Unbound (69 page)

“You defy God!”

“No,” Tathal said. “I defy His tyranny.”

The reverend darkened. “Son, that game will lead to your damnation.”

“I hated the last man who called me ‘son,’ you know,” Tathal mused. “Hate can be a most powerful magic if wielded by someone tempered by it.”

“
Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him
,” John de Burg quoted.

“Ahh yes,” Tathal said, remembering the Bible passage. “John 3:15, right? You are correct about one thing. I
am
a murderer. But I have been alive for far too many centuries to not wonder about eternity and my place in it.” He put his foot on the neck of the churchwarden. “I will counter with this: ‘Believe those who are seeking the Truth; doubt those who find it.’”

“I do not know what you plan,” the reverend said. “The sword is filled with a miracle, a weapon that does not show its true age. I am not a dumb man. It has been imbued in some way. And if it has been given certain properties that are outside the realm of science, it must be the Word’s doing. Since God exists, then evil exists.” John de Brug paused. “You are a part of that evil, on some quest that has rotted your heart, a search for answers that leads to your death and those you meet. I beg you. Forgo that quest.”

“A brave speech,” Tathal said, smiling. “Where is the sword?”

“Would you destroy the world to have your answers?”

Tathal looked to the Christ, pinned to his cross even as his cross was pinned to the stone wall of church.

Christ had to have wondered, while dying, what his Father was thinking.

Tathal had similar questions.

Just then a phone began to ring, from a distant small office within the church.

“To be born with such an unerring sense of right is a hardship most will never know,” Tathal said, looking back to the priest. “You believe you know what duty is. But like many of your brethren, you have been misled. I intend to discover that which has been hidden from the world.”

“This is Lucifer’s work!”

Tathal laughed. “Lucifer? Hardly. A pawn, nothing more. Lying in his pit and waiting, no doubt. No, I seek a greater prize.”

He pulled a knife from concealment and, kneeling, put it against Peter Fursdon’s neck, never once taking his eyes off of the rector.

“For the last time, Reverend. Where is the sword?”

Reverend John de Brug did not move.

“His blood will be on your soul.”

Indecision. It crashed over the reverend like a wave. The silence of death hung within the church. The old priest moved toward the chancel. Tathal watched closely. There were no ways of exit there. After fumbling out of sight behind the stone relief of Christ on his cross, the rector withdrew and returned with a long wooden box, waxed and glowing in the dim light of the church’s interior.

“This is what you seek,” Reverend John de Brug said.

Returning his knife to its shadows, Tathal gazed upon the box. A small leather belt kept it closed.

“Set it down on the pew. And back away,” he said.

The rector did so.

While reaching to undo the belt and peer at his prize, Tathal hoped his trip to South Cadbury had not been in vain.

That’s when the rector, like a cornered viper, struck.

Reverend John de Brug leaped at Tathal, roaring, trying to bowl the other over through physical force. It worked. Both men went tumbling into the pews. Fire erupted along Tathal’s side even as he lashed out with all the rage a wounded and surprised wizard could muster—the words for the first spell he had learned blazing in his mind and gathering on his lips. He then saw the bloodied knife about to plunge into him again. He gripped the other’s wrists, bracing them and their blade from falling, even as he shouted a language not heard commonly for hundreds of years.

Just as the rector gained leverage, Tathal finished the final word.

And fire sprung to life on the rector’s chest.

John de Brug screeched in panic, his attack halted. It was enough. Left cold by the magic that had stolen his body heat to create flame, Tathal drove his fist into the rector’s neck. The reverend tumbled backward onto the church floor, squirming, choking, unable to breath.

Tathal regained his feet. He peered down at the beaten man.

“Brave of you,” the wizard said, breathing hard from the fight. “No one has dealt me a blow in almost a century. Still, that was a pitiful attempt at being a hero,” he added, straightening his clothing. “There are no such things, you know. Heroes. Only men with the will to see
their
will done.”

“A hero will be called to answer for your evil,” Reverend John de Brug croaked.

“I look forward to killing this man.”

“He is no man,” the rector gasped, rubbing at his throat even as his clothing still smoked.

