Gallipoli, August 1915
A Simon Greel Adventure
Simon vomited over the side of the skiff as it chugged through the choppy water. His destination was the small minesweeper anchored off the coast of the Gallipoli peninsula that served as the headquarters of the Corps commander. The sloop was limned by the late afternoon sun. A sailor working nearby snickered at the seasick cavalryman.
"I've always gotten seasick. Since I was a young boy," Simon said in his defense. The sailor laughed and shook his head.
"At least it's not as hot out here," Simon said to himself.
It was not just the rolling of the boat that had left Simon's stomach unsettled. It was also the fact that he, a lowly trooper in the yeoman cavalry, had been ordered to appear before the general. It was true that Simon had run afoul of his commander while the brigade had been in Egypt, but there was no reason why the Lieutenant General would concern himself with such a thing. Simon was not walking into a court martial; they would have gone through the proper channels for that.
But there was a possibility that Simon's argument in defense of his actions had made its way up the chain of command.
"Dear God," he said as he leaned over the rail once again; his heaves producing nothing from his empty stomach.
As unbelievable as it had appeared to the colonel, Simon had saved the life of a junior officer who was involved in the trafficking of plundered ancient Egyptian artifacts. The officer had partnered with another young lieutenant, and together they had managed to incur the curse of a long-dead and mummified pharaoh. Simon's previous experiences with supernatural phenomena had given him the knowledge that the only way to lift the curse was for all guilty parties to return the stolen grave goods. In this case, one of the guilty parties had already succumbed to the curse and was a desiccated corpse.
Guards had discovered Simon after he had broken into the burial chamber in the dead of night carrying a bag of treasure and in the company of one dried husk of an officer and one living one, scared out of his wits. Simon was only cleared of wrongdoing due to the insistence of the surviving lieutenant and because a thorough search of Simon's trunk had yielded nothing overly suspicious. Apart from a few seemingly worthless trinkets, the only things that had raised an eyebrow were the letters that Simon kept bundled in his trunk. They were from his sister, Samantha, back home in England.
Simon and Samantha had been small children when they first encountered the kind of dark creature that most people only ever hear about in bedtime stories. Simon had saved his sister, but not before the creature had viciously plucked out one of her eyes. Ever since then, Samantha had learned everything she could about the supernatural, folklore, and the occult. Armed with that knowledge, she and Simon had traveled throughout Britain and the Continent seeking out the dark forces that prey on the innocent. They were a good team; Samantha always knew what they were up against, and Simon was always ready to dismiss his better judgment and rush into the fray.
With the outbreak of the war, Simon had joined the territorial yeomanry. Since shipping off to Egypt, his sister had written him every day. Her letters were full of the esoteric knowledge from the books she pored over all day. They included strange drawings and diagrams and quotations in obscure languages.
"What's the meaning of these?" his captain had asked.
"Letters from my sister. She is of a frail constitution and spends her days reading strange old books. She fancies herself something of an amateur philologist. Twenty-six and unmarried, the poor dear."
Had she been there, Samantha would have rolled her eyes at hearing her brother's description of her. But as it was, his explanation satisfied the brass.
The skiff pulled up alongside the sloop and was made fast by the sailors. Simon was given a hand aboard and was shown to a room to await his interview. Simon checked his wristwatch. A few minutes later the door opened, and he was brought to a larger well-appointed room. The general was there looking over a map that was spread out over the table surrounded by telegrams and hand-written notes. Simon announced himself and saluted crisply.
"Trooper Greel, 4th Mounted Brigade, tell me, are you a native of London?"
"No, sir. Bath."
"And what are you by profession?"
"I have no profession, sir."
"Meaning?"
"I inherited two sizable estates--my sister and I jointly--but I did not complete university and my family has no titles."
"I see. Are you married?"
"No, sir."
"Any other close relatives, apart from this sister?"
"No, sir."
