning to jog off into the glowing mist.


    Morgan the Fay followed almost immediately, and Alexander was left alone in the ruins of Temple. These streets, that had so recently been teeming with a sea of suited figures, were almost entirely bare and Alexander moved along them alone with his thoughts. Alone, that is, save for the occasional black-clad commando team¡¯s who sprinted across the streets, preferring to move unseen through the buildings. It was after a particular near miss, where he had unknowing stepped into the centre of an emerging firefight, that understanding settled in. Alexander the upcoming law graduate couldn¡¯t exist anymore. For one thing, he had no idea how to stop his newfound ability and he could hardly continue to work amongst a society that doesn¡¯t even know he¡¯s there.


    Outside the Temple, the streets were unnaturally clear, all the traffic having been diverted. A church on the opposite side of the road had been opened up as a triage centre, and paramedics in green uniforms were wheeling out a constant stream of injured people, under the protection of a squad of soldiers, and their armoured vehicles. Further down the street a barricade had been set up, with ambulances constantly rotating through. The barricade was constructed from two ¡®Flying Pig¡¯s¡¯. large armoured trucks whose sides could extend to block off whole streets, giving them their unfortunate nickname. These relics of the last century had been rushed back into service in the past two years, and were a common sight on the streets of Britain. As he passed the harried Lieutenant responsible for keeping back the crowds of journalists, or those succumbing to natural curiosity, Alexander came to a conclusion of sorts; what had happened to him was simply too big to process. Instead, he simply decided to walk home, and catch a good night¡¯s sleep. One way or another, he would be a different man when he awoke.

 03: Disappearance

    The howl of a siren cut through the bustle of Horse Guards. The old barracks, once the site of glorious martial parades, now echoed with the reverberating rotor blades of a helicopter, its crew desperately working to get airborne as fast as possible. Eight black clad figures, their faces concealed by gas masks, ran from the barrack block. They moved in a straight line, and at a dead sprint, before clambering into the aircraft with the speed that only ceaseless practice can give. They had been dressed for battle for six hours now, part of a network of rapid response teams kept across the country, ready to act on a moment¡¯s notice. Within seconds of them taking their seats, the helicopter rose and proceeded through a hastily cleared corridor of airspace.


    Private Gurung had the prestigious window seat, and he could see the city passing just beneath their skids. Like his colleagues, his face was concealed by a gas mask and he wore a plate carrier laden with grenades and spare magazines for his short-barrelled carbine. Only the winged dagger on his right shoulder could identify him, one faceless ghost among eight. Each part of a complete person. Gurung stepped out of his seat, and grabbed hold of the machine gun that jutted out of the open doorway. He refamiliarized himself with the weapon, taking aim at sever buildings, cars and pedestrians before loading a box of belt-fed ammunition, closing the breach and cocking the weapon with a satisfying thunk. On the other side, the Aircraft¡¯s crewman was manning an identical gun and together they covered the city, watchful for any hint of an ambush.


    A crackling voice came over the radio, and Gurung heard the Scottish brogue of General MacAllister, commander of the London Division and the man responsible for the city¡¯s security. Gurung only recognised his voice because the General considered it his duty to meet the soldiers he would be relying on in a crisis such as this.


    ¡®Commandoes,¡¯ the disembodied voice said, ¡®Temple has come under attack by an unknown number of armed assailants. The roads are being cut of as we speak, and the entire site should be sealed by the time we arrive.¡¯


    ¡®We know there are several dozen attackers, and that they are wearing dark green uniforms with balaclavas. We do not know their armament at this time. This attack hit us out of the blue, and the only information we have comes from panicked victims nine-nine-nine calls. Those lines are dead. It seems the enemy is more interested in a massacre than any hostages.¡¯


    ¡®You will rappel onto the roof on the South side. AFO¡¯s and regular army units are doing what they can to advance from the north, whilst the CTSFO team will move in below you on the ground. Link up with security forces, and close with the enemy. Meantime, the Bow Street Runners and the uniforms will be seeing to the evacuation, so focus your efforts on the enemy. COBRA has yet to convene, but the Lord Protector has personally suggested to me that no tears would be shed if you were unable to take prisoners. I trust you understand.¡¯


    ¡®Two years ago, we failed. We cannot fail again. The honour of your regiment rests on your shoulders.¡¯


    The commandoes displayed no visible reaction, that was not their nature, but each man understood their duty, and they prepared themselves to deploy. The helicopter was now skimming the surface of the Thames, the pilots preparing to fly up at the last second and surprise the enemy. They climbed rapidly, getting close enough to Waterloo bridge that they sent pedestrians scattering. The streets below them were clear, save for teams of police and the faint, grey-clad, CT-SFO squad sprinting out of an unmarked grey van. Once more they hugged the rooftops, and Gurung saw their target rushing up towards them.


    He also saw the indistinct green figure perched atop the foremost roof, loading what was unmistakably the long tube of a rocket launcher. A quick word over his radio had the pilot turning the aircraft slightly right, allowing Gurung to line up the machine gun with his target. As he looked down the iron sights, he saw the green clad figure fumble with the launcher, dropping it completely and reeling back as if it¡¯d been struck. Gurung paid it no mind, save for the slightest contemptuous feeling, and he sent off a burst of accurate fire that felled the target.


    With that, he let go of the machine gun, handing it off to the crewman, before grabbing hold of the quick-release lever for the line. The helicopter swing over the buildings, firing at targets on the ground with the second machine gun, as Gurung cast loose the line. Instantly, the squad¡¯s corporal was up by the exit, clipping his carabiner to the line before disappearing into space. Gurung followed immediately after. There was perhaps fifteen meters of line before the building, plenty of time for Gurung to take in his surroundings. Temple was broadly square, and laid out around the church that gave the district its name. Gurung could see green figures darting about the streets, as well as suits fleeing the area any way they could.


    With a thud, his boots hit the ground and he darted off to join his Corporal by the window of a large office. Once four of their section had landed, the window was blasted off its hinges and the SAS stormed the building, moving from floor to floor with ruthless professionalism.


    In the offices of Smyth and Jenkins, Sir Nathaniel Smyth lay against the wall. The memory of the last few minutes played through his mind again and again, doubtless a delirium brought on by the bullet hole in his frail chest. He remembered first the panic of the office, his employees distressed and panicking, desperate for any means of escape. He had quietened them, reminded them that there was no way out, and told them that he would rather die on his feet than on his knees.  He had told them that this room was England, and that by fighting they would deny the enemy the sadistic pleasure he drew from his victim¡¯s fear. Through this, and personal appeals, he was able to harden their hearts.


    They waited behind the doors, clutching table legs or shards of broken glass. The enemy¡¯s arrival was heralded with the bang of a shoulder against the doorway. They waited in tense silence for a few moments more until an earth-shattering blast rent the doors asunder, sending jagged shards of wood careening through the helpless onlookers. At the first flash of green, the assembled law clerks charged, offering forth a wordless cry on defiance. One foe was downed, and killed by a foot-long splinter driven through his head, but then his fellows opened up with their machine guns. Bodies fell in a collapsing wave, and the old Knight was caught in the chest with an impact that sent him careening against the far wall. There he lay, lost in a constantly repeating moment of fire, screams and death.


    He felt someone take his hand, and for a moment he was filled with a sense of incredible wrongness, as if something against the laws of nature had just occurred. His eyes cleared, and he saw a stranger¡¯s face that quickly became familiar as a torrent of memories filled his mind. It was Laszewski, how had he forgotten Laszewski? The lad had showed such promise, and the Knight¡¯s heart had sunk when he had volunteered to bar the doors. He had such promise, and had offered to risk his life to save them all. How had he forgotten such courage? It was as if the man had never existed.


    ¡®Laszewski. I had¡­ I had forgotten you.¡¯


    The young man stayed with Sir Smyth for some time, and they spoke of honour and virtue. He offered Sir Smyth his sword back, but the old Knight bade him keep it. In some way, it was his way of recognising the young man¡¯s heroic actions. He had been unable to stop the enemy from entering, but his willingness to die in the name of others was an attitude worthy of a soldier. Sir Smyth died content, knowing that in the end he had done his duty. It truly was better, he remarked to himself, to die for England than to live for yourself. The old Knight, who had fought his way through the deserts of Oman and led a battalion through the streets of Londonderry, died surrounded by the ruins of his ancestors¡¯ endeavour, while the world burned around him.


