“If we are to search the building, it would be best done now,” Sean said. “Ere the sun goes completely.”
Campbell agreed.
“I can see no Watchers. Come, let us make haste.”
They made their way quickly up through the graveyard. Sean half expected dead hands to rise from the earth and grab at them, and he was thankful when they clambered above the cemetery and stood before the doors of the chapel.
The twin doors were iron, blood-red iron that seemed to glow from within. Scenes of great bloodletting were worked into the metal with artistry and precision—images of men and only men being bled, of babes being ripped from their mother’s wombs, of great battles where hordes of dark Others swept all before them in a foaming tide of blood.
He didn’t want to touch it.
“Is it locked?” he asked.
“And how would I know?” Campbell said, laughing. The laugh was like something bright and airy on a cloudy day, and blew away the oppression that had been slowly settling on them. “Why don’t you try?”
Sean stepped forward and studied the door. Among the carved iron there were two handles, cunningly wrought like the snarling heads of great red wolves. He had a mental picture of those jaws clamping down hard on his fingers, and had to force himself to step forward and put his hands on the iron. He grabbed the handles and pushed. The doors swung slowly, noiselessly, inwards.
“After you,” Campbell said, motioning Sean onwards. The Scotsman had a grin on his face, but there was little humour there. Sean wondered if his own eyes showed the same grim determination as the Scotsman’s. He hoped so, but thought that fear might well be the uppermost emotion. He took one last look at the sunlight outside, and stepped forward.
The windows scattered the sun’s rays, and lent the whole interior a deep, dark glow. As in his vision, there were carvings, and carved pillars, everywhere he looked.
One particular pillar caught his eye. Some eight feet tall and nearly two feet wide, the carvings ran up its length in a loose spiral. Red serpents lay at its base, and dark bat-winged fiends circled its top. In the spiral carving, men and only men screamed in torment as Others bled and fed.
“A pretty place for worship,” Campbell said at his side.
“Aye. A bloody temple indeed,” Sean replied.
Another set of carvings caught his eye; a naked figure, blindfolded, with cherub’s wings but Others fangs, it had one hand on its breast, and another on its right calf. A dark Other, again blindfolded, hung suspended upside down in a tight coil of rope, and a cherub, darker red than the rest, sucked hungrily from a bloody heart, while the heart’s owner looked on in horror.
“What are we looking for?” Sean said. “For I would like to find it quickly, and leave this place.”
“I know what you mean,” Campbell said. “This is not a place for men and only men. So let us search. We must find the Chalice if it is here. Without it, there can be no ceremony. And without a ceremony, my daughter might still have a chance at life.”
For the next half hour they searched the chapel, but there was only the stone and the carvings. Even the altar that Sean had seen in his vision proved to be a piece of solid, blood-red stone.
When Sean turned to Campbell to confirm their failure, he realised that he could barely see the man. The last of the sun was barely enough to light their way to the door.
“We have tarried too long,” Sean said.
“Aye,” said Campbell. “Let us depart. We need to find a safe haven for the night.” But when they made for the door, shadows fell across it as four tall robed figures came over the threshold. Sean managed to pull Campbell behind one of the larger pillars. He sneaked a look around it, just as the last of the robed figures pulled the iron door shut behind it. They were sealed in the bloody chapel!
The figures stood in front of the altar. Their robes reached to the ground, and cowls covered their heads. From where he stood Sean could only see dark shadows where their faces should be. He had a sudden mental image of the robes falling to the ground, revealing only a deep, black emptiness. A sudden chill ran through him. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but Campbell put out a hand and stopped him.
“Not yet,” the Scotsman mouthed.
Sean nodded, and returned his attention to the altar, where the robed figures started a low, deep, chant.
Of Ea am I,
Of Damkina am I,
The messenger of Marduk am I,
My spell is the spell of Ea,
The circle of Ea is in my hand.
The room got warmer until sweat ran down Sean’s face. The sun had gone completely now, but the moon must be high, for there was enough light coming through the window for Sean to see what was happening. The chant continued.
I am the magician born of Eridu,
Begotten in Subari,
When I draw nigh unto Baphomet,
May Ea the King, safeguard me.
The tallest of the figures left the altar and walked to the large carved pillar that Sean had been scrutinising earlier. He rapped on the stone using a complex series of knocks. The pillar swung, as if on a pivot, revealing a chamber dug in the stone floor beneath it.
The robed figure bent and rose with a golden chalice in his arms. The chalice seemed to shine with its own inner light, and it cast yellow shadows down the chapel as the tall figure walked away from them. He took the chalice to the altar and placed it slowly, and reverentially, on the centre of the stone.
The figures began to chant in unison.
Samas is before me, Sim behind,
Nergal is at my right hand, Ninib at my left,
When I draw nigh to Baphomet,
I lay my hand on the head of the sick man,
May Ea the guardian stand at my side
It got even warmer. The room seemed to waver, as if the very walls were running with blood.
