The Thirteen Hallows

by Michael Scott; Colette Freedman

  “We took to gathering outside his cave in the late afternoons. Golden afternoons, with the sun slanting in through the trees, and the air still and heavy, rich with forest smells. It is something I have never forgotten…though nowadays the woods terrify me,” she added with a smile. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve been in a wood.

  “Ambrose started telling us stories, rich, magical tales of legend and folklore. He was a remarkable storyteller: It was almost as if he had been there. And then he told us about the Hallows. The Thirteen Treasures of Britain. A week later he produced the artifacts themselves.” Brigid fell silent.

  “What happened?” Owen asked softly.

  The old woman smiled. “I’m not sure. That day remains confused in my memory, though so many of the others have remained vividly clear. I do recall that the day was heavy with thunder, the air electric. It had rained the previous day, torrential rain that turned the forest tracks to muddy ruts, making them impassable, and we were confined to our various homes. That night, it clouded over early, and those were the days before television, so we were sent to bed—”

  “You keep saying we,” Sarah interrupted. “Who is we?”

  “All of us.” Brigid smiled. “Me, Millie, Georgie, Judith, Barbara, Richie, Gabe, Nina, Bea, Sophie, Donny, Billy, Tommy…all of us. I’m telling you what happened to me, but it was happening to the other twelve children at the same time. We were all dreaming the same dreams, thinking the same thoughts.”

  “What happened?” Owen asked.

  “We awoke about midnight. We all felt compelled to go to Ambrose.” Brigid laughed shakily. “What a sight we must have been: thirteen naked children moving through the empty streets and back lanes, down the muddy forest tracks.

  “Ambrose was waiting for us. He was wearing a long gray gown, belted around the middle with a white knotted cord, and he had a thick hood thrown over his head. He was standing before a moss-covered tree stump, which was piled high with dozens of strange objects. One by one we stepped forward, oldest to youngest…and he would reach around, without looking, and press one or another of the items into our hands, and whisper its name into our ears. Then we would step back and the next person would come forward….”

  Owen stared at the old woman, suddenly remembering an entry he’d read from Judith’s diary:

  We were in the middle of the forest…gathered in a semicircle around Ambrose…On the stump were loads of strange objects. Cups, plates, knives, a chessboard, a beautiful red cloak. One by one we walked up to Ambrose and he gave us each one of the beautiful objects….

  He realized that Brigid was staring at him. “What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.

  Owen shook his head. “My aunt described the events you’re talking about, but she wrote that it was a dream.”

  “At first it was a dream: every night for ten days, the same dream, the same sequence of events, and Ambrose would whisper the same words. On the eleventh night it came true, and by that time, of course, we were word perfect in the ritual.” She gave a gentle shrug. “I think the dreams were sent by Ambrose to prepare us for what was to come.”

  “It wasn’t a dream?” Sarah asked.

  Brigid pointed to the sword in her hand, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small curved hunting horn of old yellowed ivory, capped with wrought gold and inlaid with intricate patterns in stone.

  “This is the Horn of…B-R-A-N,” she spelled out. “I dare not say its name. And no, it wasn’t a dream.” Holding the horn in a white-knuckled grip, she took a deep, sobbing breath. “When it came my turn, I stepped up to the one-eyed old man and he pressed this into my hand. And when he said its name I knew—I suddenly knew—everything about this object…and indeed about all of the other Hallows. I knew what they were, where they came from, and, more important, their function.

  “I’m not sure how the others reacted to their gifts. It was something we never spoke about. I got the impression that some of the others simply didn’t believe—or didn’t want to believe—what Ambrose had told them. When the war ended, we all went our separate ways, and we were all, in minor ways, successful. Professionally. Personally. Both. Those of us who believed in the Hallows, who instinctively understood their power, were a bit more successful than the others. But that had little to do with us; that was the residual power of the Hallows working through us.”