Tathal did not care. Undoing the belt, he pulled the sword free of its case. The weapon was heavy but he did not look at it.

He didn’t need to.

“You will need me,” Reverend John de Brug croaked.

Tathal looked down at the churchwarden before meeting the eyes of the rector, the coming death rising inside.

“I no longer need you.”

With a rage he had befriended in his youth, Tathal brought the sword down. Repeatedly. Again and again. The old priest screamed in agony as steel punctured his abdomen in numerous spurting wounds. Blood began to pool about him.

It was a baptism the centuries-old church had likely never witnessed.

Tathal took a step back as the other man mewled and whimpered like a feverish child, bloody hands clutching at his shredded middle. He would let the reverend suffer for his affront, death too great a gift to give. The wizard looked to his own wound. Fire lanced his side. Breathing hurt. His own crimson bled out. The cut was not deep. The knife had scraped along his ribs. He had been lucky. But barely.

“You are mine,” Tathal said to the churchwarden, whose rage and fear could not be quelled by even the paralyzing spell the wizard had used. “Rise. And become an extension of my will.”

As if a puppet on strings, Peter Fursdon regained control over his body and pushed himself up off the floor. Of course, he was not
in
control. Tathal maintained that. Getting a better look, he was pleased to see the strength in the younger man—a brutish strength but lithe enough to be quite quick. The churchman would be perfect for what was needed.

“You have killed him,” Peter Fursdon whispered, suddenly realizing he could use his voice.

“Yes. In time. A short time, methinks.”

“You could have killed us easily, gotten the information you wanted easily,” the churchwarden growled, his fury returned. “Why toy with us?”

“When one plans on speaking to the Word,” Tathal said, hefting the sword and finally examining it. “It is important to practice.”

“There are forces of good in this world. In South Cadbury even.”

“I know,” Tathal agreed. “And I look forward to killing them.”

Looking away, he called upon his magic. It stirred immediately. And snaked its way up the blade—into the very metal—alive and revealing the secrets the weapon held. Many men and women had died upon the sword. He could sense that. But Tathal focused on one particular bloodletting—one set down and recorded as part of an epic battle in this part of the world. The magic then took a small part of what it had found and entered the world, reaching, delving, seeking for the one Tathal hunted.

It did not take long.

Frowning, he went to a window and gazed northwest with eyes keener than any night bird.

To a hill, far in the distance, where a black stain with straight lines jutted from England—a tower, with darkness carved from the faint light of moon and star.

A tower created to imprison.

Tathal let his magic die, replacing it with burning conviction. He could see his quest’s endgame.

And it was nigh.

Carefully wrapping the sword in cloth and tugging on the magical strings of his new puppet, he left the dying Reverend Peter de Brug and his holy place. He exited the church and returned to the cool caress of the night. The scent of sweet lavender became his companion once more. For a moment, he looked backward, discerning if he had made a mistake in letting the rector live even moments longer, moments that might lead to downfall.

But he sensed nothing. The path he took was his to win.

With the churchwarden following against his will, Tathal embraced the journey before him.

An hour after leaving South Cadbury, the six bells of the Church of Saint Thomas a Becket pealed with a manic undertone that echoed over the countryside, music not meant to sound the time.

Tathal listened to them fade with every step.

It was a nice night for a walk.

* * * * *

No one witnessed his arrival to Glastonbury Tor.

It had taken the rest of the night and most of the following day to make his way across the south of Britain. Tathal had embraced the journey as he had done all of the events in his life—with patient conviction. Now he stood at the base of one of the oldest places in England, its settlement dating back to the Iron Age. And at its apex, a tower lorded, its construction older than he but not by much. He had been here before but never could have guessed part of his future lay buried in the tor’s past. Death, it seemed, could hide from even one such as he. But he now possessed one of the most marvelous blades in history and it had drawn him here like a lodestone, leaving no doubt. Buried in the hillside’s depths, darkness slept.

And in that darkness, he would find a powerful tool that would protect him from Heliwr Richard McAllister and his foulmouthed fairy guide.