Campbell tugged at Sean’s arm. Sean turned and the Scotsman moved slightly to one side. Sean was suddenly looking at the scene from his vision.
Over Campbell’s shoulder he saw the tall figure lift something from the Chalice, something that dripped blood back into the bowl. It was a head, a longhaired, pale head. It looked as if it might be alive...if it had a body to belong to. “Now?” mouthed Campbell.
It was as good a time as any.
Sean stepped out from behind the pillar, intent on getting as close to the Others as possible before they knew he was there. He had only taken one cautious step forward when the head in the Other’s hands opened its eyes and, on seeing Sean, screamed.
The tall Other placed the head down in the Chalice and turned. Sean realised that this was no time to stand and bandy words. He jumped forward, unsheathing his sword as he did so, and lunged straight at the tall figure’s heart. Campbell was only one step behind him.
The figure in front of him threw off his robe to reveal a full chain-mail body suit beneath, a suit that was coated in rust and blood. Sean’s sword hit the chain mail just beneath the breast and bounced off. The tall figure laughed, just as the hilt of the sword brushed the Other’s right hand and a small blue flame burst alive on his skin.
“Silver?” he boomed. “You dare to bring silver to the temple of Baphomet?”
He brushed out the flame and unsheathed a long sword from a scabbard slung across his back. The sword was almost as big as the Other, black and heavily pitted from many battles.
“If it is swordplay you want,” he said, “then it is swordplay you shall have.”
He stepped away from the altar and swung the sword in the air.
Sean chanced a quick glance around to check on the Scotsman. Campbell was backed into a corner, holding the other three at bay with a sword in one hand and his heavy silver cross in the other.
“I could use some aid over here, laddie,” the Scotsman said.
“When I’m finished with this one,” Sean replied. “I shouldn’t be too long. It looks old to me.”
“Ah. The confidence of youth,�
�� the Other said. His voice was low and thick, as if he had something stuck in his throat. “Let us see if a young man’s confidence can better many hundreds of years of experience.”
Sean suddenly wondered if he had overstepped his boundaries.
The tall Other held the sword in front of himself.
“I am Sir William of Rennes, of the guard of the King. I am master of this temple, and in more than three hundred years no man has set foot inside it. For your sacrilege, I will have your head.”
“And I am Sean Grant, Captain of the guard of Milecastle,” Sean said. “And for the death of my Thane and my people I will have your head!”
“Then let us have at it,” the tall Other said, and stepped forward. His sword moved in a flash, so fast that Sean only just got his blade up in time to stop it taking his left arm off at the shoulder. His sword arm immediately went numb, and he backed away, fast, as the Other brought the sword up for a second blow. He made sure there was a pillar between himself and his opponent, and tried to massage some life into his arm.
“I see that Milecastle breeds cowards,” the Other said. “I realised as much when we got the King’s wife from there so easily.”
Sean stepped out from behind the pillar and raised his sword.
“Your memory is deceiving you,” Sean said. “Many of your kind lie steaming in the sun at the foot of the walls. And I will send you to join them.”
“You have no idea what ‘my kind’ is,” the Other said. “Let me show y—”
Sean stepped forward and swung his sword at the Other. In surprise, the tall knight stepped back, and Sean followed the blow inside, ducking under the swing of his opponent’s sword and thrusting the hilt of his weapon at the thing’s face. The Other was fast though, and the hilt merely grazed him on the cheek, bringing only a single blue flame that quickly burnt itself out.
The Other shoved Sean away, and such was its strength that he was thrown all the way across the chapel to stumble backwards into one of the pillars. He was still regaining his balance when the Other was on him once more, and the clash of metal rang loud in the chamber and echoed in the rafters.
Sean was fighting on the defensive...the Other was too fast for him. He had never before fought anything with this speed, this strength. He was tiring rapidly as the knight forced him in a wide circle around the chapel.
The Other’s sword suddenly got through his defences—a parry and feint manoeuvre Sean had never encountered before. He threw himself to one side and the blade slashed his left arm instead of taking him through the side. There was little pain, but blood started to pour from the wound.
He saw the Other’s nostrils flare.
“Try not to lose too much, boy,” the knight said. “I planned to taste it later.”
“I invite you to try.” Sean said, but he was aware it was mostly bravado. This fight was only going one way.
He felt blood in his mouth again, and his tongue told him the fangs had come forth once more. He kept his lips shut tight—neither this Other, nor Duncan Campbell, must know that secret.
Sean only had one chance left. He let the Other drive him backward, towards the blood-red altar. He backed up until he felt the stone edge hit the base of his spine. He made one risky thrust at the knight, then rolled backward over the stone, dropping his sword and picking up the chalice in one smooth motion. He felt the knight’s sword touch his heel, but the blow only caught the leather of his boot.
Sean now stood across the altar from the Other, with the chalice in his hands.
