by Kevin Hearne
“What happens if you keep going west?”
“West?” The man practically barked at me. “Why’d you want to go that way?”
The old man’s raised voice drew eyes to me. I shrugged and said, “I suppose because I’m poorly informed. What’s wrong with the road to the west?”
“Bloody awful doings down at the Viking trading post.
Sveinsey, they call it, down there on the Gwyr peninsula, but fuck if anyone knows what that means.”
I laughed along with him at that, even though I knew it meant Sveinn’s Island in Old Norse—which was simply called “Norse” then. Today the place is called Swansea.
“How bloody awful are we talking about?” I asked.
“It’s a long story, and me tongue is like a slug left out in the sun.”
“Ah. Allow me to buy you a drink, then?”
“Kind of you, sir. What’s your name?”
I introduced myself as Gawain, which many people heard, no doubt, especially since I spoke their language with a noticeable accent. Conversation in the dining area was subdued and people probably noted that my kit marked me as a knight of some means. The old man offered his hand and told me his name was Dafydd. We bellied up to the bar and I ordered two flagons of mead. I also made inquiries about staying the night and the innkeeper shook his head. “No rooms left. Not unless you want to stay in the stables.”
“The stables it is, then.”
Once the old man had slaked the worst of his thirst, he told me merrily of death and ruin in the west.
“Some daffy Pict with his face pierced a hundred times has come into Sveinsey and bollixed up the entire kingdom. Haven’t seen the sun in three months. The rain never lets up—never enough to flood, mind, but nothing ever gets a chance to dry out either. Crops are collapsing from root rot and you have poxy mushrooms bigger than an ox’s cock sprouting up all over the place. Cows and sheep are shitting themselves until they die, am I right?” He looked at the innkeeper and nearby patrons for corroboration. A couple of half-hearted grunts set him off again. “Pastures of them just spread out in the mud for the sport of crows. The smart people moved out a few months ago when they saw there wouldn’t be any fucking food, but it’s a hard thing to give up one’s land after fighting over it and sweating over it year after year.”
“So did the people who moved earlier get out? They weren’t trapped like you?”
“Aye, they made it out. This magic fence he’s put up has only been in effect for a month now. Good King Cadoc is off praying about it, God bless him, but I don’t see what good it’s doing when the Pict is sitting there building defenses. Bloody sorcerer says he’s got his own king there now at Sveinsey.”
“Begging your pardon, but I’ve been away for a good while. What kingdom am I in right now?”
Dafydd laughed at me, and a few of the patrons listening in joined him. “What kingdom, you say? How does a knight not know where he is?”
I shrugged. “I travel a lot. Just came across from the continent not long ago. Borders shift and kings die all the time. Hard to keep track after a while.”
“Well, that’s true enough. You’re in Glywysing. Who is your lord?”
“I don’t have a lord,” I said, but immediately saw that the assembled men wouldn’t accept such a state of existence. “I’m looking for one,” I added. “A righteous one. My last lord was slain by the Saxons.”
A round of cursing and spitting greeted this revelation, and as an enemy of the Saxons, I was instantly their friend. Someone offered to buy my next drink.
“How are you surviving if you can’t get new supplies in?” I asked, shooting a glance at the innkeeper. He scowled and picked up a flagon that needed polishing.
“Lads have been helping out,” he said. “They go hunting. Plenty of game hereabouts. But it’s all meat all the time now. That and drink, because I had quite a few kegs in storage. Ran out of flour so there’s no bread. Haven’t seen a vegetable in three weeks.”
“That’s a sailor’s diet, that is,” Dafydd said. “We’re going to turn pasty and die weeping if we can’t get out of here.”
“Well, what about the Pict?” I asked. “Isn’t he facing the same problem?”
“Oh, no,” Dafydd said, shaking his head. “He’s got something special there at his wee little fortress. He’s trying to turn it into a proper castle, you know—but bugger that, what I keep hearing is that he has some kind of infinite supply of food. It’s a magic graal, you know. Take food from it and more appears. He can feed everyone in his fortress just fine, and plenty of people have joined him to get their three squares a day, you bet. But meanwhile the land is dying around him, spreading east from the Gwyr peninsula and maybe north and west, too, I don’t know. Haven’t heard from anybody out there.”
“So nobody is heading to Sveinsey anymore? Or even in that direction?”
“Only the evil and the stupid.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The evil?”
“Pagan bastards. Druids. There was one in here about seven days ago, and another a couple weeks before that. Tattoos on their arms, you know.”
That was why I’d asked Ogma for a full kit. The time when Druids earned respect wherever they walked had passed, and it was getting to the point where we couldn’t even walk around freely without harassment or outright violence. I nodded and asked, “They went to join the Pict?”
“No, not join him. They thought they could bloody do something about him. I wished them well in that regard, but they haven’t come back and we still can’t get to Gloucester, so they’ve had all the effect of King Cadoc’s prayers, which is to say, no effect at all.”
