The Thirteen Hallows (30 page)

The well was covered over and the earth blessed with the old magic,” Ambrose continued quietly.

The late morning had moved on into early afternoon while he spoke, and the light streaming in through the leafy canopy covering the mouth of the cave painted the interior in emerald. “Then Yeshu’a used thirteen everyday objects his uncle had brought aboard his ship to trade for tin: a knife, a pan and a platter, a whetstone, a red-feathered crimson cloak, a cauldron, a chessboard, a spear, a mantle, a hamper, a chariot, a halter…and a horn and a sword,” he added with a smile.

Owen lifted the hunting horn, and Sarah felt the sword twitch in her hands.

“Yeshu’a imbued a little of the binding spell into the earth around the well, and the remainder into the objects, which he blessed and hallowed. These were the keys; and only these thirteen keys could open the thirteen seals he placed over the well.

“Then he chose thirteen men and women at random and gave each of them a Hallow and sent them on their way. So long as they kept the Hallow and believed in it, it would bring them great fortune; and it had to be passed from father to son, mother to daughter, in an unbroken line.

“And he made his uncle Josea the Guardian of the Hallows, charging him to watch over the Keepers, but”—Ambrose laughed softly—“dooming him to remain alive forever to ensure the Demonkind never again gained access to this world.”

Sarah and Owen looked at the tramp, the unasked question lingering heavily in the air.

He gave them a sad smile before continuing, “In the beginning, of course, Josea was skeptical, but later, much later, when Yeshu’a had been killed by the Romans, the merchant returned to the land of the Britons and accepted the role of the Guardian. He wrote down the first of the Hallow lore. How much of it is true, of course, no one knows. But much of it makes sense. Through the centuries, the Hallows have been at the heart of British folklore. The sword…”

“Excalibur,” Sarah said quickly, lifting the Broken Sword.

“That is not Excalibur.” Ambrose shook his head. “Excalibur came later, much later. Arthur could have been extraordinary, but when he lost his innocence and faith, the Sword in the Stone shattered. He replaced it with the gift from the Lady of the Lake, and she and her kind had no love for the Once King. She gave him the Caliburn blade, and it was cursed by Wayland the Smith from the moment of its first forging. It had been bathed in the blood of babes. It brought only doom and destruction to those who wielded it.”

“I thought Excalibur was the Sword in the Stone,” Owen said.

Ambrose shook his head. “Two entirely different weapons—one of light, the other of darkness.” Stretching out his hand, he pointed at the Broken Sword in Sarah’s hands. “Though it has had many names, once upon a time, this was the Sword in the Stone.” The sword shimmered briefly, like oil running down the length of the blade.

Ambrose sat back into the stone chair, and when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say any more, Sarah finally spoke. “This is…unbelievable.”

“Rather an understatement, don’t you think?” The old man smiled. “But, then again, how much proof do you need? You are holding the proof in your hands. You have slain those touched by demons, you have seen their true selves.”

“And now…what’s happening now?”

“Eleven of the Hallows have been gathered together here in this village. Bathed in the flesh and blood of the Hallowed Keepers, their ancient power has been heightened.” He closed his single eye and threw back his head, breathing deeply. “I can smell the power even now.”

“But why are they here?” Owen asked.

“The man who sought them out wishes to use them to reopen the portal between the worlds and allow the Demonkind through. He will do it tonight, on All Hallows’ Eve, one of the four times in the year when the fabric between the worlds grows thin. I believe that the Dark Man plans to sacrifice the people gathered for the festival to achieve his ends. Then, when the Demonkind enter this world, the Demonkind will feed on all mankind. They will destroy the world as we know it.”

Owen, who had been holding the Horn of Bran in his lap while Ambrose spoke, looked up sharply. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

“Who?”

“Yeshu’a. You’re Yeshu’a!”

Ambrose laughed gently. “No, dear boy, I’m not Yeshu’a.”

“I’ve never heard of Yeshu’a,” Sarah said quietly.

“Yes, you have,” Ambrose said, “though you would know him better by the Greek form of his Hebrew name: Jesus.”

“Jesus! You’re saying Jesus came to Britain…,” Owen whispered.

“Legend has it that Jesus visited the country while still a child, brought here by his uncle.” Sarah stopped suddenly, an ancient Sunday school hymn forming on her lips. “‘And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green, and was the holy Lamb of God, on England’s pleasant pastures seen!’”

The old man nodded. “William Blake’s poem.”

“But if you’re not Yeshu’a, then means that you were…,” Sarah whispered.

“You’re his uncle,” Owen said, “Josea.”

“Yes. I have had many names down through the years. I am Joseph of Arimathea.”

Sergeant Hamilton was exhausted.

