The Reborn King (Book Six) (42 page)

“Go!” she pleaded. “Go before it’s too late.”

Jonas gave her a brisk nod, then scrambled and crawled his way back to the portal. Pausing only for one final backward glance at his liberator, he threw himself into the spinning blue vortex.

Chapter One

(1944
Carentan, France)

Ethan huddled beside the ruined wall of what he imagined had once been a bakery. Now it was a bombed out ruin. The slimy mud caking his boots was so thick that they made a gritty squishing sound every time he moved. He looked around and sighed, wondering what the town of Carentan might have been like before being reduced to rubble.

The sound of German 88’s thundering in the distance, along with the crackle and pop of small arms fire, was so constant that he scarcely noticed it any longer. At least for the time being it was far enough away for him to catch some shut-eye. He glanced at his M1 Carbine and frowned. It was covered in the same gray mud as his boots. He’d need to clean it before Sgt. Baker saw him again, otherwise there would be hell to pay. Besides, the last thing he needed was for his weapon to jam at the wrong moment.

Ethan leaned his slight frame firmly against the wall. The cleaning job could wait until morning. The Krauts weren’t likely to make a move in the dark, and even if they did, the sound of panzers on the move should give him plenty of warning. He took off his helmet and ran his hands through his sandy-blond hair. He could feel the bits of dirt and grime sticking to his scalp and did his best to brush them loose with the tips of his fingers. He dearly wished for a shower and a real bed, but knew it would be sometime before such luxuries would be available. He put on his helmet and sighed.

Just as he was drifting off, the crunch and scape of boots approaching caused him to crack open an eyelid. But he knew who it was without looking. Markus James was his best friend. Actually, Markus was his
only
friend. None of the others in his platoon liked to be around him. He had gained a reputation for being bad luck, and there was a fair bit of justification in that belief. Three times he had miraculously survived what should have been certain death while everyone around him had perished.

The first time was on D-day. His stick had been dropped into the middle of God knows where. German anti-aircraft guns had spooked the pilots so badly that, when the green light came, their evasive tactics had taken them miles away from the intended drop
zone. He'd seen five of his fellow paratroopers cut to shreds by ground fire during their descent. In fact, by the time he landed in the muddy field, he was the only one in his squad left alive. Their platoon had been ambushed while on patrol twice since then, and both times he was the only survivor. Luckily, Markus hadn't been with him on those occasions. He didn’t think he could bear it if he was made to feel responsible for his friend's death.

“Wake up, mate,” Markus said, his voice a bizarre combination of British and New Yorker accents.

His parents had moved to Manhattan from London about five years before the war. Markus had done his best to shed his strong London accent in order to avoid teasing from the other kids, but this only made him sound even more foreign than before. So, unfortunately for him, the teasing continued, even after enlisting in the Airborne.

During their training days, Markus discovered by chance that Ethan had lied about his age in order to join up. Ethan had practically begged him not to say anything. He was only sixteen when he enlisted and had turned seventeen a few days after. 

Marcus had responded by laughing. “If a skinny little whelp like you can get into the Airborne, then I suppose God wants you here for some reason. And who am I to argue with the Big Guy?”

From that moment on they became firm friends. Moreover, Markus made it his mission to watch Ethan's back. Rarely was one seen without the other being somewhere close by.

Ethan was from Brooklyn. Or at least, that was his guess. His parents had adopted him as a baby. His adoptive mother was unable to bear children, a fact that nearly broke her heart. She desperately wanted to give her husband a child, and his father, who owned a bakery in Bay Ridge, could not bear to see his wife unhappy. Ethan had often wondered if his adoption had been far more for
her
happiness than for his. For sure, his father was uncomfortable around children and always had difficulty in showing his emotions.

His mother was quite the opposite, and doted on Ethan constantly. Not that his father ever treated him unkindly. In fact, they didn’t even tell him he was adopted until he was twelve years old. And by then it didn’t matter. His father told him that he was found wrapped in a blanket on the boardwalk in Coney Island.
There was no note or anything else to give a clue as to where he was originally from. 

His father had died of a heart attack three years prior to the war starting, so he and his mother moved to the South Bronx to live with her older sister. And though at first she still tried her best to be a good mother, the death of her husband was more than her heart could bear. She became increasingly withdrawn, eating little and rarely emerging from her tiny bedroom. Before long she had wasted away to a point where she could hardly stand without assistance. Ethan did his best to ease her pain, but only succeeded in eliciting angry outbursts and wild accusations that he had always hated his father and was glad he was dead. He knew she didn’t mean it, but when war broke out, he thought it might help her condition if he was no longer around for a while. At least, that’s what he told himself. The truth was a little more direct. He was hurt and angry, and the Army was the only escape he could think of.

He looked up at his friend. “Come to watch over me?” he said with a smirk.

Markus settled in and tossed a half loaf of stale bread onto his lap. “If I don’t, who will?” He held up two fingers and grinned devilishly.

Ethan took a deep breath, then tore off a hunk of bread. “Two? How do you figure?”

“One in the bar and one in the barracks?”

Ethan frowned. “I’ll give you the bar…but I could have taken Lenny.”

Markus threw his head back in laughter. “Lenny would have beaten you bloody if I hadn’t stopped him.”

“Lenny’s a big jerk,” he muttered.

“Lenny’s a dead jerk,” Markus added. “Remember? He bought it on D-day.”

Ethan suddenly felt guilty for speaking ill of the dead. “Yeah. I remember.” He looked over at Markus, who was still holding up two fingers. “Okay, okay—two,” he admitted.

They ate quietly, then settled down and tried to get some sleep. The sun had not yet set. Even so, if the pair of them had learned anything about being in combat, it was that when you had an opportunity to rest, you sure as hell took it.