  “Did the group ever meet again?” Owen asked.

  “A few of us kept in touch, but Ambrose was insistent that all the Hallows must never be brought together again.”

  “Why?” Sarah asked. She thought she could feel the sword becoming warm in her grip, and she knew instinctively that it was the proximity of the Horn of Bran.

  Brigid’s smile was icy. “Too dangerous. There are thirteen Hallows. Individually, they are powerful. Together, they are devastating. They must never be brought together.”

  “This Ambrose had brought them together,” Sarah said quickly.

  “Ambrose was the Guardian of the Hallows, he could control them.”

  Owen leaned forward, hands locked tightly together. “You said you knew the function of the Hallows. What was it?”

  Brigid’s smile was cold, distant. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “Why not?” Sarah demanded.

  “When Ambrose gave me the Hallow, he opened my mind to the ancient mysteries. I came from a deeply religious background, and what I learned that night shocked me to the core, making me doubt everything I had learned from childhood. I have spent my entire life in pursuit of religious knowledge, looking for answers, and despite my wonderful gift, I realized that the more I learned, the more I discovered that I did not know.” Her smile twisted. “I know that in the last few years, your aunt also delved into the area of arcane lore and folklore, seeking answers in the past to the same questions which have troubled me all my life.”

  Owen shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Tell us what the Hallows do,” Sarah insisted.

  “They are wards, protections, powerful barriers. They were put in place to contain…” She stopped and sighed. “I cannot. It is far too dangerous. You are unprotected. Even the knowledge renders you vulnerable.”

  “Tell me,” Sarah insisted. Brigid shook her head, and Sarah experienced a sudden snap of irrational anger. She surged to her feet, the sword clutched before her, towering over the tiny woman, who was now rocking back and forth in the chair. “Tell me!”

  “Sarah!”

  She suddenly stopped, her breathing ragged, heart hammering, aware that Owen was shouting at her, pulling at her arm.

  Brigid reached out and touched her hand, and Sarah felt the sudden red rage flow away, leaving her weak and trembling. Shaken, she sank back into the chair, cheeks flushed with shame at her outburst.

  “You see the danger of the Hallows?” the old woman asked. “You are not a woman prone to anger…and yet see what it did to you. If you continue to hold on to the sword, in another few days it will control you…and the paradox is that you will enjoy it. That is what happened to some of the Hallowed Keepers. They began to enjoy the power…and the power corrupted them.”

  “I’m not a Hallowed Keeper,” Sarah said sullenly.

  “No,” Brigid agreed, “but you are much more, I think.”

  “Besides, the sword belongs to Owen.” Sarah smiled. “Judith asked me to pass it on.”

  “Then give it to him,” Brigid suggested.

  Sarah turned to the young man sitting beside her, abruptly alarmed by the idea of giving away the rusted piece of metal. She tried to raise her right hand, the hand holding the sword, but she found she couldn’t lift it. A vise closed around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, acid burning in her stomach.

  “You see?” The old woman smiled. “You see the hold it has on you?”

  Sarah slumped back into the chair, bathed in sweat. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  61

>   Skinner climbed the stairs slowly, heart hammering, lungs burning. He was so out of shape, and the elevator hadn’t been working. He had never liked elevators; it wasn’t that he was claustrophobic, but he remembered a story he’d read as a teenager, about a man who gets into an elevator, presses down…and it carries him straight to hell, and all the floors he passes are highlights in his life. He’d been ten years old when he read that story, and it had awakened him night after night screaming in terror…and then his father would come in, reeking of sour drink, with the leather belt in his hand….

  As the skinhead climbed the stairs slowly, he decided that living in a place like this must be a living hell. Identical apartments, identical lives, no jobs, little money, identical grim futures.

  At least he had a future.

  Technically, he was unemployed. He collected his unemployment benefits every week, but Elliot had always made sure he had more than enough in his pocket. Skinner’s grin faded. With Elliot gone, who was going to run the clubs, the cinema; who was going to pay him? His new employer had said that he would be well rewarded, but he hadn’t mentioned money.