Abruptly I no longer felt like drinking with those men. They had told me all I needed to know, and nothing would follow except personal questions and the exchange of lies. Blending in with the converted populace wasn’t difficult so long as I kept my tattoos hidden, for the rules were simple in the early Church of the time: praise Jesus, and if you ran into anyone who didn’t do the same, attack the weak and shun the strong. The social camouflage was easy to maintain but wearying on the spirit. I thanked the men for their company and excused myself to look after my horse, may the Lord bless and keep them and destroy all evil.
I brushed Apple Jack down and fed him and settled in to wait out the night, resolving to get an early start in the morning. I wanted to strip and dry out my kit but the necessity of maintaining my Christian façade made that impossible. Whenever someone entered the stables I knelt and clasped my hands and made a show of prayer. No one interrupted my pious devotion.
The rain renewed with a vengeance in the morning, determined to erode my substance away and chap my hide. Big fat drops spanged off my helmet and slapped against my leathers. I kept my head down for most of the time and trusted Apple Jack to follow the path. After a soggy lunch under the partial shelter of an ash tree, we longed for the dry comfort of the stable at the Silver Stallion.
An hour’s numbing march after lunch brought a surprise. I wiped rain out of my eyes at one point and Apple Jack shook his head to accomplish the same end. Refocusing on the road, I saw a structure ahead that I had missed before.
“Wait,” I said aloud, and Apple Jack stopped. “How did I not see that?”
Yeah, that’s what I mean. It looks like a chapel. The cross on the roof was a bit of a giveaway. It wasn’t a cathedral or even a regular meeting house; it was a small gray stone-and-mortar job put together in such a way as to suggest that the mason had been in a hurry. Tombstones leaned left and right in the sodden earth and completely surrounded the chapel, giving the yard the likeness of stained and broken teeth. It was the most morbid house of worship I’d ever seen.
Oh, that’s true. That must be what happened. There must be another Druid around here somewhere, an
d that’s good.
How much? Is this just a vague uneasiness or do you actually smell rotting flesh through all the rain?
No, I think we need to check it out.
Come on, it’s just a chapel in the middle of a graveyard. Buried bones can’t hurt you. There’s probably someone friendly inside.
Um. No.
I dismounted and fed him an apple before casting camouflage on myself and my kit and drawing Fragarach from its scabbard.
A low fence that marked the boundary of the hallowed ground had a single open gate that led into the graveyard and pointed to a narrow path between the graves. Once I passed through it, I saw that the door to the chapel was ajar. Candles could be seen burning inside. I began to think maybe Apple Jack had the right idea when I saw that the door was ajar because somebody’s head on the floor wouldn’t let it close.
The head was still attached to a body, but it was a dead body with blue unblinking eyes staring at the door frame. It didn’t look like a member of the clergy; he was wearing a simple tunic of dyed blue cloth. I couldn’t tell anything more about him, including the cause of death, without getting closer and perhaps opening the door further to investigate.
But there might be someone waiting behind that door.
There could also be an archer waiting in ambush behind one of the gravestones. I dismissed that as unlikely almost as soon as I thought of it; ambushers rarely like to settle in for their long waits in the rain. Whoever killed this man was either long gone or still inside. I was betting the killer was still inside, or else he would have cleaned up the scene a bit.
The sound of falling rain prevented me from hearing anything else, but the same noise would disguise my approach. I crept closer until I was on the doorstep and could peer through the opening. I saw a bit more of the body. The right forearm and hand were draped over the man’s belly. They were covered with Druidic tattoos like mine.
I stepped back and considered. The floor of the chapel was stone and once I entered I would be cut off from the source of my magic. I was still centuries away from the creation of my bear charm, and our bodies can only store a little magic for a limited time, so I’d be able to walk in there with one spell and maintain it for no more than a couple of minutes before I’d be tapped out. The gamble would be choosing a spell. I tried to reason it out, because Druids are not easily killed but someone had clearly succeeded quite recently. If I went in camouflage, the killer would still see the door opening and might indeed be waiting for just such a signal. Speeding myself up would normally serve me well, but that advantage would be negated if I didn’t know from which direction the ambush would come and realized it too late. I opted for strength; if something zapped me or attacked after I entered, I would do my best to wrestle myself outside where I could tap into more of the earth’s magic. The dead Druid on the floor might have been trying to accomplish the same before he died. I resolved to keep close to the door if I could.
Yes.
Yes.
If I die, you have my permission to run away. Hush now and let me think.
Apple Jack had a point. There was no need for me to go in. Dagda’s cauldron wasn’t in there. But thanks to the bloody Romans and the spread of monotheism, there were precious few Druids left and I felt obligated to avenge this one if I could.