    Morgan the Fay watched as the soldier slid the door open, before the van had even come to a stop. The first out was Feirefiz, always the prodigal knight, crystals creeping over his coffee-coloured skin to form an armoured helm, with slits of clearest diamond over his eyes. She followed, her skirts flowing behind her as they ran through the streets. Up ahead a barricade of sorts had been formed by two police cars parked side by side, manned by a group of armed officers and soldiers. One of the officers wore a peaked cap and she spoke in a commanding tone to a small cluster of police, soldiers and paramedics. They were coordinating their efforts, performing all the minutia that the Bow Street Runners never had to concern themselves with. Morgan still remembered how it used to be, before the Gunpowder Plot, when the runners actually were based in Bow Street and the police had been something they, and every other superhero team, had largely ignored. Now they were yet another part of the security services, albeit still very independent.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The benefits of this integration were clear to see in the way the crowds of emergency workers parted before them, leaving the pair of heroes a clear path to Temple. As she ran, Morgan¡¯s eyes were drawn to all the ghosts that surrounded them. Feirefiz ran through them like they weren¡¯t there, which, she supposed, they weren¡¯t. Morgan had seen her first ghost when she was fourteen and her grandfather turned up to his own funeral. He had been followed by a flood of innumerable figures, drawn to their own remains. She had suffered a nervous breakdown, and it had been a tough year in Bedlam before she had fully recovered from the incident. Now the ghosts were simply a fact of life, part of what made her unique, and a vital part of her arsenal. By drawing on their presence, she could bring them closer to the real world. They had no form on earth, instead resembling an ethereal mist made of compacted souls.


    She gathered this mist around her, forming scattered turquoise clouds with every step she took, until she was followed by a dense fog that shifted unnaturally as the spirits within tested their boundaries. It was like reigning in wild animals; the restless souls found Earth intoxicating, and would hurl themselves against the edge of the fog, sensing the wonders of reality that lay beyond. It took a lot out of her, but it was something she could bear. Atop her skin, an intricate web of runes began to glow, clearly visible to both cameras and the naked eye. The runes had slowly begun to emerge over her year in confinement, as she learned the use and limits of her power. They were eye catching, an effect helped by her low-cut top, and helped give her the ethereal air she was so careful to cultivate.


    Feirefiz paused at the entrance to Temple, a discreet stone archway set into the larger thoroughfare, and waited for Morgan to catch up. Feirefiz was a tall man, with long legs, and his body was reinforced by artificial crystalline musculature. Morgan knew all this, and yet it was still slightly irritating that he seemed to be entirely unaffected by their sprint. They were waiting for Plague Doctor and Raven to reach their position on the opposite end of Temple, where they would encircle the district before meeting near the centre. After a short pause, the Doctor¡¯s professional voice emerged from their radios, whilst the flock of ravens that blotted out the sun announced the Raven¡¯s arrival.


    They sprinted out into the street as Morgan pushed the ethereal cloud before them. She could see through the fog as if it wasn¡¯t there but everyone else, including Feirefiz, found themselves surrounded by a wall of mist, barely able to see two metres in front of them. Feirefiz was running blind, reliant entirely on Morgan¡¯s hurried directions, but he moved utterly without fear, as if nothing in this world could harm him. There was a small group of green-clad gunmen ahead, likely a sentry post meant to warn of attackers. Morgan moved the fog towards them while telling Feirefiz to carry on ahead.


    The gunmen stood stupefied as a rolling wall of fog moved towards them, before enveloping them completely. She compacted the mist until they couldn¡¯t see their hand in front of their face and, while they were stumbling blind through the fog, she slowly took hold of their souls. Her fog was more than just the manifestation of dead souls, it was a bridge between the living and the dead. By seizing on the souls of the gunmen, she was able to brig them closer to death. Most would notice nothing, except perhaps a slight chill, but to the encircling ghosts it was as if a lighthouse had just been lit. They gathered around the gunmen like an ocean around a candle, threatening to smother it out. They fired blindly into the crowd, aware of their enemies even if they couldn¡¯t see them, but it had no effect ad gradually their spirits sapped. Once they had fallen unconscious, Morgan delicately released their souls from her control. They were alive, but exhausted, and would spend the next few days in a kind of coma. It had taken Morgan half a decade to reach that level of control.


    Beyond her fog, the rest of the Bow Street Runners had finished off the majority of the gunmen. Morgan dispersed her fog, creating a small tunnel along which she strode confidently towards them. She kept the great mass of fog close, ready to be expanded at a moment¡¯s notice. She waited while Plague Doctor outlined their plan. They were not here to fight the hostage takers, that lesson had been learned in the Iranian Embassy crisis, instead they were supposed to seek out any survivors and escort them to safety while the SAS dealt with the attackers. To that end, her and Feirefiz were to scour the buildings for anyone who escaped the massacre, and move them through a shroud of fog to the waiting security forces. Morgan was about to set off, when something caught her eye.


    There was a ghost in one of the alleyways. He wore a suit soaked through with blood, and Morgan assumed he must be the first ghost from the massacre to reconstitute himself. It normally took longer for the recently deceased to reappear in her vision, and that wasn¡¯t all that was strange about him. Most ghosts wandered the earth lost and confused, moving aimlessly and without acknowledging their environment. This one looked like he was hiding, and his eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point, almost as if he was looking right at her. She stared at him. He seemed somehow more defined than the other ghosts, and yet he shared their familiar turquoise colouring. Her thoughts were interrupted as a hand rested gently on her shoulder.


    ¡®Are you alright Morgan?¡¯ Feirefiz spoke in a concerned voice. In spite of his fierce exterior, Morgan knew he was the sentimental type. It was his spirit that had kept them together after the Gunpowder Plot, and he often acted as a kind of father figure to the group.


    ¡®I¡¯m fine,¡¯ she lied ¡®just got a little lost in my own head. Sorry.¡¯


    Much of her time at bedlam had been spent trying to convince herself that what she was seeing was real, and not some delusion. Even so, for some time she had struggled with false images as her own imagination influenced what she could see. As she looked at the ghost again, she saw his head looking around in familiar confusion, and she breathed a sigh of relief.


    ¡®Are you sure you¡¯re up to this?¡¯


    ¡®Don¡¯t worry about me,¡¯ she reached up to brush his hand off her bare shoulder and brought her face back to an expression of steely determination,


    ¡®I can handle it.¡¯


    ¡®So long as you¡¯re sure.¡¯ That was another reason Feirefiz was so well liked; he was never concerning to the point of being overbearing, and he knew that sometimes people needed to move on rather than being lost in their issues. The two heroes moved off, looking for any hint of life among the dead.


    Private Gurung sprinted across the bare street before bringing the door of the opposite building down with a well-placed boot. He did not enter, but rather leaned out to cover the road with his rifle while the rest of the section crossed. They had cleared eight buildings, and left a trail of green-clad bodies in their wake, but it seemed like the opposition were falling back to the Church at the centre of Temple. Now the different commando groups were moving to rendezvous before hitting the Church. As the last man entered the building, he tapped Gurung on the shoulder, the commando withdrawing into the relative safety of the building.


    The next leg of their journey was spent navigating the twisting interiors of the old buildings. Temple was ancient, and it had been built up over a millennium. The end result was a twisted mess of architecture that spread throughout the district, and allowed the commando¡¯s an almost uninterrupted path to their destination. On their way, they rendezvoused with the CT-SFO team, distinguished by their grey fatigues, and the two squad leaders exchanged a few terse words before the two squads moved off as one. Though CT-SFO was part of the Metropolitan police, they had all been trained by the SAS and the two groups¡¯ tactics were functionally identical.


    Sixteen soldiers looked out of the window at the solid stone flank of the Temple itself, confident that there were three dozen others doing the same in the other buildings. The operations commander, a major, gave a single word over the radio and a force of black-clad figures emerged from the buildings surrounding the church, sprinting up to its entrances. Most stacked up against the church¡¯s heavy wooden doors, but Gurung¡¯s group instead chose a patch of wall. They pulled out a bulky package from one of the commando¡¯s backpacks and set it against the wall. The explosive was from the Institute of Advanced Science in Birmingham, the product of one of their superhuman staff, and would decay in a few days. A steady supply were continually sent south for just this kind of situation.


    The wall did not so much explode as disintegrate in a brief burst of blue flames, which was followed by the bright burst of flashbangs from every entrance. The commandos stormed the church, firin at everything they could see. Most of the enemy were close to the entrances, and Gurung¡¯s two sections were able to fire into the densely packed mass. It was then that one of Gurung¡¯s squad dropped, headless.


    Something was moving amongst the rafters, an unnaturally beautiful figure with grey skin cavorting in and amongst the attackers, carving a bloody path with an axe of sharpened bone that carved through the best body armour money can buy as if it wasn¡¯t there. Gurung fired, but his bullets had o effect and soon he was flung against a tray of candles, smashing the wrought iron stand with the impact of his fall. In desperation, he picked up one piece of the sharpened black metal and hurled himself towards the ethereal woman. To his shock, the piece of jagged metal succeeded where bullets had failed, the woman¡¯s skin was pierce and the wound began to smoulder. Without any physical change, her beautiful face suddenly seemed monstrously horrifying to Gurung and he drove his improvised spear again and again into her body until it spontaneously burst into green flames, slowly collapsing into ash.