  On the way over here, he’d had to fill up the stolen Nissan with gas. Usually Elliot would pick up the tab for that, but this time it had come out of his own pocket. He had twenty-two pounds in cash at the moment, but what was he going to do when that ran out? The next time he spoke with his new boss, he’d make a point of asking him.

  Skinner rested on the eighth floor, breathing heavily, leaning against the greasy wall. His heart was tripping madly, and he had the feeling that he was going to throw up. Breathing in great gulps of air tainted with the smells of sour urine and cabbage, he tried to work out where he was going to put his hands on some cash. Elliot must have had money stashed away, but he had no idea where. He wondered if the old woman kept any cash in her flat. Old people didn’t trust banks; they always kept their savings with them. And then he wondered how much his employers would pay him for this hunting horn they wanted. If they wanted it that badly, then they would pay. Handsomely.

  62

  Brigid Davis stood before the window and stared out across the London skyline. “Individually, the Hallows appear throughout English history in one guise or another, usually as the property of kings and queens, or those closest to them. They are linked with all the great figures of legend, and they turn up, directly or indirectly, at all of history’s great tipping points. Their last known appearance was during the dark days of the war.” She paused for effect. “And I believe that they’ve taken on a power of their own, using and shaping the Keepers to their own ends.”

  Owen smiled tentatively. “You make it sound as if they are alive.”

  “The artifacts are sentient,” she said. “I believe they form a symbiotic relationship with the Keeper. They become rather like an addictive drug; you cannot bear to be parted from them.” She smiled at Sarah. “As you’ve discovered.”

  “But I’m not the Keeper,” she said desperately.

  “But you’ve fed the sword. You are linked to it. Since you’ve come in here, you’ve not let it out of your hands.”

  Sarah looked at the sword in her rust-stained hands. She hadn’t realized she’d still been holding it.

  “Someone is collecting the Hallows,” Brigid continued, turning back to the window. “Sometimes, at the very edge of sleep, I think I see him: a tall, dark man, powerfully built. And occasionally there is an image of a young woman, beautiful, deadly, her black hair blowing around her like a cape…. I’ve always had visions, and although these are fairly clear, I’m not sure if these are real visions or just a dream. I’m inclined to think that they are shadows of real people. I don’t know who these people are or why they are collecting the Hallows, but they’re dangerous. They are firing the energies of the collected Hallows, bringing them to magical life by bathing them in the blood and pain of the Keepers; then channeling the dark emotional energy into the individual Hallows.”

  “But why?” Owen asked. “Surely you have some idea?”

  Brigid nodded. “Yes, I have thought of a reason…possibly the only reason someone would want—need—all of the Hallows. But it is so abominable that it’s almost incomprehensible.”

  “Tell us,” Sarah said softly.

  “Why don’t you tell us?” Brigid suggested.

  “Me!”

  “The sword is at the heart of the legend.” The old woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Look at it, feel it, listen to it…listen to it, Sarah.”

  Sarah attempted a smile—the old woman was mad—but the sword was suddenly a leaden weight, and she had to grip it in both hands. Her whole body shuddered, the vibration working down through her arms into her small wrists. The sword jerked in her hands, flakes of rust sliding off, revealing more of the sword-shape beneath, and she was suddenly able to see what it must have looked like when it was whole and complete.

  Sarah closed her eyes…

  63

  …and she began to see.

  Mist swirled, moisture beading on the metal, and then the creatures appeared, jaws gaping, talons flashing, yellow eyes blazing in the drab light. The boy Yeshu’a lifted the sword and pointed it at the creatures.

  “What are they?” The boy’s voice was calm.

  Josea placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, taking comfort from the young man’s curious calm. “Demonkind,” he said simply. “The local people call them Fomor.”

