The Thirteen Hallows

by Michael Scott; Colette Freedman

  As she raced down the line, gravel crunching underfoot, Sarah shoved the Broken Sword back into the bag. She didn’t notice that although she herself was spattered with crimson, there was no blood on the metal.

  29

  Blood.

  Fresh and salt, warm and meat. It had been a long time since it had tasted blood. And the blood is life.

  Memories stirred….

  Memories of the time when the sorcerer-smiths, following a thousand-year-old tradition, had driven the inanimate lump of gleaming metal into the bodies of a score of slaves. And at the moment of their deaths, in that instant of excruciating pain, there had sprung the spark of consciousness.

  It had developed awareness.

  Consciousness returned….

  The sorcerer-smiths thought they were imbuing the artifact with life; however, they were mistaken. They were merely opening a portal. The first blood sacrifice had sent ripples out into the Otherworld, calling, calling, calling…and the invitation was accepted. A presence as old as the universe slipped into the newly crafted object, a presence that hungered. In the time that followed, it had feasted off flesh and blood and souls aplenty. This was a time of Chaos when men ruled by the sword, when justice was bought on the edge of a blade. The consciousness that inhabited the length of blade rejoiced as it fed, and the wielder of the weapon experienced a tiny fragment of that alien joy. And it was addictive.

  Centuries passed, and then everything changed. The presence in the sword found itself fettered, bound by something far stronger than its own will.

  It was still used as an instrument of death, it still feasted off flesh and souls. Yet it took little sustenance from the killings; that energy was directed elsewhere. Now, it drank the souls of men and women of learning and intelligence; it supped off those who worshipped strange gods in dark lands. Those who wielded the weapon had changed, too: Primitive, gnarled hands had given way to leather and then mail gloves, and the iron gauntlets—cold iron—shielded it from the ecstasy of blood.

  And then it had been broken.

  THE TWO men fighting in the churned field considered themselves knights on the opposite side of an ancient battle. They were fighting for causes that they themselves did not truly believe in. They fought because they were expected to fight and because they knew no other trade.

  Nor did they know that they were fighting with weapons that were claimed by entities older than the race of mankind. While the men hacked and hewed, the metal blades sparking and blunting, another battle, bloodless but far more savage, was being enacted in the place known to humankind as the Otherworld.

  And because one sword had been fed with innocent blood—sweet and clean—and the heady elixir of virgins, because the wielder was a despoiler of women, who took pleasure in rape and butchery, he was victorious. Battering his opponent to his knees, his demon-blessed weapon had hewn through the other weapon, shattering it into two pieces.

  It had lost consciousness then, allowed itself to sleep….

  The same scything blow had taken the head from the kneeling knight. The sword had keened in victory, and the armored knight raised it high in triumph. And later generations would call him Arthur and name the demon sword Excalibur.

  And the Broken Sword would be forgotten. But it was called Dyrnwyn.

  And now, after centuries of hunger, it had fed.

  The Broken Sword had awakened.

  30

  Sarah pulled out the envelope and rechecked the address before turning into the side street off Earls Court Road. She stood in the dark, nervously practicing her bizarre introduction. “Mr. Walker, I realize that it’s really late and you don’t know me, but…” She shook her head. No, that would be too weird. She should be friendlier, more personable. “Hi, Owen, your aunt Judith sent me…” She nodded quickly, reassuring herself. Yes, she must mention Judith’s name to get his attention….

  She stopped, becoming aware that a young couple on the opposite side of the road was watching her closely, and she realized that she’d been speaking aloud, head nodding. “I must look like a maniac,” she muttered as she reached the complex, looking for Owen Walker’s apartment.

  Sarah ran her finger down the lighted bells on the cream-painted door. Against the faint hue, the blood wedged into her once perfectly manicured fingernails stood out vividly. All of the bells had names on the white cards beneath them. Two were doctors, the rest went by initials only…yet there was no Walker. She dug into the bag and checked the envelope again, then stood back to look up at the number on the door. They matched.

  The hall door suddenly opened and a tall Asian woman, wearing a nurse’s uniform beneath a light coat, stepped out. The nurse gave a tiny gasp when she saw the figure standing before her.

  Sarah attempted a smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I have a package for Mr. Owen Walker.” She showed the nurse the envelope. “I thought he lived at this address.”

  “He does. But in the basement fl…” The nurse started to speak, then stopped as she looked the young woman up and down. She stepped back into the hall and closed the door slightly, obviously prepared to slam it shut. “He works odd hours. I’m sure he’s sleeping, so if you’d like to leave the parcel with me, I’ll make certain that he gets it.”

  “I’m sorry. I have to deliver it into his hands.”

  “It’s no trouble,” the nurse said quickly.

  “Thanks, but I promised his aunt that I’d give it to him.”

  “Judith?” The woman’s defensive face melted into a semblance of warmth.

  “Yes, Judith Walker. She asked me to give this to Owen.”

  The nurse relaxed a little. “I haven’t seen her around for a while. She promised me an autographed book for my son. How is she?”

  “Fine,” Sarah lied.