 04: Dissappearance

    It took Alexander an entire hour to walk back to Whitechapel. He could have been there in twenty minutes on the underground, but he needed some time to clear his head. As he moved through the streets of the City, he saw the crowds parting around him. The dense flow of commuters, which no attack would ever stop, seemed utterly oblivious to him and yet still moved aside as if he were some obstacle. They were aware of him but seemed to be unconsciously ignoring his presence, further proof that he wasn¡¯t invisible. It was strange to move so effortlessly through the crowds. Londoners always seemed to keep pace with each other, and any hapless newcomer to the city would find themselves jostled or overtaken for failing to keep up with the flow, but this was something entirely different, it was as if he no longer existed.


    Soon the monumental skyscrapers of the city began to peter off, and he passed the proud dragons mounted atop plinths that represented the boundary of the City of London. Gradually the tall buildings of new glass and steel gave way to the familiar expanse of brick tenements that was Whitechapel. There was very little transitional space between the two districts, no band of middle-class caf¨¦s to divide the wealthy from the poor. In London, the city¡¯s wealthiest and its poorest often lived and worked a mere stone¡¯s throw from each other, cooperating in an uneasy truce. Whitechapel was one such example, having housed the salt of the city for hundreds of years. Whitechapel had a reputation, one its residents took macabre pride in; here was the true East End, home to Jack the Ripper and many other murderers, thieves and scoundrels. Here was the origin of Old King Kray¡¯s empire.


    Alexander could see the people of Whitechapel, those who had jobs, returning from across the city dressed in filthy boiler suits, garish high-vis outfits or cheap suits. Inevitably, their path brought them to the various pie shops that had lined the road, serving London¡¯s staple food of meat pies with mushy peas and the barely palatable, but traditional, jellied eels. Alexander¡¯s eye was drawn to one of these stores, an old favourite of his run by the indomitable Mr Harris. Surprisingly, the window was not filled by a sea of workmen wolfing down greasy pies but by a quiet huddle of men staring up at a quartet of youths each of whom was armed in some way.


    Alexander stared at the four men with open disbelief; everyone in this district paid the Firm protection money, and you¡¯d have to be a fool to either not pay, or to rob someone who was paid up. He moved closer in to the entrance, not worried about being seen, and began to hear the conversation between Mr Harris and the would-be thieves. Mr Harris was a cockney of the old breed whose slang and witticisms were beloved by his regulars. He was obese, with a shaven head and a stained apron, every part the ideal host. After all, who could trust a thin chef?


    ¡®You lads are in a heap of trouble, you know that?¡¯


    Despite being faced by four knife-wielding men, Harris seemed completely at ease. He was leaning against his shelving, and his face held the contemptuous look he gave all his customers.


    ¡®Shut it you fat fuck!¡¯ one of the men, the leader or at least the loudest, shouted as he waved about a machete. ¡®We¡¯re in charge now!¡¯


    ¡®Are you by Jove? I might pay my bit to the firm, but the only boss a¡¯ my shop is me. Now, you don¡¯t look like the King¡¯s men, just a bunch of ginger berks throwing their weight about.¡¯


    ¡®Kray¡¯s dead dumbass, everyone knows that. E1 belongs to us now!¡¯


    A postcode gang. Alexander winced as he heard. Their ilk was ten-a-penny across the entire city, in every borough not held by one of the major gangs. Small wars would develop between people over a single number on their address. They were almost omnipresent, but few dared to raise their heads this close to the centre.


    ¡®People have said that before,¡¯ Harris continued in a low rumbling voice, ¡®you wouldn¡¯t believe how many times I¡¯ve heard talk that he¡¯s been shot or blown up or just died of old age. It¡¯s never true lads, and you¡¯d best ignore talk like that if you want to keep your head.¡¯


    ¡®You fucking threatening us? You fat fucking shite?¡¯


    ¡®Shut up. You touch me and the firm¡¯ll feed you your Hampton.¡¯


    The ganger kicked over an empty table in frustration, and Alexander could see the others tightening their grip on their weapons. This was going south quickly. The diner was full, but most of the men and women were exhausted after a day¡¯s work and were too used to keeping their head down to act. He could see a solitary figure at the back of the room discretely texting under the table. From his garb, Alexander suspected he was with the firm. He wouldn¡¯t move to help the besieged shopkeep, but his boys would retaliate against the gangers. Alexander felt the weight of the sword he had carried, still in its sheath, from Temple before tucking it into his belt and sneaking a cast iron skillet from the kitchen, filled with boiling vegetables. He didn¡¯t really want to kill the idiot kids, but he also didn¡¯t want Harris to die.


    The leader of the gang suddenly dropped to the floor in agony as a load of boiling hot carrots, and the accompanying water, scolded his exposed face. Everyone stood stupefied for a moment as he fell to the floor until a second gang member fell as a cast iron pan, its surface still scolding, collided with his face. They caught a fleeting glimpse of the attacker this time, but were left with little more than an impression of a bloody suit, its tails and tie flowing backwards with the force of its movement. As quickly as it appeared, this figure was gone and many bforgot its presence entirely, left with only the faintest impression of movement.


    Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Harris vaulted over the bar with a grace that seemed impossible for a man of his girth and drove his rolling pin against the third gangster, who was dazed but still standing. The teenager tried to respond, thrusting forwards with his knife, only to be shoved aside by the mysterious figure, losing his footing before being floored by another blow with the pan. The final ganger began to slowly back himself into a corner, clutching his knife as his eyes darted wildly around the room. Once he reached the wall, he slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor.


    ¡®You¡¯re all on your jack now. Piss off, and take your mates with you. That one probably needs the hospital.¡¯


    Harris loomed over the lowly figure, who scrambled to his feet and practically dragged his screaming ¡®leader¡¯ out of the shop, shortly followed by the other two gangers, each of whom was nursing their own burns.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡®I owe you one.¡¯ The old cockney spoke to the thin air, but no response came. He stood in the middle of his shop for a short moment, looking around with wary confusion. Once he moved back behind the counter, he noticed one of his new batch of pies was missing.


    The pie tasted good, Alexander remarked to himself, wherever the meat came from. It was warm and the watery centre hadn¡¯t ruined the crust, making it the perfect companion for the cold evening. He moved further into Whitechapel, stepping off the main rad and into the warren of streets and housing estates that marked the real East End. The streets here were as quiet as London got at the end of the working day, which meant he only shared the pavement with a few dozen others. This was his home, and he had grown up amongst these dilapidated estates, built in a rush in the thirties to meet the demands of a rapidly growing city. Still, for all its decay, he wouldn¡¯t have traded it for anything in the world. This was home.


    He finished up the pie, and was looking for a place to store it when three armoured cars rounded the corner, escorting a transit van done up in the livery of the metropolitan police and only ¡®armoured¡¯ by a mesh cage over the front windscreen. The force was hardly necessary in this part of the city, Kray had a policy of not pissing off the military, but isolated soldiers or officers were still considered fair game by some of the less scrupulous criminals, and their guns and ammunition proved a tempting target for the black-marketeers. Therefore, no member of the security forces ever travelled alone and every effort was made to rescue lost personnel. The glory days of old, when citizens would share a pleasant chat with the bobbies on the beat, had ended on the fifth of November, two years ago, and it didn¡¯t look like they¡¯d return anytime soon.


    Gradually his path brought him farther north, away from the more settled areas around the river. This area of the city was built around a network of old high streets, with housing in between. Alexander crossed several of these streets, and ducked through innumerable estates. Most people would follow the broad avenues around the jumbled housing, but Alexander no longer had to fear the random mugger and even before he had never been overly afraid of the gangs. This part of London produced tough men and fierce women, and there were few children of Whitechapel who couldn¡¯t hold their own in a fight. With only a slight change in circumstance, Alexander could have ended up like those kids in the pie shop. Many of his childhood friends had gone that way, or found less-than-legal employment in other areas.


    There was a shop in this part of the city that sold DIY supplies to the residents of Whitechapel, fireworks to their kids and electronics to everyone. Alexander paused outside its large glass windows, the glow of innumerable lightbulbs emanating out onto the dark street and illuminating the lone figure. This was the Laszewski Electronics shop, owned and operated by Andrzej Laszewski, Alexander¡¯s father. He could see him now, a wiry man with close cropped hair that was now more grey than black. He was stood behind the till, running a long series of numbers through an electronic calculator before jotting them down in his ledger. His expression was relaxed; this was a ritual he did every day and would continue doing until the day he retired. Alexander pressed his hand against the glass and stared at his father. The man had doubtless forgotten about him, just as Nathaniel Smyth had. And, just like the gunwoman and the gangers, he would forget about him again the moment Alexander stopped touching him. He couldn¡¯t do that to his father, he couldn¡¯t have him deal with the anguish of forgetting who his son was again and again and again. He left the shop alone, and walked off into the darkness.