  Yeshu’a watched the creatures swarm on the beach, angular, misshapen figures moving through the early morning fog. They were taller than men, but green gray and scaled like the crocodile from the Dark Southlands, with the same long, tooth-filled jaws. Unlike the blank-eyed crocodile, these creatures had eyes that burned with cold intelligence. They had fallen upon the merchants and mariners waiting on the beach, butchering them in sight of the approaching ships, killing some instantly, playing with others until their screams became too terrible and the sailors pressed wax into their ears. Then the Demonkind had feasted, and the stink of butchered meat tainted the salt fresh air.

  Now they gathered on the beach, moving restlessly to and fro, waiting for the boats to land.

  Yeshu’a allowed his consciousness to soar, to travel across the waves and hover over the beach, before slowly—tentatively—settling into the mind of one of the creatures…only to spin away, revolted by the brief images. “Demonkind.” The boy shuddered as his consciousness returned to his body on the boat. “Spawn of the Night Hag and the Shining Ones, the Fallen Spirits.”

  “They hold this land in thrall,” Josea said quietly, forcing himself to keep his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, willing himself to say the words calmly, quietly, even though he knew that no boy—no ordinary boy—should know about the origins of the demon breed.

  But Yeshu’a was no ordinary boy.

  “When the First of Men spurned the Night Hag,” Josea said, “and cast her out into the Wilderness, she mated with the Fallen One, who had also been cast from the Garden. In time, she brought forth the race known as demons.”

  When Josea looked down at the young boy, he had a glimpse of the stern face of the man the boy would become…and found that it frightened him. “They ruled the world until the coming of man,” Josea continued, “and then they were forced out, into the mountains and the marshes and the barren places.”

  “But not always,” Yeshu’a said.

  “No,” Josea agreed. “Not always. Sometimes they remained, or bred with the humans and created other abominations, eaters of flesh, drinkers of blood. Werewolves. Vampires. Over the centuries they have been pushed out of all civilized lands, and that is why they have ended up here, at the edge of the world. This is their domain, this is the realm of Demonkind.”

  The boy nodded. “But this is an island; in time they will squeeze the life out of it, and perish.”

  Josea squeezed his nephew’s arm. “There are people here, good people. Are we simply to abandon them to the Demonkind? And what happens when the D
emonkind find a way to leave this island and strike out across the mainland into the lands around the Middle Sea? They are powerful enough to do so.”

  Yeshu’a nodded. “Of course, Uncle. What would you have me do?” he asked simply.

  “Can we destroy the beasts?”

  Sarah.

  “We can kill those who exist in this world,” Yeshu’a said simply. “But they will return again and again unless we can seal the door to their realm.”

  “How?” the Master Mariner demanded.

  The boy turned to look at him. “Why do you care, Uncle?” he asked. “These islanders are nothing to you, neither blood kin nor bonded.”

  “If we do not stop these creatures now, then sooner or later, when they are stronger, much stronger, they will come south, and destroy everything I have spent my life building. And the Lord my God told me to love my neighbor as one of my own.”

  Sarah.

  “And yet there is much that your Lord tells you that will contradict what you have just said,” the boy said quickly.

  Josea nodded but remained silent. He knew better than to argue points of philosophy or religion with the boy. Once, when he was younger, the boy had gone missing. He had eventually been found arguing points of philosophy and scripture with the Elders in the Temple.

  Yeshua’s eyes turned flat and cold. “Every creature must be destroyed. None must be allowed to remain alive. Then we must trace them to their lair and close the door between the worlds. We must seal the portal between our world and the Otherworld.”

  “Sarah!”…and the apartment swam back into focus as Sarah opened her eyes and found she was looking into the cavernous barrels of a shotgun.

  64

  Sex.

  This was the oldest of all the magics, the simplest and the most powerful. When male and female joined together in the ultimate union, the energies generated could be shaped, focused, and controlled.