  “Owen’s apartment is just around the corner, down the stairs, can’t miss it.” She pointed helpfully before adding, “Tell Judith that Rika’s still waiting for her book.”

  “I will,” Sarah said grimly, turning away.

  There was a single bell on the basement door, which was hidden directly beneath the steps. The faded name on the sliver of white paper stuck to the bell said walker. Sarah raked her fingers through her tangled hair and smoothed her stained clothing before pressing the button. It buzzed deep in the flat. Moments later, the chocolate-colored curtains to her right twitched. The windows, she noted, were barred. Through the gap in the net curtains, she thought she could make out a man’s face, curly hair, eyes dulled with sleep. Again she held up the letter, showing the address. “I’ve a parcel for Mr. Owen Walker.”

  The face disappeared from the window.

  Footsteps padded in the hallway, a floorboard creaked, and then she heard the rattle of a chain. The door opened, but only to the extent of the safety chain.

  “Are you Owen Walker?”

  “Who wants to know?” A man’s husky voice.

  “I do. I have a package,” Sarah said, frustrated by the man’s caution.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “A bit late for a delivery.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll take that,” the man said impatiently.

  “Look, I can only give this to Owen Walker, no one else,” Sarah said, squinting to make out some details of the figure lurking behind the door. Tall, maybe six feet. “I promised,” she added lamely.

  “I’m Owen Walker.” He spoke with an American accent. Boston, she guessed.

  “Can you give me some proof?”

  “What?”

  “Proof. Can you give me some proof? Mrs. Walker made me promise that I’d give this to her nephew and no one else.”

  “Judith? Aunt Judith?” The door closed, the chain clattered, and then the door was reopened.

  “Aunt Judith gave me this to give to you.”

  A young man stepped out of the shadows, tousled black hair glistening in the moonlight. He was handsome in a boyish manner and wore a navy bl
ue Yale sweatshirt. Sarah guessed he was only a couple of years older than she was. His eyes narrowed as they took in Sarah’s disheveled appearance, her ashen features, and the deep shadows beneath her eyes. He reached out politely to shake her hand.

  “I’m Owen….” His grip was strong, the flesh soft and cool beneath her.

  “She told me to give you this and say…and say…” Sarah suddenly stopped, energy draining away, leaving her legs rubbery, icy sweat on her forehead, her tongue thick in her mouth.

  “Are you all right?”

  She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue felt huge and swollen. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, reaching out to grip the wall. “Just a little faint. I’m just out of hospital,” she muttered. There were bright red spots at the corners of her eyes, exploding like tiny stars. She swayed and would have fallen if Owen hadn’t reached out and caught her midcollapse, scooping her up into his arms.

  “Hey. Just take it easy. Take it easy.” He carried her into the tiny hall, turned to the right into the small sitting room, and eased her gently into a battered fireside chair.

  SARAH LOOKED up into Owen’s concerned face. She attempted to push herself upright, but he placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back onto the chair. “Just take it easy. Glad to see you’re back among the living,” he said lightly before he disappeared into the kitchen. She heard a tap running, and then Owen reappeared with a glass of water. Sarah sipped it.

  “Slowly. Take your time,” Owen advised, “or you’ll get a stomachache.” Folding his arms across his broad chest, he observed her critically. “You fainted, probably from exhaustion. I know it’s not polite to say to a lady, but you really don’t look that great.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah whispered. She felt completely disoriented, and if she turned her head too quickly, the world shifted and spun.

  “You said you were in the hospital. What for?”

  Sarah started to shake her head and stopped as the world tilted and swayed. “Observation…shock…I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know why you were in the hospital?” the man asked, incredulous. “Are you on medication?” he asked.

  “No. Nothing. I’m not taking drugs,” she said, suddenly realizing what he was saying.

  “Which hospital were you in?”

  “Crawley…I think.”

  “You think?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I’m not sure. Everything is a bit…The events of the last few days are confused.”

  “When were you discharged?”

  “Today.”

  “Didn’t anyone pick you up?”

  “I discharged myself.”

  Owen crouched down facing Sarah, emerald green eyes searching her face. “I think you should go to the nearest hospital or even back to Crawley and see if they’ll readmit you. I could call someone,” he added.

  “I’m fine,” Sarah said quickly. “I just wanted to get the bag to you.”

  “The bag?” Owen reached over and dragged the heavy Tesco bag toward him, grunting in surprise at the weight. He pulled out the envelope and glanced at it quickly before looking back at Sarah, eyes narrowing. “Where did you get this?”

  “I told you: Your aunt gave it to me. She told me—she made me promise—that I’d put it into your hands. And she told me to say…she told me to say…” Sarah could feel the burning at the back of her throat, the sour acid in her stomach. Her eyes filled with tears, and the room blurred and fragmented. She stood up suddenly, and Owen came quickly to his feet to help. Holding an arm out in front of her, Sarah backed away in alarm. “She told me to say that she was sorry, so sorry,” she said in a rush.

  “Sorry?”

  Sarah nodded quickly. “So sorry.” Then she turned and staggered from the room. Owen watched in astonishment as she rushed out the door, ran past the window, and disappeared into the night.

