RAF Fylingdales, 2055.The rising seas had made an island of the bleak North York Moors, chasing the river Tees back to the Dales to the north and west, inundating the Humber estuary and Lincolnshire to the south, Historic York itself, abandoned to the encroaching waters of the north sea.
The moors, high and windswept as they were, provided thin fare in the best of times, the ravages of decades of neglect by a southern government trying to resurrect a golden age that never was, the eruptions of viruses and the melting ice caps, had led to a diaspora. Northern Britain was almost empty now.
And then the penguins had come to the Ballistic Missile Early Warning station, their meeting point on the journey north, it was rumoured to have hidden weapons, defence missiles installed to deal with incoming efforts to wipe out the base in time of war. They wanted these weapons for nearby were the ancestral homelands of a most powerful adversary.
The North was almost empty now, but not quite. When the teaming millions departed, and the corpses had been cleared by crow and rat, old ways had reasserted. In the out of way places where they'd gone to ground, the witches resurfaced. A few miles to the north of Fylingdales, the Danby sorceresses were alerted to an evil presence and they were damned if after finally being rid of prying eyes, they would give way again.
Ancient bonds had been re-forged in the revival , foremost amongst these, Clan Glenlivet had reawakened contracts as old as the land to warn the witches of something coming, when the first of these arrived, the hags summoned a Barghest, blacker than a priest's shadow, but for their ember red eyes, the huge spectral beast had fallen on the interlopers, but discerning the taint of more to come, and lacking the power to deal with it alone, they sent word to the clan. Two shrouded figures exuding power had been the reply, passing swiftly through, pausing to lay tributes at the Blue man-o'-the Moss before heading for the abandoned air base.
Clan Glenlivet had not been idle since the victory in Orlando, the recovery of Sister Boudica's soul had been of paramount importance since her loss in Finland, the actions of the three in tracking her to Disney world had been exemplary.
The work done by the priestesses of the glens in splitting her from the penguin curse had furnished them with the final locks to the were-penguins secrets of transformation. They could now, they believed, move among the enemy undetected, able to shape-shift at will, it was time to turn this war around.
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