The general's eyes looked off to Simon's right. He turned his head slightly to see another man, whom Simon had not noticed when he entered. The man was clearly a civilian; over sixty years of age with a tidy silver beard and waxed moustache. Despite the heat, he wore a brown wool suit with an overcoat and a bowler hat. There was not a bead of sweat on his face. The man nodded in response to the general's glance.
"Trooper Greel, I have been made aware of your... unique experiences with otherwise inexplicable phenomena. We have before us, here at Gallipoli, a formidable obstacle to surmount, if we are to achieve victory. An obstacle that I believe your particular expertise can help overcome.
"There are members of my staff who think the idea preposterous and would see me relieved of command. They think me credulous and superstitious. What would you say to such men?"
"I would tell them what I tell anyone else: I beg to differ."
The general smiled wanly.
"Here's what we're up against. Our corps are set to make another big push to take the heights and the rest of the peninsula. The Turk is dug in, but we have the numbers and mettle to displace him. But he has something else: a sorcerer."
Simon's eyes widened. He had had dozens of encounters with ghosts, werewolves, curses, witches, even a genie, but those experiences had always been somehow closed off from the wider world. Most of the time, it was only he and Samantha who knew something was amiss. Sometimes not even the victims themselves. Certainly, never a general responsible for the lives of thousands of men. The general continued.
"We believe that a sorcerer is responsible for the current stalemate, and that any large effort to break it will be met with catastrophic loss. They mean to keep us bogged down here, and that warlock or whatever he is allows them to do so with minimal risk to their own troops. Our invasion is to commence tomorrow, despite my objections due to this matter. My only recourse is to do what I can to destroy this threat. We have a good idea where this sorcerer is operating, and I have gathered a team, however hastily, to root him out. I would like you to join the team as a spiritual advisor of sorts. You would help identify any magical pitfalls and find a way to kill the sorcerer before your own comrades begin their assault tomorrow. I understand you spent some time in Istanbul before the war, speak the language, is that right?"
"Yes, sir. I know enough to buy a drink or a wh..." Simon caught himself, "...hotel room. I'm conversant, sir."
"Good, good. So, what say you, trooper? I want volunteers only on the mission. It would be dangerous enough without a warlock at the other end."
Simon did not hesitate.
"It would be an honor, sir."
The general approached and shook his hand.
"Jarvis will show you to the team. He can get you anything you need; anything time will permit, I’m afraid."
Simon saluted.
"Thank you, sir."
***
The silver sliver of moon provided little illumination as the squad rowed their boat to shore.
Simon did not have much experience with meetings for secret missions, but he imagined that the one he had just sat through was shorter than usual. Below deck on the minesweeper, he had been shown maps, photographs, time tables, and equipment. He struggled to absorb all the information, never knowing what small detail would be the difference between returning safely and being left to rot where he fell in a foreign land.
There had been time enough for some of Simon's belongings to be gathered. He had requested the bundle of his sister's letters, a silver dagger, a carved lion's tooth, and a handkerchief full of a powder that he gave strict instructions not be touched.
Most importantly he met his new team: a detachment of Royal Marines. The commanding officer was a young lieutenant, a few years Simon's junior, by the name of Selby. Selby hailed from Newcastle. He was tall and on the youthfully slender side of well-muscled. His hair was sun-bleached and his skin a healthy tan from several months of fighting in the desert.
The most experienced member of the team was Sergeant Blair. The Boer War veteran was as sturdy as a stronghold in his native Scottish march, and he gave the impression that he had seen as much and spoke almost as little as a stronghold's stones.
Three young enlisted men--Cooper, Smith, and Marlbury--rounded out the squad.
The boat scraped against the rocks on the beach, and the squad leapt out with practiced efficiency, quickly running forward to the cover of the broken cliffs looming overhead. Simon struggled to keep up and felt as though his every labored breath was a shout and every footstep a thunderclap. The men checked their weapons and kit, preparing for the next phase of their plan: scaling the treacherous cliffs in the dark with unknown sentries looking for any sign of enemy activity.