    His own apartment was a few hundred metres away from his father¡¯s, from the home he had grown up in, but he had made an effort to make it his own. It lay atop a four-story building of similarly built apartments and, though it was on the highest floor, only offered the barest view of the London skyline. His keys dropped into their bowl with a jangle, as he did up the bolts of his door. With the rest of the city shut out, he stripped off his bloodstained clothing and stepped into his tiny shower. The act of scrubbing the blood off his face and hands persuaded Alexander that the events of the last day were more than some fever dream, or the imagination of a man dying of gunshot wounds and when he stepped into the bathroom, he saw the same face reflected back at him from the mirror. At least he could remember who he was.


    Once dried, and covered in a dressing gown, he sank into his plush leather sofa before switching on the television. The news was, unsurprisingly, focused on the Temple massacre, as the incident had been dubbed. The reporters had moved past reporting the facts and were now in idle speculation. None of the usual suspects had come forward to claim responsibility, apart from the most fringe groups who regularly claimed responsibility for random muggings, and analysts and experts were appearing in droves, each offering wildly differing theories as to the attackers responsible. There was even a few aerial shots of the scene, from before the RAF had cleared the airspace, and Alexander noted what looked like a grey smear on the lens, hovering above what was unmistakably his office. He cast his mind back to the indistinct figure he had seen flying over the rooftops, but to his frustration he was unable to recall anything about her.


    As the news moved on from the attack to cover incidents in the wider Commonwealth and the rest of the world Alexander tuned out, instead reaching over to his tattered suit jacket to pull something out of the pockets. There had been enough dead or unconscious gunmen about the place for him to pocket one of their weapons, and he stared at the stocky pistol with a familiar sense of dread. He was not unfamiliar with the weapon, national service having schooled him in their use, but he was unsure of what to do with it. His path ahead seemed clear enough, there were only a few employers who would value someone they can¡¯t even see, but there was still a choice to be made. Any of the petty powers in this city would employ him in a heartbeat, he would be the perfect hitman, able to strike at any target without being seen.


    He shifted position on the sofa until he was staring out over the city. Above the rooftops of the neighbouring apartments he could see the skyscrapers of the city itself, gleaming white lights that outshone even the stars themselves. He though back to his father, and of the photograph of a man in a blue uniform that hung behind the counter of the little shop, and another on his own wall. His father held in him a fierce pride that had often caused him to rub up against the Firm¡¯s management in this area, but he held enough sway in the Polish community to be permitted the occasional outburst. His father had seen him through law school precisely so that he didn¡¯t end up on some petty tyrant¡¯s payroll, and he wasn¡¯t about to abandon his principles.


    That narrowed his options. He could try it alone, become a vigilante or sign on with the mercenary Thief-Takers. He would earn enough to live independently, and he would be working of not within the letter of the law, then at least somewhere near. But the Thief-Takers were as corrupt as they come, and were subject to regular crackdowns by the government. He could go it alone, but a vigilante couldn¡¯t live within his own means and they would always work alone. What Alexander craved right now, more than anything else, was human contact. It was unfortunate that was the one thing his new abilities denied him. He would give anything to be able to go down to his father¡¯s store and talk out his dilemma with the old man, but he couldn¡¯t put him through that pain.


    It was through this tangent that his mind shifted to thoughts of an incident that had happened during his escape from Temple. That Runner, Morgan the Fay, had seemed to see him. It might have been mere illusion or a trick of the light, but she had looked right at him as if she was aware of his presence. Perhaps there was truth to the rumours that she could see the dead, or at least that she saw more than others. It was a faint hope, but it was better than nothing. It wasn¡¯t like she would even be that hard to find, after all he knew where she worked.

 05: Dissappearance

    Not even the near-collapse of the Union could drive holidaymakers from the streets of London. The city had always drawn visitors from the world over, and they still frequented the more orderly parts of the capital. Oxford Street still rang with the bustle of consumers, whilst the Strand and the Mall continued to draw crowds of gawkers, come to pay tribute to Admiral Nelson or take a walk along the Mall. The Tower sat on the edge of the ¡®secure¡¯ part of the city, but it still drew in tens of thousands of visitors each day. Their routes were more restricted, the White Tower having been given over to the City¡¯s defence, and to enter the castle they had to navigate a checkpoint of metal detectors and armed police officers. They came to see the Tower¡¯s main attraction, the Crown Jewels of innumerable Kings and Queens, but more and more preferred to turn their eyes skyward and hope for a glimpse of the city¡¯s defenders.


    Alexander had expected to navigate his way through these teeming crowds, but as the Tower loomed above him, he was struck by just how empty it seemed. The perimeter had been expanded by the army, and unformed soldiers patrolled the walls in greater numbers than he had ever seen. A steady stream of tourists were turned away from the entrance by exasperated officers, and the well-wishers of the world were limited to gazing at the tower from behind its moat. A steady stream of vehicles in Army green or Police white passed in and out of the new perimeter, and helicopters circled overhead.


    None of these measures could bar Alexander¡¯s path, as he clambered over the prefabricated fence to avoid the metal detectors. He was still invisible, and he moved through the security forces like a ghost. As he passed by small groups of soldiers and officers, he caught details of their private conversations. The soldiers were in a state of agitation; they had been unnerved by yesterday¡¯s attack, and they were taken aback by the sudden flurry of activity. The tower had remained open throughout worse attacks further out in the city, and the rumour mill spoke of some significant development taking place at the tower.


    Most of this speculation was useless, and Alexander simply accepted many of the theories as the product of the exaggerated game of Chinese whispers that every private soldier played. He moved past these guards, determined to see how far he could take his abilities. The Tower of London had been an impregnable fortress for centuries, and part of Alexander took pleasure in defeating such a fortress. The evidence of this fabled impregnability was clear to see as he walked up the avenue that ran beneath the inner curtain wall. Every wall was manned, and each tower held surface-to-air missile sites. A light tank had been parked atop the hill, and the small road thronged with armed figures.


    His ghostly walk brought him past a small jetty, built behind an imposing gatehouse that sat over a water gate. The heavy wooden doors were locked and secured by modern metals, but Alexander was drawn to it nevertheless. This was Traitor¡¯s Gate, where the enemies of the Kingdom were brought when they passed into the Tower. Innumerable traitors had passed through this gate, but the historical significance mattered little to Alexander. For a hundred years the road that ran along the river had blocked access to the tower but, in the orgy of bloodshed that followed the Gunpowder Plot, the road had been blasted so that a final captive could be brought through the notorious archway. Fawkes had been borne through Traitor¡¯s gate by a police launch, dragged to the base of the White Tower, and summarily executed by a firing squad. No Londoner who visited the Tower could pass this spot without being moved.


    It took the rumble of a truck to bring Alexander out of his reverie, and he quickly stepped aside to avoid the tons of metal that drove past him on his way out. He was fairly confident that the driver would stop, but that wasn¡¯t something he wanted to check. As he turned to continue his ascent, he caught a glimpse of the truck¡¯s cargo; two rows of soldiers sitting on benches, their rifles gripped in their hands. With a last slip past a final checkpoint, Alexander stepped out into the Tower¡¯s main courtyard, the White Tower looming overhead.


    This was the home to London¡¯s defenders, human and superhuman, a central hub in a fortified position that can project power across the entire metropolitan area. The various police forces and army brigades each maintained their own, smaller, fortresses and headquarters but it was here that General MacAllister set up his headquarters, and it was here that all the disparate agencies and organisations coordinated their efforts into a cohesive strategy. Amidst the chaos of the Gunpowder Plot, the stone walls of the tower provided shelter to the desperate defenders of the city. It was here that a rag-tag collection of military forces, superhero teams, police officers and civilian volunteers had formed to push back against the roving bands of anarchists and traitors. The Tower of London had been the centre of that desperate resistance, and so it stayed the centre of the City¡¯s defence.


    At present the entrance to the tower was guarded by two Yeoman Warders in their black and red uniforms, aided by a small group from the Military Provost Guards Service. Normally their job would be to turn back overeager tourists, and watch the crowds for threats, but the crowds had gone, and instead the Tower¡¯s guards stood in idle conversation as Alexander skirted past them. Inside, the walls of the White Tower retained their original fixtures, interspersed with obviously modern computers and displays. Offices had been built in and around the rooms of the Old Tower, but a quick glance at the new-looking lift revealed that an additional eight floors had been built beneath the building. It seems that William the Conqueror¡¯s keep was little more than a distraction, while the real fortress lay underground.


