Druid's Sword

by Sara Douglass

“Ever since I was a toddler.”

  “And? What does she say? What does this have to do with what I felt?”

  Grace made a helpless gesture. “She just…watches. But she smiles at me, and, oh gods, I know she has something planned. I can feel it! What you have felt, your ‘wrongness’…it must be her. A trap. Please, please, Jack, please don’t fall into it!”

  Jack again drew deeply on his cigarette, watching Grace’s face through the drifting smoke, and said nothing.

  There were traps everywhere, and Jack was sure he was staring at one of the biggest and most dangerous of them.

  FIVE

  Ambersbury Banks, Epping Forest

  Sunday, 10th September 1939

  At midnight, Jack left Faerie Hill Manor. He’d come here earlier, already unsettled at the thought of what this night held; after his conversation with Grace, he was so nervy that he found himself jumping at every noise.

  The house was quiet when Jack walked out the front door. Harry had not reappeared, but Jack was not worried. He could feel the Lord of the Faerie watching, and knew he would be there to witness. Neither had Walter appeared, but Jack had felt him drawing closer, driving along the forest road north.

  He, too, would be at the appointed place.

  Grace had earlier gone up the stairs to the first floor of the house, saying she was going to bed.

  But Jack didn’t believe her. What was her real purpose in talking to him? Why this night of all nights? And what was he supposed to make of her words…and of her?

  He stood on the front terrace in the dark night, remembering her fingers idly twisting those harmonies out across the tabletop. Those harmonies had been compelling and he’d felt them thrumming through his blood. But he shouldn’t forget she was also a Darkwitch. Ringwalker had only one enemy, and that was the Darkwitch.

  That’s what he had once thought, but Jack had made his peace with Noah, and with Stella. Should Grace then be feared?

  “Why not,” he whispered, “until I know different?” Then, suddenly making up his mind, he ran lightly down the steps to where his Austin sat. Jack stood, stared at it, then he lifted his head, and looked northwards.

  The night encircled him, very still and dark.

  There was no moon.

  Jack took a step away from the car. His hands clenched, then released as he forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and walked away from the car towards the edge of the forest.

  Epping Forest had existed since the land that was now Britain had first risen from the misty swamps of creation. It had once been much larger and much mightier, spreading eastwards and northwards across the land. Between its trees had roamed bears and wolves, hares and badgers, mammoth and aurochs, and stranger, wilder beasts that sometimes strayed out of the Faerie. By the mid-twentieth century, after thousands of years of depredation by the axe and plough, the forest covered only some five thousand acres.

  Yet the forest’s power remained, as much power as when the forest had covered so much more of the land. Only now it was…concentrated.

  Epping Forest was riddled with walkways and bridle paths, roads and forestry tracks, and the trails worn down by the tens of thousands of years of foxes hunting dormice and ghosts hunting resolution, but Jack walked none of these. He walked a strange causeway that had not been trodden since Og, the being who had walked formerly as the Stag God, had taken it over a hundred thousand years previously.

  It was an easy path to follow, however, despite the dark of the moonless night.

  The leaf litter marking the trail was speckled with drops of glistening blood. Og’s blood.

  When tonight was done, the path would be laid anew for the next resurgent Stag God to walk down in perhaps another hundred thousand years’ time.

  This time, it would be laid down in Jack’s blood.

  The blood, and what it implied, settled Jack’s nerves. He was glad to be doing this finally. It was the ultimate step—or the ultimate plummet, whichever way you preferred to view it—into his life as Ringwalker, god of the forests.

  He walked north, his feet scrunching down firmly on the blood-stained leaf litter as if he drew comfort from the blood leaching up through the soles of his shoes. His path took him roughly parallel—but sometimes he diverged, and wandered briefly into the Faerie, where Sidlesaghes and water sprites shadowed him—with New Epping Road, although Jack swung a little deeper into the forest when he passed the Wake Arms and the Fox and Hounds taverns. Within fifteen minutes of leaving Faerie Hill Manor, Jack entered the section of the forest called the Long Running. The forest drew back at this point, and Jack strode through long, coarse rush grass. Here he took a deep breath, and quickened his pace slightly.