  31

  Robert Elliot struck Skinner sharply across the face, the sound echoing in the underground garage. The signet ring on his index finger caught the skinhead on the cheekbone, opening the skin in a wide, deep cut. For an instant, rage sparked behind the skinhead’s muddy eyes and his fists clenched. Elliot laughed at the reaction. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.” Then he deliberately turned his back on the skinhead, leaving him to dab at the wound on his cheek with his sleeve as he walked back to his car. “It wasn’t my fault,” Skinner said plaintively. “I wasn’t even on the train. Larry was probably out of his head on something….”

  Elliot pulled out his car keys and pointed the remote control at the black BMW. The lights flashed and the door locks thumped. “I told you to find the girl. I told you to bring her back…I told you…you…you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Elliot, I’ll find her.”

  The small man opened the car and climbed in. “I know you will, because if you don’t, then our association will be at an end,” Elliot snapped, and pulled the door closed. “And trust me, you don’t want me to lose interest in you, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, Elliot slid the window up and the BMW pulled away with hardly a sound.

  Skinner waited until the car had vanished before he whispered, “Fuck you.” Then he dug his hand into the back pockets of his jeans and went to look for Sarah Miller. “How am I going to find her? I don’t even know where to begin.” He needed to stay sharp. He was on borrowed time now with Elliot. He’d seen what the older man had done to people he’d lost interest in. And it hadn’t been pretty.

  THE GIRL led a charmed life.

  Not only had she eluded him again, she had killed one of his people.

  Robert Elliot cruised London’s streets in the BMW, trying to work out how he was going to tell his mysterious employer that he had failed—yet again—to bring him Sarah Miller.

  Elliot knew exactly how McFeely had died. He hadn’t slipped and fallen, cutting his throat on broken glass, as Skinner reported. Elliot had used a police connection to get an up-to-date report on McFeely’s death. According to eyewitness reports, Miller had decapitated the boy with what had variously been described as an iron bar, a metal bar, or a hammer.

  Elliot knew it had been the sword. And he knew that his boss was not going to be happy about that.

  He finally made the call from a phone box in New Cavendish Street—one of the few still remaining in London. He’d driven around for thirty minutes, trying to think of a good excuse, finally deciding that honesty was the safest policy.

  This time the call was picked up on the first ring. As usual, no one on the other end responded.

  “It’s me,” he said shortly.

  “The girl?” demanded the harsh, arrogant voice on the other end of the phone.

  “We haven’t found her yet—she evaded us on the train. One of my men was with her, but there was some sort of accident; it looks as if Miller killed him.”

  “Killed him?” The question was left hanging.

  Elliot took a deep breath. “I believe she used the sword.”

  The phone was slammed down so hard, it hurt his ear.

  32

  Bad news?” Vyvienne asked. She slithered up on the bed and knelt behind the naked man, wrapping her arms around his chest, pressing her breasts against his shoulders.

  “The sword has tasted blood,” Ahriman shouted with a mixture of rage and fear. “Tasted blood…but not the blood of its Keeper.” Pushing her away, he surged to his feet. He strode across the room, then swung back to face the woman. “Do you know what this means?”

  “Another of the Hallows has become active?” she suggested. “But you’ve been firing the artifacts with the blood and pain of the Keepers….”

  “Of the Keepers, yes. But Miller killed with the sword, she allowed it to taste unhallowed blood.” Ahriman’s voice was thick with emotion, his cultured accent slipping momentarily. He realized he was trembling. “Have you any idea of the implications?”

  She shook her head, long dark hair trailing across her eyes.

  “The power within the Hallow has been
dormant for centuries. The blood of the Hallowed Keepers fires the artifact and simultaneously calms it, leaving it replete with power. But Miller has given it a soul to drink. Now that it is awakened, it will begin to renew itself…not only in this world, but in the Otherworld as well. Even now, its energy is probably rippling through the Astral.” He stopped suddenly, then leaned forward to cup the young woman’s chin, tilting her face up to his. “Could you find it? Could you follow a disturbance in the Astral?”

  “Probably…,” she said, sounding doubtful.

  “Then do it. Do it now!” Fleshy lips curled in a smile. “If you can find it, then we can trace it back to the girl.”

  The woman smiled lasciviously. “I will need your strength if I’m to go adventuring….”

  ELLIOT HAD been driving aimlessly for an hour, the sleek black car moving silently through London’s never-sleeping streets. He was frightened: The situation was getting out of control, and maybe it was time for him to get out of the city.

  The phone buzzed against his chest. Startled, Elliot tapped the brakes and there was the blare of a car horn behind him. No one had his personal number. It was a cheap pay-as-you-go phone that he used only for outgoing calls. The small rectangular screen showed unlisted. It buzzed a dozen times before he finally pressed answer. He recognized the husky voice immediately and felt a trickle of fear. How had this man gotten the number?

  “Judith Walker has a nephew, an Owen Walker. The boy lives alone in a flat in Scarsdale Villas. Miller has been there already, she’s given him the sword.”

  Elliot blurted, “But how do you—”

  “I know.” There was a dry, rasping chuckle. “I know everything, Mr. Elliot. Everything. Remember that.”

  33