    Alexander did not take the lift, he feared that people would notice if it began to move of its own volition, instead heading down the flight of stairs, conveniently marked so as to comply with fire safety regulations. The under-fortress, for want of a better name, was built like bunker should be, with bare concrete walls, pipes and wires running along the ceiling, and long rows of steel doors. Officers in crisp khaki, white and black Police uniforms or the blue of the Royal Air Force moved in and out of these rooms and as they passed each door Alexander saw banks of advanced machinery, holographic displays and great maps of the city illuminated with troop movements. The under-fortress had the familiar bustling sounds of a busy office, reminding Alexander of simpler times.


    On the lowest floor Alexander found a short exit tunnel that led to a concealed underground station, marked with the distinctive red and blue roundel of the tube. As he watched, an underground train two cars long pulled into the station, and a cluster of figures left the opening doors. Unlike the occupants of the tower, most of these figures wore suits. Only two of them wore uniforms, and both were known to Alexander. The first, a short woman whose black uniform bore red check and gold trimmings, was Angela Scanton, Commissioner of the City of London Police while the second, a man of average height in the uniform of the Metroplolitan Police, was Sir Andrew Lanfield, commissioner of that force.


    As before, this crowd simply flowed around Alexander as if he wasn¡¯t there and he turned himself to follow them. It wasn¡¯t everyday that someone got a chance to eavesdrop on two of the city¡¯s most powerful figures, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. The gaggle of senior officials moved through the under-fortress as the bunker¡¯s staff pressed themselves against the walls to make way. The uniformed soldiers offered salutes to the two police officers, who responded with a half-hearted effort that spoke of their inexperience with martial traditions. Eventually they filed into a large conference room in which a suited man with thinning grey hair was already sitting. He was unknown to Alexander, but he rose to greet the two police chiefs with a friendly handshake. Once the group was seated, the stocky Scottish figure of General Macalister strode into the room, the seated dignitaries rising as he entered.


    ¡®Sit back down, this isn¡¯t the time for formality.¡¯


    His accent was thick and, as he spoke, he took his seat at the head of the table. An aide moved around the room, giving each seated person a small folder of assorted papers. Alexander positioned himself over the City¡¯s Commissioner¡¯s shoulder, reading his notes without fear of being noticed.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡®It should be blindingly obvious why you¡¯re all here. Someone¡¯s played us for fools, and I don¡¯t intend to let them get away with it.¡¯


    The folders were opened to reveal photographs of familiar faces. Bodies scattered across the floor of a London law firm, each a friend and colleague.


    ¡®What you may not know,¡¯ the General continued, ¡®is that this attack was matched by simultaneous attacks in Lisbon, Dublin, New York and Chicago.¡¯


    ¡®That rules out the RIRA.¡¯ Lanfield spoke up, his hand stroking his chin in contemplation.


    ¡®Exactly. GCHQ intercepted a communication between their leadership and the Irish government disavowing responsibility. The American ambassador has told us they¡¯ve received a similar message.¡¯


    ¡®Then why the green uniforms?¡¯ Scanton questioned, ¡®Why the shouts of T¨ªr na n¨®g?¡¯


    ¡®Unknown at this time,¡¯ One of the suits, a weaselly man unknown to both Alexander and, apparently, the others as well.


    ¡®Might I introduce the esteemed representative of the Security Service.¡¯ Macalister interrupted.


    This agent of MI5 didn¡¯t introduce himself, instead opening his folder to a report marked Top Secret.


    ¡®You each have a copy of our preliminary background investigation. Of the bodies found, only four were known to us as risks. One Islamist, two Anarchists and a member of the British Union of Fascists. The remainder were a seemingly random collection of citizens. Many gang affiliations, but that¡¯s the rule rather than the exception nowadays. Our current working theory is mind control.¡¯


    Instantly the mood changed as the assembled experts groaned or quietly swore under their breath.


    ¡®The testimony of the SAS strike team supports the presence of a superhuman threat. A grey skinned woman who flew across the battlefield and dissolved into ash when killed. According to the commandos, she was immune to gunfire but dissolved into ash when stabbed with a length of broken metal.¡¯


    This last statement was delivered with a touch of sarcasm, and Macalister immediately spoke up.


    ¡®The testimony of my soldiers is beyond question, officer. These men are not prone to exaggeration.¡¯


    ¡®As you say sir,¡¯ the agent spoke, though he did not sound reproached, ¡®but if this new villain does have telepathic abilities then they could have been influenced to see their bullets having no effect. What concerns me, however, is the report from our Belfast office, and intelligence shared by the FBI, that their attacks were also led by a grey skinned, ethereal figure. The attacker in Lisbon was male, but exhibited exactly the same abilities as our woman and the two attackers in America.¡¯


    His words were met with silence, until it was broken by the man who had been seated in the room from the start.


    ¡®Someone¡¯s finally done it.¡¯ His voice was soft, but his tone was grave. ¡®Someone¡¯s figured out how to mass produce them.¡¯


    ¡®Are you sure, Director? It could be a family with similar abilities.¡¯ Lanfield interrupted the mysterious figure, who only scoffed in response.


    ¡®There¡¯s no genetic component to their abilities. The idea that powers can be inherited hasn¡¯t been corroborated, and for four people to manifest exactly the same symptoms is statistically impossible.¡¯


    ¡®It¡¯s worse than that,¡¯ the agent interrupted, ¡®these four were essentially suicide bombers. They went in and caused as much damage as they could before they died. Whoever sent them clearly saw them as expendable, which means they have more. A great deal more. It¡¯s too early to speculate as to who¡¯s pulling the strings, but my organisation intends to find out and we¡¯re running through the list of usual suspects, while the SIS does the same overseas.¡¯


    ¡®You think it¡¯s the Warsaw Pact?¡¯ Macalister butted in.


    ¡®Too early to tell, sir.


    Macalister sat in silence for a moment, surveying the assembled professionals, before speaking again.


    ¡®This is bad, ladies and gentlemen. This attack took place on our doorstep, in the heart of the city. The Lord Protector himself has charged us with clearing this mess up before 2016. He wants the return of Parliamentary Government, and I agree with him. It isn¡¯t natural for the army to be deployed on British streets, and it isn¡¯t acceptable for us to expect the Commonwealth to pick up our NATO missions indefinitely. I don¡¯t belong here, and the sooner I can return to some forest in West Germany the better.¡¯


    ¡®Attacks like this make a mockery of our efforts, and they only delay my departure. The people will expect action, but we don¡¯t even know who our enemy is.¡¯ He turned to the two police commissioners. ¡®Step up aerial patrols, beg the RAF for surveillance squadrons if you need to. We need to be able to react in an instant if this happens again. I will be tasking my division with increasing our patrols into the hostile areas.¡¯


    The MI5 agent was now fixed in a steely glare. ¡®We¡¯ll knock over a few gangs, that should tide people over while your organisation finds out who¡¯s responsible. Director Fielding, I have asked the Knights of the Round Table to deploy to the city. Coordinate your team¡¯s efforts with theirs or at least stop them getting into pointless pissing matches. I don¡¯t need to remind you of what we risk if we fail. Dismissed.¡¯


    People rose from the conference table, breaking apart into small pairs or clusters, before heading out into the bunker¡¯s corridors. Most made for the secret underground station but Director Fielding, who Alexander presumed must be the handler assigned to the Bow Street Runners, made his way up to some of the higher floors. Alexander chose to follow him, out of curiosity and practicality. The lift brought the director and his unseen stalker to the sixth floor and as the director made a beeline for his office, Alexander chose to simply wander the halls. This section of the under-fortress was not as neat as the other levels, the military uniformity having been replaced by a collection of randomly sized rooms ranging from small sleeping quarters to an immense hall that must have carved chunks of the fourth and fifth floors.


    Inside this hall, at the end of a makeshift firing range, had been placed a few slabs of concrete, wood and pig carcasses hung from hooks. The recognisable ragged form of the Plague Doctor stood ten metres back from these targets. His trademark mask rested on a table to his side that was littered with dozens of vials of strange liquids. Alexander watched unseen as he took up one vial and hurled it at the concrete. As the glass shattered, the concrete disintegrated in a titanic explosion that scattered chunks against the far wall. He repeated this process with dozens of vials that burst, burned or melted the targets. Some worked only on concrete, whilst others melted the wood but left the carcass intact. One horrifying concoction melted the carcass in an instant, and with an approving look in his eyes the Plague Doctor jotted a few notes in a leather-bound notebook before continuing.


    In another room he saw the Raven running along a treadmill. He only recognised the man because, like many of the Runners, he wore no mask. His renaissance garb was gone, replaced by garishly coloured fluorescent sports shorts, and a t-shirt that bore some pithy joke. In another corner Feirefiz was lifting weights, his crystalline armour bulging and flexing like muscles as he raised a staggering amount of metal over his head. Alexander felt rather invasive, and a little intimidated, and he left the two demigods to their exercise.