  He didn’t have far to go.

  Another fifteen minutes, and Jack approached the ancient fort of Ambersbury Banks on the north-western edge of Epping Forest. He wasn’t far from Copt Hall, and for a moment his pace slowed, and his head turned westwards to where he felt the hall rising, but then he focussed forward once more.

  Ambersbury Banks was a raised circular fortress, defended by earthen banks and ditches that had, over the centuries, crumbled and decayed under the onslaught of the forest. Historians and foresters had long argued over whether it was an ancient British camp, or one thrown up by the Romans, but in reality no human hand had built Ambersbury Banks. It was a part of the Faerie, one of The Naked’s children which had lost its way and slipped into the mortal world, never to find its way home. It had a twin, Loughton Camp to the south, but Ambersbury was the older and more powerful of the two hills.

  And with a far bloodier history. Ambersbury was a place of blood, and it attracted blood to it. Boudicca’s army had been slaughtered here, but there had been lesser murders on Ambersbury, although no less tragic, as when Sulemaic, an Anglo-Saxon warrior, had raped then murdered twin thirteen-year-old sisters on the primeval Faerie hill one dark, moonless night in the eighth century. During the fourteenth century two young boys had been found at Ambersbury, with their throats cut and every drop of blood drained from their body into the ancient earth. In the eighteenth century a toddler had met a similar fate. Twice during the nineteenth century, in incidents separated by twenty-four years, two cuckolded husbands had slit their wives’ throats within the fort’s boundaries.

  It was not a particularly pleasant place for the vulnerable to linger.

  There had also been blood spilled on Ambersbury Banks that was not associated with either battles or tragedies. Almost four thousand years ago a young man, known as the Gormagog, had come here to be marked as Og’s living representative. Thirty years after that, Gormagog had brought his son Loth to be similarly marked.

  They had been tattooed with the mark of the former Stag God.

  Jack was coming here to be marked with something far darker. He had come to absorb into his flesh the remnants of Og’s being.

  Most of Ambersbury Banks was speckled with ancient, gnarled trees which had, over thousands of years, twisted the lines of earthworks until it appeared that a gigantic plough had run amok over the hill, riding it into parallel lines of agony that mirrored its bloody history. On the summit, however, there was a clear space of perhaps a quarter of an acre.

  In the centre of this almost circular patch of grassland stood the stump of a tree which had been felled in a storm eight hundred years earlier. Over the centuries its top had been worn smooth by the rubbing of countless hands. It was known as the wooden stone, because when you looked down to its base, you saw that the stump’s twisting, knotted roots were wrapped about and over a broad smoothfaced stone.

  This stone was the heart of Ambersbury Banks; its causeway, if you like, back into the Faerie. It was an altar, as old as the hill itself, and it had served almost as many religions and priests and druids as it had weathered storms.

  Although the night was moonless, the cleared space on the summit of the hill was nonetheless lit with an unearthly silvery light. A man stood by the stump, carefully lay
ing out instruments atop its smooth surface.

  It was Walter Herne, now without his stick and standing full square on both feet.

  He had removed both his dog collar and his shirt, and stood bare-chested, his skin goosebumped in the cold night air. There was a shadowy tracery over his shoulders and chest; the memory of a mark that had lingered through several lives.

  Loth, and all he had once been, and all he once could have been, was not quite dead, although Walter hoped to murder him once and for all this night.

  Just this one thing, Walter, and then you’ll be free.

  Just this one thing.

  There was a movement to the eastern quarter of the summit, and Walter froze and looked over.

  Then he relaxed, if only a little. It was the Lord of the Faerie, stepping forth from under a tree. Like Walter he was bare-chested, although rather than Walter’s woollen trousers and shoes he wore wellfitted leather trousers, and his feet were bare.

  On his head sat a crown of red berries set amid twisted twigs.

  The Lord of the Faerie walked to a point halfway between the encircling trees and the stump where stood Walter, then he stopped.

