“You’ll want to know about this.”
He told Campbell the details of his vision, leaving out only the part about the bloodied, injured face.
“The temple of the Chalice...” the Scotsman muttered to himself. “But surely it is little more than a legend?”
“You know something?” Sean asked.
“Not as much as you seem to, laddie. Tell me again about the chapel, in more detail.”
Sean closed his eyes, and tried to remember everything he had seen. He told Campbell everything that he could.
The Scotsman thought for a moment before replying.
“And you say there was something in the chalice?” he said.
“Yes. Something about the size of a pig’s bladder,” Sean said. “It was red and bloody, but I could not make out exactly what it was.”
“Thank your God for that,” Campbell said. “If the legends are right, you should pray that you never have to look in that chalice.”
“What does it hold?”
“A great blasphemy,” the Scotsman said, and crossed himself.
Sean tried to push the man for more information, but none was forthcoming.
“Let us see if your vision was true first,” Campbell said, and set of at a fast walk up the hill. Sean followed him, and caught up just as they crested the brow.
They looked down on a river meandering through grassland and, in the distance to the north, a semi-circle of ruined buildings.
“It looks like at least part of your seeing was true,” Campbell said. “It seems we will need to investigate the rest of it. But first, let us see if there are any trout in yon burn down there.”
Half an hour later they had a fire lit by the riverside and had three large trout cooking in leaves by its side. The two men sat and stared at the fire.
“So,” Sean said, “You mentioned ‘the Temple of the Chalice’. Do you know something of the place the sight showed me?”
“It’s little more than a legend,” the Scotsman said. “From nearly as far back as the time of the Bruce. ’Tis said that when the Templar Knights came to Scotland, they brought the chalice with them. Bruce gave them the wherewithal to build a temple to house it. They called it Ross-Lynn, and no man-and-only-man has ever seen inside it.”
“I saw carvings,” Sean said. “Masterful stonework and fine detail. Surely the Others do not concern themselves with such things?”
Campbell shrugged.
“Who knows what they concern themselves with? They feed, we bleed. We know little else. But it is also said that some of the builders of the chapel were brought from the New World—over a hundred years before Columbus got there.”
“And? There’s nothing more?” Sean asked.
“No,” Campbell said, shaking his head. “I know only that there is supposed to be a temple, and a chalice within. It is said that the chalice holds a great blasphemy, that the Templars who aided the Bruce brought a head with them, a head that speaks. But that is only a legend told to frighten children. No more than that.”
They were silent again until the fish were cooked.
“Was she there?” Campbell asked suddenly. “Was my daughter there? You would tell me if she was, would you not?”
The Scotsman was suddenly distraught.
“Tell me, man. Is she full dead? Or is she turned? You have the woodsman’s sight. You can tell me.”
Sean leaned over and clasped the man on the arm.
“I wouldn’t keep it from you,” Sean replied. “No. She was not there. But you and I were...and you know I cannot control what is seen. I’m not sure even Gwynneth could do that.”
“Sometime, you will have to tell me what happened between you and her in yon cave,” Campbell said.
“That is a tale for when we are sitting around a fire in an inn,” Sean said. “With the snow and the wind howling at the door.”
“With a flagon each of strong Porter,” Campbell replied.
“And a hot pork pie in the other hand.”
“And a brace of pheasants on the spit.”
“With venison and suckling pig to follow,” Sean finished.
Both men laughed.
“Then we had best make sure your vision is true,” Campbell said, “and we are on the right trail. The sooner we reach yonder temple, the sooner we will be back in your inn. Your sighting showed you how to get there?”
Sean remembered the scene from the hilltop. He pointed northeast.
“That way. About ten miles,” he said.
“Then eat,” Campbell said. “For if we are to visit the temple, it had best be before sunset.”
“It is not venison,” Sean said as he bit into the hot fish, “but at this moment it tastes as good.”
“Better,” Campbell said. Hot juices ran from the fish and coated the Scotsman’s beard. He had to move fast to avoid getting it onto the wolf-skin cloak.
Campbell had been very careful with the cloak since Gwynneth had given it to him. Every night he had rolled it up and put it away before sleeping.
“Why do you not sleep in the cloak?” Sean asked him.
The Scotsman took the cloak off and rolled it up carefully before returning to his meal.
“I mean to return it to your new Thane,” he told Sean. “It would not be seemly for it to be marked with the dust of our journey and reeking of fish...not after the fight he had to endure to earn it.”
“I can scarcely believe that Martin managed to best such a beast,” Sean said, casting a glance at the skin and fur.
“Your Thane has strength in him that he hasn’t yet begun to use,” Campbell said, and turned to face Sean before continuing, “as do you, my friend.”
Sean kept quiet. He didn’t know what was inside him...and he could not yet assume it to be a strength.
They consumed the fish within minutes. Sean was so hungry that he wolfed it down avidly, and it was only later that he noticed he had burnt the roof of his mouth.
Campbell buried the remains, and kicked over the embers of the fire.
“It is gone noon,” he said. “Let us move quickly.”
He set off at a fast walk, almost a run, and Sean followed behind.