He didn’t think he’d ever worked as hard in his life. Madoc was a small town, with small-town crime—a little drunkenness, minor vandalism, occasional thefts and burglaries—but in the past few hours, he’d filled a month’s worth of report sheets: alcohol and drugs, petty vandalism, public order offenses, assaults…

He was slumped at his desk when the door opened, the traditional bell jangling. “Mr. Saurin, how may I help you?” he asked, forcing a smile to his lips. As he shook the schoolteacher’s hand, he wondered why he disliked the man so much. Perhaps he still had his own sneaking suspicions about Saurin’s involvement in the death of his aunt, Mildred Bailey. However, Mr. Saurin was not only the local schoolteacher, he was the individual responsible for bringing the Celtic festival to the village. Responsible for bringing in hundreds of thousands of pounds to the local economy. Speaking out against the schoolteacher would only make him enemies.

Ahriman Saurin looked over Hamilton’s shoulder, dark eyes taking in Fowler and lingering on Heath, who were both working at desks in the small station. He suppressed a smile as the woman squirmed visibly in her seat. “I’ve come to report a burglary,” he said smoothly. “One of the youths down for the festival, I’m afraid. Broke into my house this morning and stole a sword and a hunting horn from my collection of antiques.”

Tony Fowler immediately appeared at Hamilton’s side. “I’m Detective Fowler from London. I heard you mention something about a sword.”

Ahriman Saurin gave the detective his most charming smile. “Yes, a young man stole one of my antique swords and an ornate hunting horn.”

“Could you give us a description?”

“A double-handed claymore, a
claidheamh mór,
” Saurin said, deliberately misunderstanding the question.

“Of the suspect,” Fowler said patiently.

Victoria Heath handed Fowler a photograph.

“Oh.” Saurin laughed easily. “Yes, I see what you mean. There were actually two of them, a man and a woman. I got a very good look at the man, as it happens. Mid-twenties, tall, hair cut short, green eyes…”

Tony Fowler slid a photograph of Sarah Miller across the desk. “Was this woman with him?”

Saurin looked at the photograph and feigned surprised. “Good Lord. Why, yes, but this is remarkable, Officer. This is the young woman all right, though she’s done something different with her hair. It’s shorter. She was waiting outside for him. She’s wearing a pink sweatshirt and tattered jeans.”

“Was there anyone else with them?” Victoria asked.

“Not that I could see.” He paused, before shaking his head. “No, when they were heading into the woods, they were definitely alone.”

“You saw them going into the woods?”

“Yes, just over the bridge.”

Tony Fowler grinned savagely. “When was this?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I would have got down here sooner, but the traffic was dreadful,” he explained.

Fowler turned to Heath, but she was already on the radio.

“If you do find them,” Saurin added quickly, “could I ask you to return the two artifacts?…”

“They are evidence.”

“I just need them for a couple of hours, just to mount an exhibition. It’s crucial to the festival. You can have them back directly afterwards.”

“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement, Mr. Saurin,” Tony Fowler said, stretching out his hand.

Ahriman Saurin shook it warmly, taking care not to crush the detective’s fingers.

Sarah and Owen stood at the edge of the woods and followed Ambrose’s pointing finger toward the solid nineteenth-century farm house. “The Hallows are in there. The house is built over the remains of the ancient well.”

Owen shivered and rubbed his hands against his arms and across the back of his neck. Sarah found she was clutching the sword in sweat-damp hands, and she kept glancing over her shoulder, almost as if she expected something to come charging out of the trees.

“You’re feeling a tiny trickle of the power of the Hallows,” Ambrose explained. “They are sealed in lead boxes warded with words of power…but they are still incredibly powerful. If he does not use them soon, then the Hallows will break their bonds of lead and magic.”

“And then?” Sarah asked.

Ambrose shrugged. “Who knows? They are powerful enough to rip through the fabric of the myriad worlds, opening doorways into uncharted realms.”

“What do you want us to do?” Sarah asked tiredly.

“You must stop him, of course.” Ambrose said.

“How?” Owen asked.

“Only I can contain all of the Hallows,” the old man explained. “We have to get into the house—which is guarded by more than human wards—and then remove the Hallows. The Dark Man and his companion must be slain.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Sarah said.

“It won’t be,” Ambrose promised.

THE PLAN
had seemed absurdly simple.

Why should Ahriman expend his energy searching for the couple when the police had the resources to do it for him? Discovering that the police had tracked Miller to the village was an added bonus. The gods—his lips twisted bitterly—were smiling on him.

The Dark Man paused at the top of the hill and leaned on the stone wall to look down across the Mere. Stretching into the distance, the fields were ablaze with makeshift tents and colorful stalls. Flags were fluttering everywhere, and thousands of people were dressed in various macabre costumes, celebrating the festival. Some were wearing modern Halloween outfits, others were in dress inspired by movies, others in the robes they thought were traditional. Ahriman smiled; when the Demonkind came through, the humans wouldn’t even recognize them.

