The Thirteen Hallows

by Michael Scott; Colette Freedman

  “What do you want?” Owen demanded.

  “I am asking for your faith.”

  Ambrose sat back into the stone chair, his head in the shadows, only his shock of white hair and single eye visible in the verdant light. “Some of this you may know, but much of what I tell you will be strange indeed. And I only ask you to consider the events of the last few days and please keep an open mind—”

  Owen interrupted, “You said you were the same Ambrose who gave the Hallows to the children all those years ago. But that Ambrose was an old man….”

  “Am I not an old man?” He smiled quickly. “I’m older than you think. Much older.”

  “But…,” Owen began, but Sarah reached out and squeezed his arm, silencing him.

  “Let’s hear what he has to say,” she suggested.

  Ambrose nodded. “Thank you, Sarah. Now listen. You have in your possession two of the most powerful Hallowed artifacts in the known world. Imbued with an ancient magic, they were created for but a single purpose: to seal the door to the demon realm….”

  90

  I’ve lost them.” Vyvienne’s eyes snapped open.

  Ahriman, outlined against the window, turned quickly, sunlight washing his face in bronze, picking up the flecks of silver in his slightly shabby suit. “What do you mean, lost them?”

  Vyvienne propped herself up on her elbows, sweat gleaming in tiny golden rivulets on her naked body. “They’re here, in the village. It was hard to follow them, because the leakage of power from the other Hallows is making it difficult to distinguish traces of them in the Astral. And the Astral is filled with scores of curious presences, drawn to the power and the approaching time.”

  Ahriman Saurin nodded slowly. This had always been one of the great dangers in gathering the Hallows together: No one knew who or what they would attract. Crowley had briefly owned one of the Hallows, and it had attracted the creature known as Pan. The magician had spent six months in a mental asylum recovering from the experience.

  Vyvienne sat up and folded her arms beneath her breasts. “The Astral is flooded with cold light, making it impossible to see, but I managed to isolate the signature of the sword and the horn. They were at the southern end of the village, close to the river. But then they disappeared. It was as if they simply winked out of existence.”

  “Something is shielding them,” Ahriman said.

  “Or someone,” Vyvienne suggested.

  “No one has that sort of power anymore,” Ahriman said confidently. He looked at his watch. “Not for another few hours, anyway,” he added with a thin smile.

  91

  Yeshu’a watched impassively as a female demon with the face and breasts of a woman but the skin of a serpent was hacked down by four men. They dismembered her quickly, striking off the head and driving a stake through the center of the chest to pin the body to the ground even as she continued to struggle. The Demonkind were able to absorb terrible punishment, fighting on in spite of appalling wounds.

  Another demon appeared, a howling monster who stood twice the height of a normal man and was covered in short, matted gray fur. It had the head of a wolf but the eyes of a man. Scything claws struck down one of the terrified crewmen, slashing through wood and leather armor, cleaving through the rectangular Roman shields the men carried. A raven-haired Greek warrior pushed a barbed spear into the beast’s chest, twisted it, then wrenched it out, ripping apart the beast’s lungs with the hooked barbs. Two naked woad-striped women fell on the stricken beast, hacking at it with small stone axes, howling delightedly as the beast’s thin green blood spattered over the intricate indigo tattoos on their skin.

  Yeshu’a stepped forward, and the quartet of Irish warriors who stood guarding him locked shields and moved forward with him, swords and spears ready. But few of the Demonkind had survived the attack, and there was little left for the humans to do.

  Thirty days earlier, Yeshu’a had called down a fire from the heavens and washed the Demonkind from the beach in a wall of ivory-colored flames that had fused the sand to white glass. Josea had led his mariners ashore, and the surviving Demonkind had been butchered.

  Few of the mariners had wanted to leave the safety of the boats, but promises of reward for the free and freedom for the slaves had spurred them on…though their fear of remaining on the boat with the boy had been a greater incentive.

  Moving inland, they first freed a handful of tin miners who had been trapped in their mines for days by the creatures. Yeshu’a had called down tongues of fire onto the beasts who occupied the village, and while they had howled in fear and pain, the humans had attacked. Those early victories lent the humans courage and showed them that the creatures could indeed be slain: that they were not invincible. In the days that followed, more and more humans had flocked to the battle, drawn by stories of the boy known as the Demonkiller.

  With the boy’s powers, the humans were inevitably victorious, though many fell to the beasts’ slashing claws and teeth.

  On the tenth day of the campaign, Yeshu’a performed his greatest feat of old magic when he resurrected Josea, who had been struck dead by a creature that was neither wolf nor bear. As the human warriors watched, the boy knelt in the bloody ruins of a village the Fomor had occupied, laid his hands on the gaping wounds in his great-uncle’s chest, closed his eyes, and turned his face to heaven. Those nearest him saw his lips move, and when he spoke his words were unintelligible. Moments later, Josea opened his eyes and sat up, hands pressed flat to the white scars that bisected his chest.