I paused for a full minute to listen. I heard nothing but the white noise of water on stone. I dissolved my camouflage and whispered a binding that would strengthen my muscles; I drew as much power as I could hold and then kicked the door open, charging in and looking behind it. No one there. I looked up; no one waited to drop on me from the rafters. I crouched and surveyed the rest of the chapel, cautiously sidestepping back toward the open door. It was a single chamber. There was an altar in the back of the chapel surrounded by candles, and a body rested on it: a second Druid, his tattoos clearly visible, and his arms folded over his torso and clutching a sword like a soldier.
“Hey, lad,” I called. “Wake up.” He didn’t move. His chest remained still, bereft of breath.
Dafydd’s claim that two Druids had left the Silver Stallion in recent weeks came back to me. Apparently they’d both met their end here. But how? I didn’t want to be Druid number three and I was operating on too little information. I backed out the door, grabbed the Druid lying there by his tunic, and dragged him outside with me for a proper investigation. The chapel was simply too creepy; someone had lit those candles recently, and I doubted the dead men were responsible.
I knelt beside the Druid in the rain. He had no visible head wounds—not even bruising. A purpling of the skin low on the right side of his throat, however, made me look for more; on the left side were four more marks. This Druid had been choked to death by a single large hand. Perhaps it had been gauntleted—but that hardly mattered. I’m sure the Druid hadn’t meekly accepted his strangulation. He must have fought back but it had done him no good. There was enormous strength behind those telltale bruises.
My hand trailed up to my neck and I speculated on how much protection the chain mail would offer against a hand like that. Probably very little.
I wondered if the Druid on the altar had been killed the same way. It was probably safe to investigate since the owner of the giant hand was obviously not in the chapel at present.
Stepping back inside, I noticed most of the candles around the altar had been snuffed out, presumably by the wind circulating through. The only illumination now came from the pillar of wan light cast by the open door, largely occluded by my own shadow, and a single candle in front of the altar. I was halfway to the altar when the strangeness of it upset me. If the wind had snuffed the candles, the one that was still burning would have been the first one to blow out. So what had put them out . . . ?
Movement drew my eye to the lower right corner of the altar. A huge disembodied black hand and forearm crawled toward the final candle using its fingers. The hand was an unnatural carbon black, scarred and pitted like volcanic rock. It pinched out the candle with its thumb and forefinger, and then I lost it in my own shadow.
It had no trouble finding me, however, as I backstepped. It scrabbled inhumanly fast across the floor and gripped my leg, not to halt my progress but rather to climb up one finger at a time. I hurriedly swiped at it with my left hand to knock it off, but it must have been waiting for just such a reaction, for it somehow caught my fingers, spasmed, and flipped itself onto my forearm, now much closer to my throat. It knew which direction that lay, for it immediately began to inch its way up my arm with ropelike finger movements.
My panicked brain suggested that I cut off my own arm with Fragarach to prevent the hand’s advance. Its enchanted blade would slice through armor as easily as skin. But after my logic had its say in the next fraction of a second, I thought of something else. “Freagroidh tú!” I said, pointing my sword at the hand and activating the primary enchantment, which would force the target to tell the truth. But I didn’t want to talk to the hand; I wanted the secondary effect, which prevented the target from moving more than a few inches from
the point of the sword while under interrogation. Move the point, and you effectively move the target. I directed the point at the floor in front of me, and the hand was yanked magically from my arm and placed under firm control a comfortable distance away. I watched it writhe and struggle to break free of the spell for a few seconds while I caught my breath and tried to slow down my heartbeat. It was too repulsive to bear for long, however, and I began to saw off the digits, starting with the thumb. Once disconnected from the palm, they ceased moving.
The arm still tried to attack me with all five fingers missing, so I stabbed it through the back of the hand and it finally slumped inert on the floor.
Before I could sigh in relief, the Druid on the altar stirred and sat up, vacant eyes swiveling to face me. His feet slapped the cold stone as he advanced, sword raised. His movements lacked grace and his jaw hung slack.
It was evidence—if the hand hadn’t provided enough—that I was dealing with a true necromancer, and I’m not ashamed to say I turned and ran out of there, calling for Apple Jack to meet me at the gate. The other Druid was on his feet outside and managed to trip me as I passed. Mud and turf rippled all around; the dead were rising from their graves. A heavy hand closed around my leg; I swung Fragarach behind me and the grip fell away. I scrambled for purchase in the mud and tore down the path toward the gate as fists erupted from the graves nearby.
Yes, well, you might find me more willing to listen from now on.
I had to decapitate one of the raised dead at the gate, but otherwise I had fled in time to avoid the crush of them. I looked back from the saddle as Apple Jack galloped away and saw that the milling creatures did not leave the fenced area around the graveyard. I blinked rain out of my eyes and when I refocused, the chapel was gone. It was as if it had never been there. I didn’t know how I’d convince anyone it ever existed, for what would I say—“My horse saw it too”?