    Much of the remaining rooms were empty, save a few accommodation blocks and what was, if the smell was any judge, obviously Plague Doctor¡¯s laboratory. The sixth floor was not what he had expected from the home of a Superhero team. There was none of the advanced technology or sleek white walls that dominated television shows. Indeed, these walls were made of the same rough concrete as the rest of the under-fortress. It must have been built in a rush after the Gunpowder Plot, when the Runner¡¯s became another arm of the security forces.


    His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar woman rounded the corner, dressed in a far more modest hoodie and leggings. Morgan the Fay stopped in her tracks as she saw Alexander, and his heart leapt when he realised that she could see him. They stared at each other in awkward silence, neither willing to be the first to speak, until Morgan offered a few hesitant words.


    ¡®Are you alive?¡¯

 06: Dissappearance

    ¡°What kind of fucking question is that?¡±


    Alexander gave the superheroine an incredulous look, only to take a step back as an ethereal mist began to coalesce behind her. Her face twisted from shock into rage, the mist flowed along the corridor towards him. It may have been terror, but Alexander felt the ambient temperature plummet. He began to back away, looking the woman in the eye as he did like she was some predatory animal.


    ¡°One that demands an answer.¡±


    Alexander began to feel something sucking the strength out of him, as if his very soul was being pulled away. He began to feel faint, and the mere effort of standing became almost unbearable. He was barely able to stammer out a response, but he refused to give in.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m bloody well alive.¡±


    He paused, and looked sheepishly at the ground for a moment of deep reflection.


    ¡°I think¡­¡±


    ¡°You think?¡± she was incredulous and folded her arms in a gesture of contempt, ¡°either you know or you don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Look, you¡¯re the first person who¡¯s been able to see me since yesterday. For all I know I might be a bloody ghost.¡±


    He slammed his fist against the wall, letting out the frustration that had been building up since the loss of Temple. To his irritation, Morgan the Fay simply scoffed at him as she withdrew whatever hold she had on his soul. The mist did not return to its creator, but seemed instead to fade and dissipate until it vanished entirely. Life flowed back into him, and feeling returned to his extremities. It was as if the altercation had never happened.


    ¡°Well, your fist didn¡¯t pass through the wall. That¡¯s usually a good sign.¡± Recognition dawned in her eyes. ¡°You were at Temple, weren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, got chased onto the roof by gunmen, only for them to act like I wasn¡¯t there. I guess I wasn¡¯t, because no one has been able to see me since.¡±


    ¡°Except for me.¡±


    ¡°I thought you could see me back there so I came here hoping I hadn¡¯t made it up.¡±


    The confession sounded stupid now that he said it out loud. He had come here, to this place, on a whim. In the vain hope that he wasn¡¯t alone. It was a sheer miracle that his efforts hadn¡¯t been in vain. Morgan the Fay looked up at the ceiling, as if drawing attention to the layers of steel and hundreds of soldiers that divided them from the rest of the city.


    ¡°You are sure you¡¯re not dead?¡± she quickly spoke again as an angry countenance fell upon his face, ¡°What I mean is, I see ghosts. Souls. If only I can see you¡­¡±


    She left the statement unfinished, and the young man fell deep into thought. He thought back to the rooftop, replaying the memory over and over. Had he died? Only the memory of a dying man brought him back to his senses.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s not entirely true. Others can see me, if I¡¯m touching them, but they forget I ever existed when I let go.¡±


    ¡°Show me,¡± she said, walking off as if she expected him to follow. They made their way back through the concrete corridors, Alexander following at her heels. Her pace was fast, and even with his advantage in height he struggled to keep up. It seemed that she abandoned her pretence of grace when not in costume.


    ¡°You¡¯re being awfully helpful,¡± he told the heroine, frankly glad for any conversation after an entire day of silence. She didn¡¯t stop, instead speaking over her shoulder to him.


    ¡°This is probably the most fortified place in the country, and you walked in here like a damn tourist. No-one can track you except for me, and everyone thinks I¡¯m mad anyway. You could walk out of here, head straight to Horse Guards, and kill the Lord Protector, and no-one would be able to do anything to stop you.¡±


    She led him into the great hall, before calling Plague Doctor over with a shout.


    ¡°Doc! Need to check something, you game?¡±


    Alexander was shocked at the difference between the casual, laid back woman and the ethereal witch who stalked the streets of London. Plague Doctor took it in his stride, however, and looked up from whatever foul concoction he had been mixing to fix, fixing her with a piercing stare even through his max.


    ¡°It¡¯ll only take a second,¡± she pleaded, ¡°promise.¡±


    He sighed, a good natured sound muffled ever so slightly by the mask. To Alexander¡¯s relief, he fixed the foul vial shut with a cork stopper and set it down next to the others.


    ¡°What is it, Rose?¡±


    She turned to Alexander, and he saw the callous witch in her smile.


    ¡°Grab him.¡±


    He moved, even as the unfortunate bystander looked around in confusion. The moment he touched Plague Doctor¡¯s arm, the man¡¯s eyes lit up in shock. There was none of the hesitation and surprise he had seen in the eyes of the gangers in the pie shop. Instead, within moments the superhero had driven an elbow into Alexander¡¯s throat, and knocked him to the ground. As he lay there, pinned, the hero reached to his belt and pulled out a narrow vial of blood red liquid, holding it with deliberate menace. He flicked off the cork with a finger, and a foul smell emanated from the all-to-fragile glass.


    ¡°How did you get in here?¡± he asked, his tone one of complete seriousness, until he heard the echoing laughter coming from his teammate.


    ¡°Rose. Tell me what¡¯s going on.¡± The slightest hint of confusion was beginning to creep into his voice.


    ¡°This is¡­¡± she paused for a moment, looking down at the two figures.


    ¡°Alexander.¡± He helpfully provided, as air began to slowly flow back through his windpipe.


    ¡°Thanks. This is Alexander. He¡¯s invisible unless he¡¯s touching someone.¡±


    Plague Doctor stood, perhaps motivated by curiosity, and the moment he did, his eyes glazed over and he looked around in confusion. Morgan the Fay, Rose, grinned even harder at that.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°Rose,¡± he seemed to regain control of his faculties, ¡°was there something you wanted?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, Doc. Just wandering.¡±


    The hero looked at her in confusion and concern before going back to the vials of dangerous liquid. She left the room and Alexander, not having many other options at this point, followed. Soon they were both seated on a comfortable sofa in a small break room. An admirable effort had been put in to making the room feel homey, with paintings and carpets covering the concrete walls and floor. There was a television, a kitchenette and a kettle, which Alexander immediately made use of. Tea cleared his head, and he found himself sinking into the sofa as the tensions and worries that had been gnawing at him began to fade away.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re dead,¡± Morgan began, drawing him back into the real world, ¡°just half dead.¡±


    He chuckled at that. ¡°Half dead? You can¡¯t be half dead. And what¡¯s all this talk of souls anyway? It hardly seems very rational.¡±


    A cushion stuck him in the face.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you start with that as well. What does reason matter now? We live in the age of flying men, and super science. And the less said about Red Dragon the better. Reason¡¯s dead; we live in Wonderland now.¡±


    The heroine was putting on a brave face, treating his words as a joke, but he had clearly touched a nerve. He went back over their conversation, until he grasped a statement he had let go unquestioned.


    ¡°So, when you say you see ghosts¡­¡±


    ¡°I see ghosts, Alex,¡± she emphasised the word, ¡°that¡¯s my power. I draw upon them to create my mist and I can incite them to attack people in it. Everyone else thinks I¡¯m mad, that I¡¯m just rationalising my power, but I know better. I spent a lot of time in Bedlam, I had been quite,¡± she paused for a moment, choosing her words with care, ¡°unsettled when my power first emerged, and I needed professional help. What got me through wasn¡¯t convincing myself that they were delusions, but accepting that they were real. When I look at you, it¡¯s like I¡¯m looking at a ghost. The only difference is you look back.¡±


    ¡°I take it the others don¡¯t agree.¡±


    ¡°Most people in, organisations like ours, think I¡¯ve been cured, that I moved away from my delusions. The Runners know differently, of course, but they treat me differently because of it. They care, don¡¯t get me wrong, and they¡¯re great people, but I can¡¯t help but feel like they¡¯re always walking on eggshells around me, which is why I didn¡¯t tell Doc about you.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Alexander chuckled in spite of himself, ¡°don¡¯t think he would have accepted the idea of an invisible man following you around.¡±


    She laughed again, and Alexander realised that she was getting as much catharsis from this talk as he was. They sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the plush sofa and rich Persian rugs. It was nice, he remarked to himself, to stop moving and just relax. In time, however, the real world inevitably returns.