  “We are glad you have come, Loth,” he said, and Walter twitched.

  “My name is not Loth,” he said.

  The Lord of the Faerie ignored his rebuttal. “I have brought the pestle and mortar,” he said, and lifted his right hand.

  That hand had been empty a bare moment ago, but now the Lord of the Faerie carried a crudely chiselled stone pestle and mortar in his hand. As Walter watched, the Lord of the Faerie squatted down and, with his left hand, grabbed a handful of dirt and blown leaves from between his feet. As he rose, he crumbled the mixture of dirt and leaves into the bowl of the mortar.

  Then he lifted his hand to his crown, and plucked from it three or four of the red berries.

  These, too, he crumbled into the bowl.

  Once this was done, the Lord of the Faerie walked over to Walter, looked him in the eye for a long moment, then put the pestle and mortar on the top of the stump.

  Before Walter could speak, or even move, the Lord of the Faerie leaned very close to him, placing a hand on Walter’s chest.

  “How could you walk away from this?” he whispered, his mouth almost touching Walter’s ear. The Lord of the Faerie ran his hand softly over Walter’s chest, and then up and over his right shoulder. “How could you leave? We were such friends, once, you and I.”

  Walter didn’t know if the Lord of the Faerie referred to the friendship they had once shared when he had been Loth and the Faerie Lord had been Coel, or if he talked of the more distant friendship between Faerie Lord and earthly servant. Whichever one the Faerie Lord meant, Walter had no idea how to answer.

  His mouth opened, but he could find no words to speak.

  The Lord of the Faerie’s hand tightened fractionally on Walter’s shoulder, and he leaned even closer to the man, his mouth now touching Walter’s flesh. How could you leave?

  Tears sprang to Walter’s eyes, but he was saved from the need to answer by the appearance of a man emerging from under the trees on the western verge of the clearing.

  Both the Lord of the Faerie’s and Walter’s eyes slid towards him.

  The man bowed from the waist in deference to the Lord of the Faerie, then stepped forward.

  It was Malcolm, Jack Skelton’s valet, but he no longer wore servant’s clothes. Instead he’d come dressed as an ancient druid in a robe of tartan wool, and with woad marking out his face, his forearms and the backs of his hands.

  “It is a wakeful night,” Malcolm said as he came to a halt a few steps away from where Walter and the Lord of the Faerie stood so close together. “The forest is restless, waiting for its lord.”

  The Lord of the Faerie regarded him with unblinking eyes. “Well met, Druid. I did not know you lingered within Malcolm’s flesh. And at Copt Hall, no less. What role do you play in this?”

  “I am bound to the land,” said Malcolm, “as surely you must know, and I work in its interests. I am bound to Copt Hall by death, and similarly bound to Ambersbury Banks. I have come tonight to serve, if I may.”

  The Lord of the Faerie regarded him steadily, then abruptly stepped back from Walter and gave Malcolm a nod.

  Then all three men turned their eyes to the south.

  Jack Skelton had walked into the clearing.

  His nerves kicked in again the instant he saw the group—Malcolm included, as he’d expected—about the stump. It wasn’t the forthcoming pain that troubled him so much as the realisation that there would be no going back from this night. The Lord of the Faerie had reassured him that this would confirm his humanity, rather than assimilate it, but Jack still could not help having qualms.

  So he hesitated on the edge of the clearing. He thought he’d been sure, but now knew he wasn’t.

  Then the Lord of the Faerie walked forward. Very slowly, very surely.

  “Jack,” the Lord of the Faerie said, coming to a halt before him.

  He said nothing else, just held Jack’s gaze with such tranquillity that Jack felt himself relax.

  The Lord of the Faerie’s mouth moved in a small smile. “You can be who and what you want,” he said. “Whenever you want. That is what tonight is about. You will be woven entirely, forest to man. You choose the face you wear, you choose the power you wield. As Louis de Silva you gained the power and the knowledge. Tonight you gain the familiarity, and you will gain everything that Og once commanded, but you will lose nothing at all.”