With the churchwarden behind him, Tathal paused, sending magic into the surroundings for what felt like the hundredth time since they had left South Cadbury. He was not worried about the tourists who frequented Glastonbury Tor; they had vanished with the coming of night. No human was present on the tor, as far as Tathal could gauge. No night predators of significance were about either.

Yet Tathal and his charge were far from alone.

The bells of Saint Thomas a Becket church had summoned aid. Tathal had no idea who—or what—tracked them. Spirit. Demon. Fey. Angel. Any number of other entities not human. He could feel his tracker’s otherworldliness. It was a subtle suggestion on the air that grew stronger as the distance between them lessened.

As fog began to infiltrate the lowlands, Tathal made his way above it, up the steep path toward the hill’s top. The tower of Saint Michael’s Church had stood on Glastonbury Tor for centuries. Once part of a much larger complex, the tower was all that remained, the memory of an age long since past. The Dissolution of Monasteries had been hard on all of the important buildings of ancient England. The tower was all that remained of a much greater church, its square spire three-stories tall and featuring corner buttresses, perpendicular bell openings, and a sculptured tablet bearing the image of an eagle below the parapet. The tower stood with resilience against the ages, sealed with concrete where weather and use had pitted it.

Tathal now recognized that the tower had survived not by chance but by design. Men of secrets and power had preserved it at a time when they dismantled other churches.

Those men understood what he now discerned.

The tower held a dark secret.

Tathal walked the grounds, taking it all in. He did not hurry. Reverend John de Brug did actually teach him something: never take a moment for granted. When one was as old as he, life depended on being cautious. In his arrogance, he had almost lost his life. He would not be careless again.

That’s when four arrows shot with lightning speed punctured the night.

When he had sensed their pursuer, Tathal had readied for the attack. The arrows bounced off a thin skein of magic he had maintained throughout the journey.

They were no ordinary arrows.

At least he knew who pursued him.

“You might as well show yourself, Elf,” Tathal said, trying to keep the edge out of his spell-thick voice. “Few can follow me. Fewer still can harm me.”

Movement showed in the darkness, quickly vanishing below the hill’s horizon.

“Are you by chance a warden of this place?”

No answer.

“Or merely someone seeking revenge for last night?”

“Wizard, I protect more than an evil like you can fathom,” the darkness said.

In the voice, Tathal heard many things. Pain. Intelligence. Loneliness. Caution. Rage. Heart.

And the last fracturing more with every passing sunrise.

“I know you, better than I know many in your village of exile,” Tathal said, still peering into the gloom in an attempt to discover the other’s whereabouts. He felt like the universe was testing him with one last trial. “I felt your presence when I first entered South Cadbury. Are you the final piece to the puzzle of this night?”

“I am not,” the Elf snarled, now on Tathal’s left. The wizard kept his magic up.

“I know your story, Ruindolon Arl. The exile. The anguish. Shall I tell you the tale I know?” When the Elf said nothing, Tathal continued. “In a name, your exile is Rylynn Etton. Also known as Rylynn of Beauty. Her name says it all, yes?” No answer. “She was your love,” he continued. “And you, her love. Young love. The kind that many legends recount. But we know how those stories end, don’t we, Ruindolon Arl? The King of the Elves wooed Rylynn for his own. Royalty has ever done such things. It failed. The love you shared held true. Until the King used threat against you to win her hand. And in your jealousy and anger and righteousness—emotions only the deepest depths of one’s heart know—you attempted to assassinate your liege. And failed.

“I do not begrudge the attempt, you understand,” Tathal said. “It is undoubtedly what I would have done. It was just poorly executed. Like your attempt on
my
life.”

“I have much to pay for,” Ruindolon Arl agreed, now somewhere behind him.

Tathal followed the voice. “You will serve my needs this day, Elf. And be released from pain.”

“You know me,” the Elf said flatly. “But I know you as well. Why you are here. There are graves in the Misty Isles that hold great power. You seek one of those deaths here, beneath us. Not a forever death but a revenant of death chained beneath the weight of his bastardized past. The death you seek, it will undo you.” He paused, voice already in a different place near the tower. “I know you will not relent. But the priest is an innocent in this. Let him free.”