    ¡°So,¡± Morgan was hesitant, as if she didn¡¯t want to break the peace, ¡°what are you going to do now?¡±


    That was the question, wasn¡¯t it? He stared off into space as he tried to tie together the jumbling thoughts that had assailed his mind since the attack on Temple, finishing the thoughts that had begun to form in his flat.


    ¡°No bloody idea. My work is in ruins, and I can¡¯t exactly go looking for a new job. Home¡¯s in Kray territory, but I don¡¯t like the idea of working for a gang.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± she spoke slowly, as if explaining the obvious to a child, ¡°you could always try your hand at heroism.¡±


    He smirked, and turned from his musings to look at her.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d never offer.¡±


    ¡°I was waiting for you to ask.¡±


    They laughed again, how he had missed that sensation. Again they chose to sit in silence, simply enjoying the moment.


    ¡°So, what now?¡±


    Her face became stony and professional, and his own mood shifted to match.


    ¡°Now you have to persuade the Director¡±


    Director Gregory Fielding sat at his desk on the sixth floor of the under-fortress. His office was spartan, as was the rest of the bunker complex, but an effort had been made to make it more comfortable. The concrete floor had been covered by rugs imported from Pakistan, while the desk behind which he sat was an antique carved from ancient oak. Behind his imposing high-backed chair hung a portrait of Henry Fielding, the satirist-turned-magistrate who had set up the first Bow Street Runners, and laid the groundwork for the city¡¯s future police forces. The Director kept that portrait to remind everyone who entered the room of the illustrious pedigree of the runners, and of the unquestionable moral character of their founder.


    He was new to the runners, a government watchdog tacked on after the Gunpowder Plot, but he was determined not to be a poor manager. Over the years, he had earned the respect of the team and the government, managing to balance fighting for his corner with curbing the excesses that superhero teams can easily fall into. The result was an impeccable reputation as an honourable, if stern, man who cared about his work and never did things by halves. When the commander of the city¡¯s defence asked him to prepare for the arrival of the Round Table, he threw himself into the necessary work. Within minutes of leaving the meeting, he had concluded a phone call with his counterpart in the Round Table that defined the jurisdictions in such a way that ensured his team remained preeminent.


    Now he was pouring through the paperwork associated with his job, both recording the actions of his team and keeping a watchful eye on the unaligned heroes that ran rampant throughout the city. His in-tray was always increasing, but he worked through the forms and references with a near mechanical efficiency. It was as he was sorting through these forms that he spotted a piece of paper on his desk. He had not put it there, and it had not come from his trays. He gingerly placed the form he had collected back into the pile, before leaning over the note.


    The message was absurd, it claimed to be from a newly awakened superhuman who had simply walked into the most secure place in the country. It was ridiculous, except it¡¯s mere existence rendered it undeniably true. The Director slid open a draw on his desk, reaching for his pistol, before his arm was gripped in a firm grasp.


    It was as if a shadow fell from his eyes, and he could see a young man standing over him wearing a neatly ironed shirt and suit trousers. The door to his office clicked open, and Morgan the Fay walked in, her black hair not flowing behind her, as it did when she was in costume, but tied back into a ponytail.


    ¡°I figured you should see him, boss.¡±


    One did not get the job of managing the city¡¯s flagship superhero team without being adaptable, and Fielding simply looked up at the intruder with an assessing glare.


    ¡°I would appreciate it, young man, if you let go of my arm.¡±


    When the stranger didn¡¯t move, he reached out with his left arm in an attempt to grab his keys. Anything could be a weapon, if used correctly.


    ¡°I would, sir,¡± the stranger began, ¡°but the moment I do you will forget I even exist.¡±


    He turned his head to Morgan, inclining it slightly in question. She may be slightly unhinged, but she had always proven a reliable judge of character.


    ¡°I¡¯ve verified it on Plague Doctor. The moment you let go, you won¡¯t remember a thing about him.¡±


    ¡°Then it appears we have a problem. I assume you want to join, yes? Then I can¡¯t exactly forget you exist, and you can¡¯t cling to me like a child all the time. Move your hand to my shoulder.¡±


    The stranger complied, sliding his hand up Fielding¡¯s arm, and the director privately remarked that he was lucky this cape was reasonable. He took up a fountain pen, and began scrawling onto the note, adding around a paragraph of information before giving it his signature, date of birth and naming the last present he had given to his wife. He clicked the lid back onto his pen and set it down neatly with the others, before brushing the strangers hand off his shoulder.


    The Director looked around in confusion before noticing Morgan the Fay.


    ¡°Rose, can I help you?¡±


    She simply walked up to his desk and tapped her finger on a piece of paper. To his credit, the Director didn¡¯t question the information, even as he saw it was written in his own hand, and simply accepted reality as it was presented to him.


    ¡°I see, I assume he¡¯s still here.¡±


    ¡°Standing right beside me, boss.¡± Spoke the only other person in the room.


    Director Fielding simply sighed, and began talking to thin air. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering at how a desk job could possibly lead him to such strange places.

 Interlude: The Old World and the New

    Great sheets of rain filled the streets, flowing through the gutters and raising the height of the canal that ran through the heart of Oxford. Alice Harkness made her way along the footpath that divided the two canals, her body hunched over and the hood of her raincoat drawn up tight around her head. She held a shopping bag close against her stomach, in a futile effort to preserve its contents from the endless downpour. The bag was holding, the cheap plastic barely managing to keep the rain out. In the centre of the canal, with the rain blocking off all sight beyond a few dozen metres, it was easy to forget that she was in one of England¡¯s most famous cities.


    Oxford was not the behemoth that London was, nor was it comparable to the lesser sprawls of Manchester and Newcastle, formed and maintained by endless industry. Oxford had always been a quiet town, content to spend its time in contemplative study. It was a romantic city, with sweeping architecture interspersed with broad avenues, and defined by the quiet parks and quadrangles of its many colleges. It was the ideal English city, the utopia often dreamed of but never reached, and its halls had inspired grand masterpieces, or epic tomes. Its size was not comparable to many major towns, but its architecture and status were what earned it the right to be called a City.


    Of course, none of that was particularly relevant to Alice. She was just a maths teacher in the suburbs of Oxford, bringing home some food for the next week. All she could think of was the driving rain, and the lesser politics that fill all schools. She shuddered as the rain fell faster and faster, great droplets pounding against her worn coat as she began to look around for any sort of shelter. But she couldn¡¯t see, the rain was falling so fast and so hard that she had become surrounded by a wall of water. She twisted and turned as the narrow path that ran between the canals became lost to her. To go forward might mean stepping straight into the waters, but she couldn¡¯t stay in this storm forever. Tentatively, she reached out with her foot and stepped.


    The rain disappeared. It did not stop, or slow or cease. There was no moment of transition when the last few drops hit the earth, it simply vanished. One moment she had been standing at the centre of a maelstrom of water, with the twin canals on either side, the next she stood at the centre of a forest glade, with the sun beating down on her head and no memory of any intervening period. Her clothes and shoes were sodden through from the storm, but they slowly began to dry under the bright sunlight, and the ceaseless pounding of the rain was replaced by gentle birdsong and the sound of distant music.


    Alice was surrounded on all sides by deep, dark forests whose foliage was so dense as to be impenetrable. Before her stretched a narrow woodland path, that parted the forest before twisting and turning so that she could not see its end. Somehow, she felt drawn to this path and set off, her bag of groceries falling unnoticed from her arms. The winding path was not easy, and she regularly had to clamber over tree roots or great bushels of ivy, but she moved through the forest at a steady pace, barely aware of the passage of time.


    It could have taken her minutes or millennia, but eventually Alice emerged into another clearing, this time covered from above by the distant treetops. Great wooden structures dotted this glade, seemingly grown into the trees themselves, and music and riotous laughter could be heard. The path ended here at a massive archway grown under the branches of a sycamore tree. Two men in green uniforms stood on either side of the arch, standing at attention with rifles gripped in their arms. They stamped their feet as Alice passed and the air was filled with the sound of a shrill flute. A girl stepped out from one of the wooden structures, before making her way over to Alice. She looked to be in her mid-teens, and something about her brought up memories of Alice¡¯s better students. She couldn¡¯t make out the girl¡¯s features, her vision had blurred, but she accepted the child¡¯s offered hand as she led Alice through the glade.


    The girl led her towards the music, which began to take shape and form as she approached. It was a beautiful melody, made with voice and flute and harp, and it filled Alice¡¯s mind with thoughts of comfort and contentment. She was brought into a small courtyard, set around an enormous sycamore tree. Three people stood before the trunk, two men playing the instruments and a woman singing, while a group of beautiful creatures lazed on benches or on the grass, enjoying the melody. The seats ringed the great tree, interspersed by incredible statues formed from wood into perfect imitations of the human form. Their skin was grey, and their hair the same green as the forest canopy, but their beauty was greater than any human Alice had known. Her guide led her before this crowd, who looked her up and down with kind eyes.


