The van hurtled through the streets, swerving to avoid the oncoming rush of terrified pedestrians as they fled for their lives, desperately evacuating their homes, trying to get as far from the carnage as possible.
Ahead, the avatar was running, feet rupturing the asphalt with every step, causing Regina to have to steer around the newly formed potholes as she tried to keep up.
Overhead, at least a dozen biplanes were swooping low over the city now, bringing flaming death with every dive, machine guns chattering, engines howling. The Ghost wanted to be up there, ducking and weaving amongst them, blasting them out of the sky—but he knew he was needed elsewhere. Regina was right—they’d have to rely on Albion and the armed forces to defend the city, while they infiltrated the Koscheis’ main base of operations. If they could take that down, there was a chance they could put a stop to the entire invasion.
Someone there had to be pulling the strings. That was their target.
The biplanes were concentrating their fire in the area immediately around St Paul’s. Clearly, the Koscheis were attempting to gain a foothold here, and as the van screeched around another bend, it became apparent that they’d already achieved as much. There were scores of them in the streets, energy flickering around them as they blasted buildings—and civilians—with their unnatural light.
Regina slammed her foot on the brakes, and the van mounted the curb, screeching to a halt. The Ghost didn’t wait for the others, but flung open the rear door and leapt out, flechettes streaming from his gun.
Two Koscheis fell, tiny metal blades catching them unexpectedly, shredding their throats.
The avatar was wading amongst them, swinging its sword in a wide arc before it, cutting through the Koscheis in a swathe. They turned their fire on it in response, electricity crackling over the avatar’s torso, cracking flakes of bark from its chest, but failing to stop its advance.
Overhead, a biplane swooped low, the roar of its engines splitting the sky, and the avatar looked up, raising its free hand and sending thick vines shooting into the air. They snared the tail of the nearest biplane, and the avatar whipped its arm, dragging the machine out of the sky, bringing it crashing down amongst the Koscheis like a wrecking ball. It burst into flames, engine oil and munitions going up like fireworks. All around, Koscheis burned in the aftermath, hooded robes becoming cloaks of roaring flame.
Around the Ghost his friends had formed a line, weapons barking as they attempted to keep the Koscheis at bay. Regina had broken from the formation, wading deep into the fight, her stolen weapon spitting death to all in her way.
The rat-a-tat of machine gun fire from overhead caused the Ghost to dive, and the pavement where he’d been standing erupted in a slew of dust and chippings. Vines burst from the broken ground, curling up to grab at a Koschei’s ankles, yanking him to the ground and dashing his head against the concrete.
All around them branches were twisting out of the soil, grasping for the enemy—a forest of deadly thickets and thorns, brought to life through the elemental control of Albion. The avatar of Lundenwic had risen, and it was angry.
“We need to get to the house,” called Donovan, from close by.
The Ghost nodded. “Regina!”
She turned to glance at him, just as a Koschei raised his hand, targeting her with a crackling blast of energy. She fell, the Koschei weapon tumbling from her grasp as she writhed on the ground, screaming with pain.
The Ghost leapt toward her, his flechette gun spitting death, but the Koschei flicked his wrists, deflecting the deadly blades with his glowing shields. The Ghost strafed left, and the Koschei flung another bolt, scorching the trailing edge of his trench coat. On the ground, Regina was still fighting against the crackling energy, mouth open in a silent scream, electricity arcing between her teeth. He hoped the wards on her back would be enough to save her.
The Ghost circled, keeping step with the Koschei. He was an older man, in his fifties, with a bald pate and thick beard. Tattoos adorned every inch of his exposed flesh, and his eyes seemed manic and darting. He was grinning insanely, baring his yellowed teeth.
The Ghost squeezed off another flurry of flechettes, but once again, the Koschei easily deflected them.
He risked a glance at the ground, searching for any sign of Regina’s lost weapon, but it was nowhere to be seen, kicked away in the chaos. The distraction, though, was the opening the Koschei had been waiting for, and he lurched at the Ghost, pushing on the air to create a wave like a brick wall, which slammed into the Ghost, sending him toppling backwards. He tried to roll, but the Koschei stood over him, fingers splayed, manipulating the air currents around the Ghost, preventing his every move.
The Koschei said something in Russian, but the Ghost couldn’t hear it—couldn’t hear anything—over the rush of wind that was pummeling him, coming at him from all directions at once. He gasped for breath, but felt the wind being drawn from his lungs, and he clutched at his throat as the world started to swim into darkness around him.
And then suddenly he was free again, and the Koschei was on the ground, a vine wrapped around his leg, pinning him down. He scrabbled at the wiry root, trying to pull himself free.
The Ghost sucked at the air, relief flooding his body. He glanced around to see the avatar looming to his right, skewering another Koschei with its blade, even as more of its vines grappled with another biplane, yanking the pilot out of the machine and crushing the life out of him in the process.
It glanced at the Ghost, catching his eye, and the avatar held out its hand, extruding a long, fat thorn from its palm. It nodded to the Ghost, and he reached for it, pulling it free from its socket. He weighed it in his hand like a sword.
At his feet, the Koschei was screaming, his leg now severed above the knee by the tightening vine. He raised his hands, trying to conjure a portal, but the Ghost put an end to him with the thorn, burying it deep in the man’s chest. He gurgled something incomprehensible, before falling still.
The Ghost yanked the thorn free, tucking it inside his trench coat, and then turned to help Regina to her feet. She looked pale, but alive. Nearby, he could hear the wail of sirens, and the report of machine gun fire. The armed forces were beginning to respond, joining the fray. Soon, the Air Force would engage the biplanes and airships, too.
He pulled his spare handgun from his boot and tossed it to Regina. “Show me the way to the house.”
“There’s too many of them,” she said. “We’ll never get through them that way. But I know another route.”
The Ghost nodded. He still didn’t know how much he could trust this woman, but he supposed he had little choice. He started after her as she made for the van.
Donovan and Rutherford were using the vehicle for cover, taking turns to cover each other as they blasted away at the Koscheis. They’d already managed to take down three of them, and as the Ghost ducked toward the van, he saw another bullet hit home, catching a Koschei in the side of the head and dropping him where he stood.
“Into the van!” he called across to them. “We’re going after the house.”
Donovan frowned. “What about Flora?”
The Ghost glanced back, to see swarms of uniformed soldiers flooding into the street, machine guns chattering. Flora was nearby, crouched behind a postbox, taking potshots at the Koscheis. Vines had broken through the pavement around her, creating a barricade. A little further down the street, Ginny floated three feet off the ground, ethereal wind rippling her hair as she summoned her immaterial lions to feast on the souls of the Russians. Horwood was nowhere to be seen. “I think Flora will be fine,” he said, smirking.
Donovan nodded, although he didn’t look particularly reassured.
Regina hauled herself up into the driver’s seat, and the Ghost, Donovan and Rutherford crammed in behind her.
“Where to?” said Rutherford, taking another shot out of the window, and winging a Koschei in the leg.
“Belgravia,” said Regina, as she stamped on the accelerator.