Under the cover of a sheltered overhang, the men gathered around Lieutenant Selby who consulted his map.
"Command has identified that ravine, there, as the ideal place to make our ascent. Cooper, you'll go first and set up the rope for the rest of us. We don't know Johnny Turk's positions here, so take your time. Don't need you catching a blighty one."
"Yes, sir," said Cooper with a smile.
"With respect, sir," said Sergeant Blair, "that approach is precisely the kind they would expect to be assaulted. It is sure to be fortified."
Lieutenant Selby frowned in thought, and a look of concern spread across Cooper's face.
Simon spoke up.
"Sir, I think I have something that may help. I just need a forked stick, like a water witch might use."
The sergeant huffed in derision as Simon dug through his satchel and retrieved the stack of Samantha's letters. He thumbed through them until he found the one he was looking for. The letter contained diagrams and descriptions of a particular arcane technique that Simon thought would aid them in their ascent, if it was not just a fiction.
"My stick?" he asked of the men gathered around him.
"Marlbury," said the lieutenant to the junior member of the team, "hop to. See if you can scrounge something up."
Simon looked up at the sergeant.
"Do you have a match?"
"Are you daft? May as well start yelling while you're at it."
"I know what I'm about, Sergeant. Some forbearance would be appreciated."
"Sergeant," said the lieutenant.
Sergeant Blair produced a match and handed it to Simon, who retreated to a sheltered crag and covered himself with his tarpaulin. He lit the match and read the words of the incantation written in the letter. He repeated them over and over during the few seconds of light he had.
Simon emerged from his cocoon to find Marlbury standing there, forked stick in hand. Following his sister's instructions, Simon cut his finger with his bayonet and smeared blood on the end of the stick. He closed his eyes and said the incantation. As the final syllable cleared his lips, Simon felt a strange sensation, like a delicate champagne glass cracking deep in his soul, followed by a rush of cold.
"I think it worked," Simon whispered.
Simon grasped the forked end of the stick with both hands and pointed it up the cliffside. He swept it back and forth, slowly. At first, he felt nothing. But waving it past a particular spot, marked by a bush in his vision, he felt the barest hint of cold. He tested the spot again and experienced the sensation a second time.
"There, sir," Simon said, pointing in the direction of the bush. "There is someone in that direction, but I can't say how far away."
The lieutenant and sergeant conversed a moment in private. Sergeant Blair was objecting but eventually gave way.
"New plan, Cooper. You'll make your climb here. Smith, you too. Knives out, lads."
The men started up the hill and were out of sight within moments. Simon watched and waited, tilting his head and listening for any sound. Minutes passed, then something made the team members on the beach tense with sudden dread. A pained cry, shrill and primal, rolled down the weathered rocks before being muffled. All waited motionless for more shouts or the report of a rifle, but there was nothing. Instead, a rope dropped down the cliff at the original incursion point, its excess coils thumping onto the soft sand in a bundle.
"Let's move," said the lieutenant before sprinting to the rope and pulling himself up the slope. The rest of the men followed.
Simon was the last up the rope. He was in good shape, but was unused to the exertion involved in pulling himself up. He could spend all day in the saddle, but he was clumsy as he climbed and he sent pebbles clattering down behind him.
At the top of the rope, Simon found a low wall of sandbags. A hand reached down. He grabbed it and was pulled roughly over, landing on the ground on the other side.
Simon looked into the dark unblinking eyes of the man lying next to him. Blood pooled under him, still trickling warm from a long clean slit in his throat.
Simon recoiled in shock and opened his mouth to let out an involuntary shout, but before a sound escaped a meaty hand clamped down over his mouth. Sergeant Blair hoisted Simon to his feet, raising a single finger to his own lips. Calming down, Simon took stock of the scene.
