Sentinels: The Sentinels Series, #1

By David Longhorn

A crown. A church. A ship buried underwater for centuries. And the power that awaits…

England in 1940 is marked by blackouts, air raids and the threat of enemy bombs. Yet, in pastoral Duncaster, against the backdrop of awe-inspiring cliffs and a roiling sea, reporter Rachel Rubin fights an adversary more deadly than the Germans: a foe that only she can see, it seems. 

According to legend, King Redwald’s treasure is in Duncaster and is protected by a foul curse. Believing in old folk tales is utter nonsense to the true blue American Rachel … until she starts having disturbing dreams and seeing ghosts! 

As the danger escalates, more chilling events occur. Rachel races against time to discover the truth. She doesn’t know who to trust, but one thing is certain-- the bodies are piling up and Doomsday looms on Duncaster’s watery horizon!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Sep 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536596687

David Longhorn

David Longhorn was born in North East England long before the internet, but fortunately they had plenty of books in those days! He enjoyed reading all sorts of fact and fiction in childhood and also became a huge fan of old horror movies and the BBC’s Ghost Stories for Christmas on television, despite losing a lot of sleep as a result.He went on to get a degree in English Studies, which somehow led him to a career in local government, which in turn took him into a recording studio where he provided voice-overs, read news, and did a lot of other audio stuff. It’s been that kind of life, really – a bit random but quite interesting. All the while he was reading and writing supernatural fiction, influenced by both the classic tales of writers like Ambrose Bierce, M.R. James, and Edgar Allan Poe, but also by modern masters such as Stephen King. He hopes to write a lot more about the world of the dead and undead, assuming they let him...

Book preview

Sentinels

Written by David Longhorn

Edited by Emma Salam and Lance Piao

Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

All rights reserved

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Table of Contents

Prologue: 540 AD

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue: London, August 1940

Bonus Scene: Bombers Moon

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Prologue: 540 AD

The great hall by the North Sea was dark with shadows and the smoke of torches. It was a poor sort of building by the standards of a land that was, mere decades ago, the Roman province of Britannia. But the days of the Caesars were long past, and the hall was the residence of Redwald, one of the dozens of warrior kings who had carved new realms out of the fallen Empire.

The last light of an autumn day leaked in through crude wooden shutters. A row of sturdy poles, still bearing the marks of cut boughs, marked the center line of the hall. There was a swarm of people, a stir of uncertain movement, and the odd whisper. But in the main part of the great hall, all individuals were lost in the mass come to pay homage to their leader. They knew themselves as the Tribe of the Knife; history would come to know them as Anglo-Saxons.

Only on a simple platform at one end of the building could a sharp eye make out any details. In the torchlight, a large man covered by a purple cloak lay on a heap of animal skins. It was almost impossible in the gloom to make out the last traces of red in his hair and beard – the color submerged in gray. King Redwald's eyes were closed, his breathing labored, and his gnarled hands, complete with rings, clasped on his chest. A bronze helmet stood upright by his head; its visor bore a fair likeness of the dying man as he was in his hale middle years. To his right were a battle-worn sword and dagger; to his left lay a round wooden shield with bronze hooks bearing deep gouges.

Two figures knelt at the dying man's feet; no onlooker could fail to note the contrast between them. One was a lank-haired old woman in plain gray robes that had seen better days. The other was a young man, splendidly dressed; his cloak was as blue as a summer sky and pinned at his throat with a golden brooch. A man with a scarred face stepped into the pool of light. His cloak was homespun brown cloth held in place with an iron pin. The long dagger at his belt was as well-worn as his garments.

It is almost time. All preparations are made.

The old woman looked up at Wulfric, the battle-scarred warrior.

It must be done the old way. It is wrong to stray from the ways of our Lord! A young, dark-haired woman took a step into the dim light. A baby was swaddled in a blanket at her breast.

The young woman's accent was so thick that it took a moment for the others to grasp her meaning. The words of the tribe did not sit easily on her tongue. Wulfric turned and gestured her back as one might do to quiet a troublesome pup, but his voice was not unkind.

Redwald married a British king's daughter, my lady, and the alliance it brought us is no small thing. But nothing was ever said about our people wedding your father's faith. We have our ways. We brought them from the old lands. They are strange to you, and cruel perhaps, but they have served us well enough so far.

The young woman could only meet the gaze of the fighting man for a couple of moments. She looked down at her swaddled infant, and mumbled something about witchery and demons before falling silent.

Wulfric turned back and spoke to the young man in the sky-blue cloak.

You will soon be king. Would you know what the Spinners of the Years intend for your dynasty?

The young man looked up and, not for the first time, Wulfric reflected on how closely the boy resembled his father, yet how different they were in character.

Ah well, thought the veteran warrior. Perhaps with time, and the tempering of battle.

What if the prophecy is ... not good?

The young man's voice was as unimpressive as his light downy beard. His eyes were wide, unblinking; he was obviously too afraid and confused. Not yet ready.

The Fates are the Fates, retorted Wulfric. To the old woman he said, Will they come to us?

For a moment, it seemed as if the old woman had not heard the warrior's words. The young man made an impatient gesture, but a firm hand fell on his shoulder.

Give the wise-woman time, said Wulfric. Hild knows the right road to the high places. She has the sight.

As if in response to his last words, the old woman threw back her head as her eyes rolled back into their sockets. In the darkness of the main hall, there was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of a crowd awed. The young man stared into Hild's white orbs in horrified fascination. He had never seen such a thing before, had never really given much thought to the old ways, still less to the old gods. Until now, he'd thought of them as mere words that were chanted before a feast, a battle, or a voyage.

The hand on his shoulder gripped him a little tighter.