They stopped half an hour later at the semi-circle of ruins. There were six buildings, all little more than four tumble-down walls with a doorway. Thick grasses and tall ferns grew among the rocks, which were themselves coated with a thick carpet of moss. Off to one side there was a small graveyard, but the stones were worn down and eroded, so much so that no details could be read.
“These are very old,” Campbell said. “From before the Bruce. There would have been farmers here...men, children and womenfolk, living in relative peace. Can you imagine it? Cattle in the fields, sheep on the hills, and barley and wheat ripening to a golden harvest.”
Tears glistened in the man’s eyes.
“Would that I could see my people back in this land again.”
Sean put his hand on the Scotsman’s shoulder.
“With God’s help, and the Protector’s army, the Others will be driven out,” he said.
But Campbell wasn’t to be consoled.
“Aye, maybe. But there are damned few Scots left to come back and fill the emptiness. I fear this land is cursed forever. No sane person would want to live where the Others have been.”
“But the land is yet fertile,” Sean said. “Have faith man...it’s one of the few things we can yet hold on to.”
“Mayhap you are not the only one with the sight. I see nothing but smoke, ashes and darkness. I could be doing with some of Gwynneth’s mead,” Campbell said, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand. “I have a feeling in my bones that my time is near.”
“Nonsense, man,” Sean said. “You have many years in you yet.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the Scotsman said. He unrolled the wolf-skin cloak and put it back over his shoulders. He set off northeast without another word. Sean fell in behind him. Even in the short time they’d known each other he had
come to recognise the man’s black moods. At these times it was best to let him be alone.
They’d walked for maybe three miles when the ground started to rise again. Campbell turned back to him.
“Which way do we go?” he asked.
Sean reviewed his mental picture of the lay of the land.
“Over this hill. There is a glen on the other side, a wooded glen with a high castle above. The glen will lead us to your ‘Temple.”
Campbell nodded grimly.
“Come, then,” he said. “But let us tread carefully. The dark ones have their own Watchers.”
“The ones who are like Barnstable?” Sean asked.
“Yes. They are slaves. Their own minds have been taken away—much like my daughter’s.”
“What I wouldn’t give to meet Barnstable again. He has much to atone for,” Sean said, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, then taking it off again fast as he felt the tingling heat the silver brought to his skin.
“Be careful your thirst for revenge does not cloud your judgement,” the Scotsman said. “The man’s mind was not his own.”
Sean held his peace. He knew the Barnstable of old...it wouldn’t have taken much for the man to join the Others.
They crested the hill, and a wooded glen stretched away beneath them. Three miles away a ruined castle looked over the valley, just where it turned in a dogleg out of their sight.
The woodland was thick and luxuriant, mainly evergreen conifers and dense gorse shrubs. There was a clear path marked through its middle, down at the bottom of the valley. Erosion on the path showed where water would flow later in the winter, but for now it was relatively dry underfoot. “The Temple is round the corner, about two more miles,” Sean said.
“We will leave the path,” Campbell said. “By moving through the trees we may be able to come to it in secrecy.”
They headed for the trees on their left.
“No more talking now,” Campbell said. The Scotsman loosened his sword in its scabbard, and Sean followed suit. This time the hilt didn’t tingle in his hands, and he began to feel hope for the first time since he woke in the woodsman’s cave.
The ground underfoot was soggy but not sodden, and they were able to walk with relative ease. Sean kept the wolf-skin cloak in sight and followed the Scotsman at a fast pace.
Pine needles scrunched under foot, and they had to slow somewhat to avoid making too much noise. There were small animals in the wood here—deer and squirrels, and fat turkey-like birds that made loud clattering noises with their beaks as they ran away.
“Good hunting country,” Sean said in a low voice. “We could get some meat for later?”
“No,” the Scotsman replied in the same low tone. “We must reach that temple before nightfall—otherwise we will lose another day. Hunting can wait. My daughter cannot. Tighten your belt man. And be quiet—there are Watchers in these woods.”
They crept on. The trees were older here, and thick lichens hung from the lower branches while mosses grew thickly up their trunks. Old pinecones were scattered underfoot, and it was difficult to walk without crunching one of them.
They were almost directly underneath the ruin of the castle, and Sean was beginning to believe that they might achieve their goal unnoticed, when Campbell let out a shout, and the wolf-skin dropped away down the slope and out of Sean’s sight.
Sean leapt forward, but a body seemed to appear from out of nowhere, a large hulking figure that blocked his path to the Scotsman.
His adversary was also a Scot—Sean knew that from his garb. A torn tartan plaid hung loosely on a body caked with days of muck and grime. He was tall and broad, with a shock of jet-black hair and a beard that reached onto his chest. He carried a claymore, a broadsword nearly as long as Sean was tall, and Sean had to jump backwards as it swung in his direction.
The blow would have cleaved Sean in two if it had made contact, but it flashed past his face, barely an inch from his nose. Sean weaved to his right—the trees were thicker there, and there would be less room for the man to swing the sword.
Down the slope to his left he heard the sound of clashing metal, but his whole attention was focused on the big man who was even now raising his sword for another slashing blow.