The team was crouching in a forward observation post that had recently been manned by a three-man machine-gun crew. All three men lay dead; two, with cleanly slit throats, had evidently been taken by surprise at their post. The third must have been the source of the scream that Simon had heard. He lay a few yards back from the position. He had been stabbed several times mostly in the chest and neck, but his arms had several long red slices in them. Cooper and Smith were unharmed and were posted as lookouts. The machine-gun nest was perched partway down the steep hillside, where it could cover the stretch of beach where the team was to have made their approach, but the terrain was too rocky for the position to be connected to the rear lines via trench. Instead, a narrow track led up the hill, toward the enemy.
Lieutenant Selby gave the signal and started down the trail. The team followed, rifles at the ready. Foot by foot, Simon moved inland, flicking his eyes left and right, looking for the enemy. His heart pounded. Selby signaled a halt and the men got low to the ground. The young officer advanced alone, pistol in hand. He disappeared around an outcropping of boulders. A moment later he shuffled back, head down.
"Encampment ahead. Company strength. Our objective is to the northeast on the other side of the dry lakebed. We need to skirt the camp, head through the brush. Watch for patrols and tripwires."
The team progressed slowly, usually with one man scouting ahead twenty yards at a time: mindful to find a route with adequate concealment. Simon deployed his witching wand, but even with that assistance they nearly stumble into the enemy on two occasions. The first time, Blair came up behind a patrol, and the team lay in silence for more than twenty minutes until he returned to give them the all clear. The second time Smith was on point and nearly fell into a latrine. Fortunately, the wind shifted just in time to give him some warning.
Once they had skirted what they believed to be the bulk of the enemy encampment, they picked up the pace. They were nearly to their destination.
"Do we actually know where this wizard is supposed to be?" asked Smith.
"Somewhere on this hill," replied Sergeant Blair, gesturing to the slope rising before them. "But it's a bloody big hill."
The sergeant turned to Simon.
"Trooper. Anything in your bag of tricks that can find our quarry? What about that wand of yours?"
Simon flushed, but it was too dark for anyone else to notice.
"No, sergeant. I think we're a bit too far away..."
Simon stopped midsentence; his eyes wide.
The rest of the team saw it too.
Rising like a great column holding up the vault of night, a beam of darkness so pure that it was as obvious as any spotlight shot upwards. The source of the beacon was the crest of the hill before them.
"I think we have our location, Sergeant."
The team pressed on toward the source of dark energy. Periodically, it was streaked with otherworldly colors: green, purple, midnight blue. They approached with caution at first, but the hill was unguarded and lacked any other signs of defense that the men had grown accustomed to over the course of the war. No trenches, no wire, no trees or bushes cleared to open the defending field of fire.
They drew closer, the thick brush clinging to their clothes and threatening to betray their presence. At long last the team reached the top of the hill and Simon spied their objective. They lay at the edge of a massive hole dug into the summit of the hill: an archeological dig site.
The pit appeared to be fifty yards wide, centered on the hilltop with a ring of unexcavated earth around it. Like the crater of a volcano. The ring was broken on the far side where a causeway level with the lowest part of the site had been cut to facilitate the removal of tons of earth and rock. In the center of the site were two concentric rings of stones, reminiscent of Stonehenge. Some stones stood upright, but most lay flat on the ground, knocked over by unknown forces centuries ago. Within the inner ring of stones was a circle of burning torches that cast flickering shadows on five robed figures standing evenly spread around a stone altar.
Simon and the marines lay prone on the rim of the crater assessing the scene. For long seconds the figures stood unmoving, the words of their chant muffled by the field of darkness. One of the men, no doubt the enemy sorcerer they were sent to kill as he appeared to be set apart from the other men by the adornment of his robes and the glint of a golden circlet on his forehead, raised his hands to the sky and shouted. With it, the column of energy pulsed, sending out a shockwave more felt than seen.
The wave of the darkness washed over the squad, leaving behind an overwhelming spiritual residue. Simon could feel the darkness seep inside of him. It tugged at the secret dark places of his soul, the places a civilized man keeps buried, but claw closer to the surface in the frenzy of war. Rabies. Mad rage.