In the distance, sounding faint and not unpleasant, bagpipe music skirled on the surprisingly balmy October air. There were visitors from all across the world: Many were from the Celtic lands—Welsh, Scots, Irish, Manx, Bretons—with more arriving hourly. Americans, Canadians, Australians. A surprisingly large contingent of Eastern Europeans had arrived during the night. He’d even seen some South African flags. There were at least one hundred and fifty thousand men, women, and children of all ages in the fields before him.

Thirteen enormous pyres were scattered in a seemingly random pattern across the landscape; only he knew that eleven of them contained straw-wrapped portions of the bodies of the Hallowed Keepers and that the fires had been arranged in a very particular order.

And when the fires blazed forth into the beckoning night sky and consumed the flesh, then he would bring the Hallows together and ceremonially shatter them, breaking the seals between the worlds and allowing the Demonkind through. The ancient ritual would bind them to him. He would be their master and they would be his to command. With them he would rule the modern world.

Ahriman looked over the fields again. He wondered if one hundred and fifty thousand souls would be enough to sate the Demonkind’s ravenous appetite.

He doubted it.

I cannot see any alternative, can you?” Ambrose asked reasonably.

“But hundreds could be killed, thousands injured,” Sarah protested.

Ambrose shrugged. “If they remain and the Dark Man activates the Hallows, then they will all die anyway. Millions will die.”

“And can you do this?” Owen asked.

“Oh, I can do this…and more, much more,” the old man promised.

“If you’re so powerful, why can’t you get the Hallows yourself?” Sarah demanded. “Surely you could march in there and take them?”

“The wards of power the Dark Man has ringed around the Hallows would also weaken my own special powers. I would be helpless.” He shook his head quickly. “No, my place is here. I will return to the cave and wait one hour, then I will begin. When you hear my signal, you will make your way into the house, secure the Hallows, and kill the Dark Man and his servant.”

“How will we get the Hallows out to you?” Sarah asked.

“Carry them,” Ambrose suggested.

“I didn’t think we could,” Owen said doubtfully.

“Anyone can carry them, but you need to be of the bloodline of the original Keepers to
use
them properly.”

“But I’m not related to Judith Walker and yet I used the sword,” Sarah said.

“You are not a Hallowed Keeper,” Ambrose said simply, his face impassive. “But you fed the sword, and so bonded it to you. And yes, you used it, but only to kill. The great magic of the sword, Sarah, is that it can also heal and create.” The old man turned to Owen. “You have the horn, Owen, but can you control what comes when you call? Brigid Davis could. You can do nothing with the horn, but you could work wonders with the sword, for you’re of the blood of Judith Walker, and she was from the line of the original Hallowed Keepers. And let me tell you this, Owen Walker: If you go up against the Dark Man in the house, it is you who must face him with your Hallow, the sword. That is the only chance you will have, for he is a Hallowed Keeper, too.”

“But what about Sarah?”

“It would be better if Sarah did not face the Dark Man,” Ambrose said softly. He glanced at the young woman. “It would be better if you gave Owen the sword.”

Sarah looked at the sword in her hands. Even the thought of handing it over to Owen made her break out in a cold sweat.

Ambrose shook his head in amusement and then, without warning, reached out and snatched the sword from Sarah’s grasp. Blue green flames danced along the length of the blade, hissing and spitting like an angry cat. He thrust the sword into Owen’s hands. “If the circumstances were different, I would tell you its history and powers….”

Sarah suffered as if she’d just lost someone very close to her. She felt chilled and shaken. However, the constant pressure that had been sitting behind her temples for the past few days was suddenly gone, leaving her light-headed and dizzy.

In contrast, Owen felt himself shivering with the raw power that trickled through the sword, tingling along the length of his arms, settling into his chest and down into the pit of his belly. It seemed almost natural to hold the sword aloft in both hands, broken blade pointing through the green canopy toward the sun. Bruises faded, cuts healed, his curly hair suddenly grew back, blossomed around him in a mantle, sparkling and crackling softly.

Ambrose picked up the horn where Owen had dropped it. White light coiled around the rim of the horn’s mouth. “I’ll take this with me. It will help.”

Owen lowered the sword, and when he looked at Ambrose, his green eyes were hard and unforgiving. “I cannot agree with what you want to do.”

“Give me an alternative,” Ambrose suggested.

Owen chose to ignore the question. “Tell me how you intend to panic the people into leaving.”

“No,” Ambrose said simply.

“People will die,” Sarah protested.

“Sooner or later we all die.”