Sean caught this one on the hilt of his sword, the weight of the stroke nearly knocking him backward. The big man laughed—a deep, dead, groaning noise, empty of all emotion. There was no sign of intelligence in his eyes.
Swords still locked, Sean found himself being forced backwards. He slipped, falling away to his left, and his attacker’s sword caught him on the side of his head, knocking him further to the ground. The pain almost made him black out, and he only just managed to get his sword up again to block a blow that would have staved his head in. The impact sent throbbing pain up the length of his arm...and he felt blood in his mouth as the fangs sprang forth once more.
His attacker stepped back, dropping its weapon. There was a different expression on the face now, one of confusion. Sean didn’t give it time to recover. He thrust his sword upward, under the rib cage, and then again, harder. He managed to topple the body to one side where, using the broadsword, he took off its head.
He stood over the body, breathing heavily, kicking it twice to make sure it was truly dead. Then he heard the clashing of swords once more. He retrieved his own sword and headed down the slope, aware that all was now quiet. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
He found Campbell in a small clearing at the foot of the slope, sitting beside the full-dead body of a large man. The left side of the Scotsman’s face was already rising in a bruise, and his right eye was filled with blood. Blood ran into his beard from a split lip. He was sitting on a fallen tree, trying to clean a long, green patch of mossy slime from the wolf-skin cloak with the blade of his sword.
“It’s good to see you alive, laddie,” the man said. “But I could have used your help. This one was hard to put down.”
Sean saw that the prone body had taken wounds that would have killed a mere man five times over. There was a cleft in its skull through which brain matter showed, a wound in its side where its guts were pushing out to lie in a ropy bundle in the dust, and a neck wound so deep that barely an inch of flesh was holding the head to the body.
“I had to damned near take its head off afore it stopped,” Campbell said. “And that was after it got some good hits in on mine.” He touched the bruised side of his face and winced.
“Aye,” Sean said. “I can see that it has improved your looks somewhat.”
The Scotsman grinned, then grimaced again.
“Christ, that hurts,” he said, then looked up at Sean’s face for the first time.
“What happened to your mouth?” he said. He stood, but he didn’t sheath his sword, and Sean saw uncertainty in his eyes.
Suddenly remembering his own fight, Sean ran his tongue over his teeth. The fangs had retracted once more, but he could still taste blood on his lips.
“I got hit in the face,” he said. He lifted his upper lip and showed the Scotsman his bleeding gums. “It near took out three teeth.”
Campbell seemed mollified. Sean later decided he should have told Campbell there and then—it might have saved them both much grief.
Ten minutes later they were back among the trees, heading round the dogleg towards their goal. Campbell’s eye had proved not to be as serious as it looked—a small cut right at the corner had filled the eye with blood. The application of some spit, and the edge of a handkerchief, had cleared enough to let him see through it.
When Sean had helped the Scotsman to clean up, he knew they must be close to their goal; the Scotsman now looked as he had in the earlier vision.
They crept slowly through the pine forest. There was no longer any sign of animal life—the noises of the fight would have driven them all far away.
The ground here was damp and soggy, and their feet made only soft, squelching noises. There were no more Watchers—at least none that interf
ered with their progress—and half an hour later they were lying in the long grass at the foot of a hill, looking up at a chapel above them.
The chapel sat above an ancient graveyard which fell in a long sweep down the hill. There was rank after rank of tall red stones, each carrying two symbols: a long sword, and a skull and crossed bones. The stones were around six feet tall, slightly curved and pointed at the top. It took several seconds for Sean to realise what they were meant to represent—they were fangs, the pointed fangs of the Others.
From where they hid in the grass, Sean could read the inscription on one of the stones:
Here lies Henry De Montfort
1283 - 1647
Fell in the service of his King at the Siege of Edinburgh
17th June 1647
Sic transit gloria mundi
We shall never see his like again. May Baphomet feed him in his long sleep
“What is this place?” Sean said. “Do the Others really mark the passing of their dead in such a manner?”
“These ones do,” Campbell said. “But only those they believe to be especially chosen for favour...the guard of the Blood-King. ’Tis a perilous role, and many of them have fallen over the centuries, to be placed here in the true death. We look on graves of darkness.”
“What happened at the siege of Edinburgh?” Sean asked.
“For Christ’s sake boy—is there no end to your questions?” Campbell said, his voice no more than a low whisper. “Edinburgh is where the Old Protector finally caught the last Blood-King, this one’s father. ’Tis a pity he did not force home his advantage there and then; we might not be in this predicament now. But the Old Protector took Charles back to London, and left Scotland to fall back into the hands of the Others.”
Sean heard the bitterness in the Scotsman’s voice.
“And Baphomet?” Sean asked in a whisper. “One of their unholy gods, I don’t doubt,” Campbell said. “Now be quiet...we are too close to yon temple to be prattling like fishwives.”
The Temple itself dominated the skyline. High, thin turrets, like more rows of fangs, surrounded a squat sandstone building with a high vaulted roof. The windows were blood-red, almost black where they reflected the rays of the sun from its low position in the sky.
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