  It was what Jack needed to hear, and he relaxed even further. The Lord of the Faerie stepped up to him, one hand running behind Jack’s neck to cradle his head in its palm, and kissed softly first Jack’s forehead, then both cheeks, and finally his mouth.

  “Welcome to the strangeness of completion, Jack,” the Lord of the Faerie said.

  Then he was gone, back to the central ancient altar of Ambersbury Banks, and Jack, still at the edge of the clearing, began slowly to strip away his jacket and shirt.

  Malcolm came to Jack’s side, and took from him the jacket and shirt, folding them neatly, unhurriedly, and placed them, together with Jack’s shoes and socks, behind a tree, out of sight.

  Then he walked away to the western edge of the clearing, and stood, watching, hands folded before him, eyes shining.

  Jack took a deep breath, and walked forward. He could feel the cold air upon the naked flesh of his chest, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  Through the soles of his bare feet he could feel the forest—feel the land—as a thrumming warmth, almost a breathing, caring curiosity. It would be a witness, too.

  Tonight he would gain familiarity and completeness.

  Wisdom, too, he hoped.

  And eyes, with which to see.

  Walter stood behind the altar. Jack could see that he was tense and fearful. His shoulders were rigid, his eyes glittered, he held his arms stiffly at his side.

  “Hello, Walter,” Jack said.

  Walter inclined his head.

  “Can you do this, Walter?” Jack said. “Will you let go the Stag God entirely into my care? Do you dare?”

  Something happened in Walter’s face. A deep emotion flittered over it. Jack thought for a moment it was fear, then remembered how the Lord of the Faerie—when Charles II—had told him that James (as Walter had been named in that former life) had been deeply excited at his return to England after all his years in exile, however much he professed a devotion to Christ, and Jack realised it was excitement he could see in Walter’s face now.

  Whatever Walter said, the core of his being still vibrated to the ancient rituals.

  “Do you dare, Jack?” Walter said, and Jack grinned.

  He glanced down at the top of the stump and saw what Walter had laid out there.

  A surgical scalpel. Three razor-edged blades. Gauze swabs.

  The mortar and pestle, and the dirt, leaves and berries within the bowl of the mortar.

  “S
hall we begin?” Walter asked, and Jack jerked his eyes back to the man’s face.

  “Do you remember, Walter, how once we battled it out in the heart of the labyrinth atop Og’s Hill?”

  “How could I forget? I battled to save the land from you and your foreign magic. You battled to save your labyrinth. And you broke my spine.”

  “How stupid we were,” Jack said softly, “when all the time we should have been standing here.”

  Walter moved away a little, fiddling with the instruments he’d laid out. “Let’s get this done,” he said, “and then let me walk away.”

  Jack gave a terse nod, then turned about—and jumped slightly in startlement. While he and Walter had been speaking, the Lord of the Faerie had moved about silently and now stood directly facing Jack.

  “How at home are you with the Ringwalk, Jack?” the Lord of the Faerie said.

  “I feel it as if it is my own flesh,” Jack replied.

  “Really?” said the Lord of the Faerie. “Really?”

  SIX

  Epping Forest

  Sunday, 10th September 1939

  GRACE SPEAKS

  I followed. Of course I did. I knew something was happening tonight, and I knew it involved Jack, and I knew also that Harry was somehow concerned. I knew that Harry and Jack had been planning Jack’s marking, together with Walter. I knew that my parents knew something about it, but they did not speak of it to me. I’d never felt more the “outsider” than I had over the past week as I watched the small glances, and the occasional significant words, pass to and fro. It wasn’t much said or done, but there was enough.

  Oh, gods, I so much wanted to be a part of something, to not be continually pushed to the outer.

  To share.

  I was also terrified of what might be about to happen. I was so unsure of Jack, and of the desperately fine balance he could (almost certainly would) upset, that this sense of something momentous happening was enough to set my nerves on edge.

  As well, over the past three nights Catling had sat grinning with such apparent satisfaction from her shadowy corner of my bedroom that I was certain something terrible was imminent.