But the respite was short-lived. Ethan’s eyes snapped open. The all too familiar sound of German tanks approaching from the east had him scrambling to his feet.

“We have to go!” he shouted.

But it was already too late. Shells were exploding in the streets that led back to the rest of their platoon.

Markus stepped in front of Ethan. “Follow me!” he ordered. He could see the tension in Ethan’s eyes. “Don’t worry, mate. We can make it.”

They bolted forward, hoping to get beyond the shelling range by sheer luck. It was a risky strategy. The already severely damaged buildings along the avenue were now being pounded anew. Dust and tiny bits of brick flew through the air, biting spitefully into the exposed flesh of their faces like a swarm of angry hornets. With the brim of their helmets the only thing protecting their eyes, they lowered their heads and pushed on. Each new blast created a shock wave that drove nearly all the air from their lungs and turned their legs to jelly. At times, merely remaining on their feet became a major achievement. 

Then, all at once, it stopped.

Not willing to question their good fortune, Markus picked up his pace. But Ethan, who had always possessed keener eyesight than his friend, reached out and grabbed his collar, jerking him to a halt. A short way ahead, from behind the corner of the next street, the long steel barrel of a panzer was slowly peeking its way out. They could now hear orders in German being shouted both in front of them, and from not too far behind.

With no other options, they ran full speed back the way they had come and threw themselves flat behind a high pile of rubble.

“We’re right in it now, mate,” Markus panted.

Ethan could only nod in response.

Markus reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied unconvincingly.

They scanned the area for a better place to hide, but wherever they headed for, there was a major risk of being seen. However, if they stayed where they were so close to the road, once the infantry followed the tanks, someone was bound to see them anyway.

The shelling resumed, hammering the town just beyond the panzer they had nearly run into. Ethan couldn’t see the building where their platoon was holed up, but smoke and ash was rising from that direction. His heart sank.

“They got out,” said Markus, as if hearing his thoughts. “They’re probably back with the rest of the company by now.”

The high-pitched squeal and clatter of tank tracks raked at their ears as more panzers closed in. The dust-filled air obscured their vision, but the monstrous silhouette of the nearest enemy vehicle could still be seen steadily drawing closer.

It was then that something directly in the path of the tank caught Ethan’s attention. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But another hard look confirmed his initial impression. A man was lying flat on his back, apparently unconscious.

Markus spotted him a moment later and grabbed Ethan’s arm. He could sense what his friend was thinking. “Don’t!” he said. “They’ll see you.”

But Ethan was resolute. He couldn’t just hide while an innocent civilian was crushed to a pulp. And he knew the Nazis wouldn’t hesitate to roll right over anyone in their way.

Snatching his arm free, he scampered over the rubble and ran into the street. On drawing closer, he noticed that there was something odd about the helpless man. It was his clothes. His shirt and pants were somehow different – made in a style and from a material he had never seen before. More than that, attached to his belt was a sword. Judging by his gray hair and deep facial lines, Ethan guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.

Markus slid in beside him and seized one of the man’s arms. “Idiot. You’re going to get us both killed.”

Ethan grinned. “Yeah. You’re probably right about that.”

They dragged the man as fast as they could manage. He was surprisingly heavy for someone of only medium height and quite slender build. They had just reached the sidewalk when there was the sound of German voices shouting. This was quickly followed by gunfire. Bits of concrete exploded around their feet as bullets pinged and whizzed through the air. One passed so close that Ethan felt the wind of it on his cheek.

Once they reached the pile of rubble, Ethan glanced over his shoulder. The panzer had pulled forward and the main gun was turning slowly toward them.

“Move!” he shouted. His muscles burned as he tried to go faster. Though conditioned by tough airborne training and far from weak for his age, he was at his limit.

He felt the blast before he heard it. It was like a sledgehammer striking him in the back, and it took him a moment to realize that he had been thrown forward about ten feet. At first, all he could hear was a hellishly loud ringing banging against his eardrums. This shrill sound smothered out all other thoughts. Then, with a rush, he became aware that his arms and legs wouldn’t move. For a terrifying moment he wondered if they were gone. He had seen too many men, stunned from artillery fire, completely oblivious to the fact that they had lost an arm or leg…or both.

“Are you all right?” It was the voice of Markus, coming from within the thick gray dust and smoke.

Ethan tried to answer, but his breath was still gone.

Markus drew closer and shook his head with a smile. “How in the hell do you keep surviving?” he asked, relief written all over his face.

After managing to lift his head and seeing that he was no worse for wear, Ethan allowed himself a weak grin. He gulped in a deep breath and reached out for Markus’ hand.

“Can you walk?” his friend asked.

Ethan nodded and allowed himself to be pulled up. He gripped Markus’ shoulder and looked for the man they had saved.

“We have to leave him,” said Markus.

Ethan shot him at fiercely determined look. Markus sighed with sheer exasperation. He knew his friend well.

“A bloody boy scout, that's what you are,” he grumbled. “Come on then.”

They grabbed the man by the arms and continued to pull him down a nearby alley. At the end, immediately before reaching the next street, they spotted a small wooden shed. The roof was gone, but the walls were still intact.

From behind them, more orders in German were being shouted as soldiers began checking the area where they had been seen. The dust was still very thick, making it almost impossible for the advancing men to have spotted them fleeing. Ethan hoped they would assume that their targets had been buried somewhere beneath the newly created mound of rubble.

The door to the shed was barely hanging by a single hinge. Taking care not to detach this completely, Markus eased it open sufficiently for them to drag the man through. Once inside, they lifted him into the corner. The shed was empty aside from a few crates and a broken broom, and was just large enough to accommodate all of them.