Courage always befits a ruler, lad. Especially when he faces the unknown.

The old woman began to sing. Her voice was not very impressive, weakened as it was by more than seventy winters of singing, scolding, and gossip, and by love-talk in youth and wise counsel in age. As the song unfolded, the listeners heard her voice grow stronger. At first, she told the tale of the old lands, of its gods and its heroes, and of the king who now lay dying – the boldest chieftain of all. King Redwald led them in their long ships across the unforgiving sea to these strange isles of the setting sun.

Hild's voice grew stronger still, surer and richer in tone, and for a moment, Wulfric saw the woman's face transformed into that of the beautiful girl he knew as a boy in the old country. It was a boundless moment. The torches flickered at a sudden breeze and then the woman was old again. Her song was telling the story of what will be.

The onlookers sighed in a mixture of wonder and relief as the tale unfolded. They heard that the progeny of the dying king would soon lead their tribe to victory, scattering the Celts in confusion and driving them back as far as the Welsh hills to the west. The richest portion of the land of Britannia would be theirs, with all its great woods and broad rivers, good hunting and good fishing, and room for this tribe to build a splendid kingdom.

Yes! Just as my father said it would be, exclaimed the young man, gripping the scarred man's arm.

Wait, warned Wulfric. The song is not over.

He was right. The old woman sang on, her voice rising and falling in the king's hall, as she told of wonders that baffled and delighted the listening folk. She spoke of a realm greater than that of the fallen Caesars, of the rise of cities whose wealth would disappear, even the legendary Byzantium. She also spoke of fleets challenging untamed seas to carry the banners of great kings to the four corners of the Earth.

Whispers filled the hall. This is a true vision! This is a good telling!

But then the old woman shifted to a minor key, her voice falling so that all whispers were hushed and the gathered people strained to hear her. She had to deliver another message.

All that is needed is one sacrifice, one covenant of blood, to make all these things come to pass.

Her song ended. Hild, the prophetess, descended from the platform and passed through the crowd. She seemed to see no one as the silent people stood aside. Even the bravest was unwilling to even brush against the garment of one so clearly ensorcelled.

Now.

Wulfric broke the silence and signaled to one of the bystanders. An old man stepped onto the platform, holding in his gnarled hands an object that entranced all who saw it. It gleamed in the erratic torchlight, shining with the bewitching luster of precious metal and richly-colored gemstones.

Wulfric laid the shining crown gently on the breast of his lifelong friend, the king. Perhaps the weight of the crown was enough to drive the last breath from the man's body. His breathing grew heavier, then he gave a slight moan and was still.

Wulfric stood and paused for a moment, looking at his fallen lord. He reached down and firmly raised the young prince in the blue cloak to his feet, presenting him to the people. The new king was proclaimed, and hailed by all the warriors.

The old warrior released his new lord and took a step forward.

We have heard the woman speak true of what has been, and speak true of what is to come. The price is one of blood, as is proper for our tribe, the Men of the Knife.

A pause, and silence fell on the assembled people. All waited for the inevitable question.

Who will stand the long watch with me? asked Wulfric, drawing his dagger.

There was a long silence. Then, without a word, one man stepped forward into the light. Another pause, and a second volunteer took the fateful step. Wulfric nodded.

Three is a good number; three is enough to stand guard.

Chapter 1

I'll be lucky to get through this unscathed, she thinks.

The night is starless thanks to a heavy overcast, and the road's completely unlit.

To be fair, they'd probably be unlit in peacetime, too.

But at least in peacetime, she could have used her car's headlights properly; they're rendered near-useless by wartime restrictions. The headlights of her little Morris are masked by blackout covers with slits in them – compulsory in England in 1940.

Rachel Rubin suspects she is lost.

Ideally, someone who gets lost in the English countryside would simply find somewhere to stay in the nearest village. There'd be a quaint old inn of some kind, or perhaps a farm that took in guests. Unfortunately, finding the nearest village, or any form of habitation, isn't easy during wartime. She's approaching a crossroads now, touching a daring fifteen miles-per-hour on this winding English lane.

She stops her sputtering car as she sees a signpost. She takes out her flashlight and shines its feeble beam into the murk. Sure enough, the traditional finger-post sign is useless. All the names have been whitewashed out, supposedly to baffle German invaders. It's frustrating and a bit ludicrous.

As if an SS Panzer regiment wouldn't be able to find its way around without road signs!

But it still brings home to Rachel how close she is to the Nazis. The Second World War is less than a year old and only a narrow strip of water separates England from occupied Europe.

And the enemy could come any day now. Unable to do much about that, Rachel needs to find somewhere to stay for the night.

As she turns a tight corner, she gets a glimpse of a pair of legs in the dim glow of the masked headlights. Rachel heaves the wheel over to avoid the man and nearly ends up in the ditch. She blares her horn without stopping the car.

Johnny Riley swears at the car as it disappears into the gloom.

It's not the first time he's nearly been killed on these dark country roads. Just a year ago, a man didn't run such risks. Now they've got this blackout and all the other wartime regulations. So if they're not nearly running over you, they're demanding to see your papers at checkpoints. He tries to avoid the authorities by going straight across country where possible. And security checks aren't the worst of it; food rationing means that even generous folk have less to give wandering men of the road, like himself.

There are bad times around the corner, Johnny lad, he thinks. But I've got no choice but to KBO. Keep Buggering On, like they did in the trenches in the last war.

He takes a deep breath, gathers his wits, and sets off again, trudging up the winding lane towards his destination. He doesn't need road signs to find his way. This had been his route for years, now, ever since he's been on the road.

As a young man, he'd had a job, a sweetheart, and plans for a decent sort of life. Then had come the First World War, from which Sergeant Johnny Riley