  In the days which followed, many begged Yeshu’a to raise their sons or brothers or loved ones back to life, but he had always refused, and once, when an enormous battle-scarred warrior had threatened him with a dagger, the boy reached out and touched the weapon, melting the iron blade and fusing it into the man’s hand. The ship’s cook had been forced to take the hand off at the wrist, but the wound putrefied and the warrior had fallen on his own knife ten days later to escape the agony.

  Since then most people had left the boy alone, although Josea had insisted that his bodyguards, four savage Irish mercenaries, remain with him at all times. If the boy was killed, then the battle would end prematurely and ultimately the demons would win.

  Josea staggered up. There was a long cut slashing across his forehead, arcing down over his left eye. He surveyed the bloody landscape. “Was all of this necessary?” he asked bitterly, spitting the taste of blood and burned meat from his mouth.

  Yeshu’a looked around. There were bodies everywhere, human and Fomor…and many were children.

  This was the last great encampment of the beasts, tucked away in a valley at the edge of the marsh in the shadow of a ragged mountain range. The original human village had been fortified with stakes and a head-high wall. Here the Demonkind had made their last stand, protecting a tiny tear in the fabric between the worlds, which allowed a single demon to slip through, one at a time. The Fomor had brought their prisoners to this place with them—twenty-five hundred men, women, and children, though there were more women and children than men.

  The Demonkind knew the inherent power of virginal flesh and souls.

  Yet they never had the chance to make the sacrifice. Standing atop a nearby hill, Yeshu’a had rained liquid fire and ragged brimstone down onto the village.

  The screams of the children still echoed in the foul air.

  “It was necessary,” Yeshu’a said softly. “This is the portal where the Demonkind enters our world. On this, the night of the shortest day, when the walls between this and the Otherworld grow thin, the Fomor intended to wrap the humans in wicker baskets and sacrifice them in the old way. The incredible eruption of energy would have ripped apart the opening between the worlds and allowed the Demonkind through in force. Even I would not have been able to contain them.”

  “There is something you should see,” Josea said.

  Josea led Yeshu’a and his bodyguards through the smoldering remains of the village, stepping across charr
ed lumps of meat that had once been human. One of the bodyguards noticed that one of the terribly burned figures still moved, pink mouth opening and closing in a blackened crust of a face. He drove his spear through it, not caring if it was human or Demonkind; nothing deserved to suffer like that.

  There was a well in the center of the village, a round opening in the ground, the edges of which had been raised with rough-hewn mud-and-straw bricks. Some of the bloodiest fighting had taken place around here, and the ground was slick with the beasts’ blood. Josea walked to the edge of the well and pointed down. Leaning over the edge of the opening, the boy peered down, then quickly drew back his head, eyes watering with the stench. “What happened here?” he asked, coughing.

  Josea shook his head. “As far as we can tell, the well was stuffed with the bodies of children wrapped tightly in straw. God knows how many were in the well. Maybe the beasts fired the well…or maybe some of the fire from heaven brought it alight,” he added softly.

  Taking a deep breath, Yeshu’a leaned over the well again and peered down. A greasy layer of fat bubbled atop the water, and charred remains of straw were stuck to the sides of the well, along with dangling strips of what looked like burned leather, but which Yeshu’a knew was human flesh.

  “This is the place,” he whispered. “There is an opening here, a tiny crack, but enough.” He staggered back from the well, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “The well would have been filled with the virginal children, the rest would have been piled up alongside, and then the whole lot set aflame tonight. The pyre would have burnt in this world and the next, tearing apart the fabric of the worlds and allowing the creatures through….” The boy’s voice faded away. “We got here just in time.”

  “Can we seal the opening?” Josea asked.

  “Perhaps,” Yeshu’a said slowly. He padded to the edge of the well and looked down again.

  And a clawed hand shot up, wrapping itself around his throat.

  While two of the bodyguards jabbed at the oily water, the other two attacked the arm, hacking it off at the elbow, leaving the fingers wrapped around the boy’s neck. Yeshu’a staggered back and flung the limb from him; its fingers scrabbled and twitched on the ground until one of the guards stamped on it, breaking the bones.

  “I can sense their frustration,” Yeshu’a said grimly, gingerly fingering his throat. “They are close…so close, an army the like of which you have never seen. It would wipe mankind off this world forever.”

  Two Fomor erupted from the water, lank hair matted to their grotesque bodies. The bodyguards cut them down before they climbed out of the well.

  “I cannot mend the hole,” Yeshu’a said softly, “but I will seal it.”

  He turned to look solemnly at his uncle. “But someone trustworthy must remain behind to ensure that the seals are never broken.”

  92

  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.”

  93

  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?”