    ¡°A new friend has come to T¨ªr na n¨®g, brothers and sisters,¡± one spoke to the assembled crowd, ¡°what shall we name it?¡±.


    Alice did not know why, but she felt compelled to bow before these ethereal figures. She spoke, though her voice emerged a muted thing, a far cry from the authoritative tone she used in the classroom.


    ¡°My¡­ My name is Alice.¡±


    One of the creatures giggled to himself, but Alice did not feel that she had been slighted.


    ¡°Now then, my dear, that simply won¡¯t do. Alice is a boring name. We shall give you a new one.¡±


    Alice inwardly agreed, her name was dull and uninteresting. Surely these wonderful people could give her a better one. The faeries raised their voices, as they shouted out dozens of names.


    ¡°Soldier!¡± ¡°Dancer!¡± ¡°Cook!¡± ¡°Singer!¡± ¡°Whore!¡±


    Their leader held up a hand for silence, and his court obeyed. The nameless woman¡¯s eyes began to clear and she saw the figure clearly. He was dressed in armour seemingly formed from tree bark, and wore a crown made of antlers. He was the very embodiment of regal grace, and the nameless woman could think of no finer person to decide her future.


    ¡°Art.¡±


    He did not shout, but his voice cut clear through the noise of the forest, and the sonorous music. It was immediately followed by whoops and cheers from the court, as Art¡¯s mind finally cleared. She saw the girl who had led her here, roots and wooden tendrils weaving through her human skin in constricting shapes. A chain of knotted vines suddenly appeared around her throat and she was hauled to the earth by one of the inhuman creatures, who pulled the girl in close and began caressing her hair like a pet as tears fell down her face.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    One of the faeries rose, gripping her arm in a vice-like grip and walking her over to the edge of the courtyard. The creature¡¯s face, that had seemed so beautiful, now evoked fear and horror with features twisted inhumanly. As she was dragged backwards, she saw the musicians playing on. Their music was discordant and harsh, and the players were fused into the tree. The singer choked slightly on one of the notes, and one of the faeries rose in a storm of rage, slamming the woman¡¯s free hand against the tree and fusing it in place with rapid growths of bark.


    Art looked at the statues, set in concentric rings around the tree, and noticed that they were slightly too realistic, and each was positioned in a fearful grimace. Some were on their knees, arms raised begging to the sky. Others were stood in paralysed horror, clutching their arms to their chest. Each was entirely made of bark, save for human eyes that darted furtively around. Her captor placed her on the next free plinth, before letting go as her feet merged with the tree stump. Art screamed and screamed, her screams merging with the music until they became part of the melody. The bark crept up her body and into her lungs, silencing her. Within moments, Art was frozen with only her eyes left free to show her piteous state to the Unseelie Court, who surrounded her wooden form like connoisseurs, critiquing the final moments of her free existence.


    On a blasted heath in the North of England, a gathering of hooded figures stood in darkness around an ancient ruin. The small rectangle of stone was all that remained of a Roman structure, built in the shadow of an ancient fort. To the East and West stretched Hadrian¡¯s Wall, an ancient bulwark that had protected the old Roman Empire from the horrors that lurked beyond the world¡¯s edge. This was a shrine to Mithras, the soldier¡¯s god, and its empty grounds had been secretly reconsecrated. The hooded figures, rain-slicked ponchos concealing their features from view, did not stand inside the ruin itself, for it was to small to contain their number.


    Anyone foolish enough to get a closer look at these figures would not disconcerting similarities. Each was in the prime of physical fitness, and each wore ponchos of the same olive-green colour. Their legs, visible beneath the slick cloak, were clad in camouflaged trousers, and ended in black boots. Mithras had been brought to Britain from his native Anatolia by the Legions of Rome, and he was still a Soldier¡¯s god.


    The assembled soldiers parted as a great cow was led into the old ruin by another man, made indistinguishable by his hooded poncho. As one, the soldiers began to chant. It was a throaty sound, that failed to carry past the driving rain, but it was worship in the old way. They did not pray quietly, but sung their praises to the heavens so that Mithras might hear them. The priest took up a bowl from atop the ancient altar, filled with rainwater, and poured it on the cow¡¯s head. The beast¡¯s head bowed, an indication of consent, and before its head could be raised again the beast¡¯s throat had been slit by a sharpened knife. As the cow breathed its last, the bloody knife was raised to the heavens and the assembled soldiers let out a wordless shout of praise.


    Mithras had defended the realm from horrors beyond the world¡¯s edge, and now he was called upon to protect these sons of Troy from the horrors of the modern world.


    The sun shone bright upon the quiet town of Dorchester-on-Thames, nestled amidst the foothills of Oxfordshire. It was a quiet town, with no industry to speak of and an ageing population, but it was beautiful all the same. Arthur Maxwell ran through the centre of the small town, dressed in shorts and a florescent t-shirt. He liked running, enjoyed the sense of openness it gave him, and every morning he would rise bright and early to run along the same route. At this early hour, the streets of Dorchester were almost entirely empty and only the occasional passing car gave any indication of life.


    His run brought him through the town and out into the surrounding fields. Two great earthworks rose on either side of him as he ran along the track, forming a great trench covered by grass. These were but one of the many Saxon earthworks that dotted the countryside of Oxfordshire, marking the boundaries of the old Kingdoms that predated England itself. The Kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia once vied for control of these lands, before the two kingdoms were unified in the face of the Norse threat by King Alfred the Great, who was the first to dream of a united England. He died before that dream could be realised, but he laid the groundwork for all the Kings and Queens that followed him.


    His realm was defined by these earthworks, serving as borders and defensive barriers that gave his people free passage through his realm. The trenches lead right to the rivers edge, where they gave way to a small footbridge. As Arthur crossed this bridge, two hills entered his field of view. These were the Wittenham Clumps, named for the small copses of trees that topped each hill. The twin hills stood isolated, surrounded by empty fields all the way to the distant Ridgeway that ringed the Oxfordshire basin. The hills were empty now, but they been occupied since the Bronze age, providing shelter to the ancient tribes of Britain and their Roman successors.


    Arthur made his way to the second hill, Castle Hill, so named because it was ringed by a great earthwork that made it easy to defend, and harder to climb. This early in the morning, the hill was entirely empty and Arthur was able to clamber up to the top without breaking stride. At the top, he paused and looked out at the magnificent vista. All of Oxfordshire and Berkshire was laid bare before him, from the proud steeple of nearby Dorchester Abbey to the imposing smokestacks of Didcot Power Station. It was a view he would never tire of, and he always paused at this point in his run to simply enjoy the magnificent vista.


    Arthur began to feel something tugging at the back of his collar but, when he turned, no-one was to be seen. The pull began again, a seemingly invisible force that drew Arthur towards the copse at the height of Castle Hill. He began to walk into the small cluster of trees, then paused as they seemed to stretch on for a far greater distance than the hill allowed. He turned again, only to be confronted by yet more forest. Strangely, he did not feel disconcerted by the change in scenery, and set off at a gentle walk in the direction of the pull.


    After a few more steps, he emerged into a clearing that contained a vast lake. The water was perfectly flat, and the light had shifted to the glow of dawn. Arthur waited beside this lake, unsure of what to do next, when he began to make out a form beneath the lake. A woman, naked and beautiful, darted around within the clear waters, moving with a dolphin¡¯s grace as she swam. She sank down to the bottom of the lake, and Arthur leapt up out of fear she had drowned only t stop as he saw the glint of metal as the lady brushed aside the sediment.


    She swam closer to the surface, holding a long sword of gleaming metal inlaid with runes and with a magnificent ruby set into the pommel. She waited beneath the surface of the lake for a few tantalising moments before reversing the sword, gripping it by the blade, and lifting it out of the water. When her hand left the water, it lost its radiant colour and became a dull grey. Still beautiful, but somehow lesser. Arthur was filled with an immense sense of conviction and waded into the lake, not caring as his feet became sodden through. He took the sword by the hilt and raised it in both hands to the sky. It gleamed in the sunlight, and its light seemed to fill Arthur¡¯s senses until all he could see was the pure light of day. He heard a voice, carried on the breeze and almost imperceptibly faint.


    ¡°The once and future King.¡±


    A King stood atop Castle Hill, looking over his realm. His feet were sodden through, but he no longer cared. He looked at the blade held bare in his hand, taking in the immense sense of power it gave him. He turned east, and raised the blade to a point in an unspoken gesture of challenge. None answered him, and so he began to descend from the heights to walk the earth once more.