For the first time he saw something more than confidence in the Other’s eyes. He saw fear.
“Put that down, boy,” the Other said. “Put it down, and I promise you a quick turning.”
“Drop your sword, or I drop this bowl,” Sean replied. “Campbell? Are you well?”
“I am still here, still hale, and not bitten,” the Scotsman said.
Sean chanced a glance in his direction. His friend was wedged in a tight alcove between two pillars, his cross held before him like a weapon. He was too occupied to return Sean’s glance—the three Others were in front of him, but they all seemed to fear the cross and were keeping their distance.
The tall Other still stood on the other side of the altar. He was looking at Sean’s mouth, and smiling. Sean realised that he had seen the fangs.
“Look at what you carry,” the Other said. “It would be foolish to drop it before you know what it is.”
Sean looked down, almost a reflex action...and his gaze was caught by a pair of blood-red eyes staring out of the disembodied head that swam in a bowl of blood. A vice-like grip took control of his mind, and once more his head filled with visions. It is hot and sultry. Music plays...flutes, drums and strange stringed instruments he has never before seen. The music is thick and heady, its rhythms pounding in his head and making him want to dance and cavort in time to it.
At first it is dark, just him and the music, but slowly his sight begins to clear and details start to become apparent. He is in a large hall, its walls stained deepest red, as if doused in blood. There are three thrones set on a dais beneath a huge window that is open to the night sky beyond. The thrones are tall and white, and by looking closer he sees they are made of huge polished bones. A figure sits in each.
In the smallest is a child of the Others, a babe of some seven or eight summers. He is dressed in flowing robes of black satin that serve only to accentuate the pale white of his face. His lips are red as an autumn sunset and his eyes are the eyes of an old man.
On the left of the largest throne sits a female Other, a dark beauty with hair the colour of coal and eyes like rubies. When she smiles, her fangs gleam white. She is dressed in a long dress that lies in folds around her and across the floor. The dress is cut low down to her waist. Her breasts are large and round, and the nipples are just showing, but Sean feels no desire, no longing—her eyes are dead and devoid of any emotion.
But it is the figure in the largest throne that draws his eye. The Other is as white as ivory, with jet black hair hanging over his shoulders and a wispy thin beard streaked in grey. He is thin, almost cadaverous, with ribs showing through the thin white silk shirt he wears. It is the eyes that draw the sight, though. They are blood-red, with no pupil, no white...and they take in everything in the hall with quick, flitting movements.
He remembers being told of Martin’s visions from his delirium in Milecastle...this must be the one the Others believed to be the Christ...the King of Blood-Kings who was crucified in Jerusalem, yet survived.
The three of them are watching an entertainment, a floor-show, but like none Sean has ever seen. There are five children in a large open-topped cage in the middle of the floor. They are not turned, but full human, all between the ages of three and nine. From the colour of their hair and their eyes Sean guesses they are all from the same family. They are screaming and blood is pouring from numerous small wounds.
Even as Sean watches, the child Other steps down from his throne, divests itself of his clothing, and jumps into the cage. The human children scream in a renewed frenzy of running and shouting as they are stalked round the area. Rank after rank of Others in the hall laugh and jeer and place bets on which child will be last to die. The Other sets his sight on the smallest child and, leaping high in the air, he pounces. Blood spurts, red and thin, sending a shower over the watching throng and bringing a renewed frenzy of screaming from the remaining children.
Sean does not want to see anything further, but the sight won’t leave him and he is forced to keep watching as the child Other slays all the children. He doesn’t feed, merely slays for the pleasure of it. When it is done he rolls in the spilled blood until only his eyes remain as twin patches of white in a bloody red mask. Then he parades around the arena, allowing the watching Others to lick the vile stuff from his skin. The two Others on the thrones clap their hands in evil glee.
Suddenly there is a deep booming from outside the hall, and the doors burst open to revea
l a horde of men and only men, armed with fire, the bulb, and stakes. The hall becomes a raging, rolling battle. Many men fall, and may Others are staked, before finally the three—the pale one, his wife and child—are held in front of their thrones.
The pale one is made to watch as his wife and son are staked, then beheaded. The parts are thrown on a huge pyre being built in the centre of the hall. The pale one utters great curses and struggles to be free, but the men are too many, and he too is staked. His eyes blaze like fire as his head is parted from his shoulders.
The fire is lit, and the bodies burn, and nobody but Sean notices the young man whose gaze suddenly goes blank...the young man who lifts a head from the pyre before the fire can reach it...the young man who escapes into the night with a blood-sodden bundle under his arm...a young man who has William of Rennes’ eyes.
The scene shifts. Sean is still in the chapel, still holding the chalice, but his mind is elsewhere, in a cave on a high hill.
A man is sitting before a rough cauldron. It is the young man from earlier, and this time Sean sees it is in truth William of Rennes. Sean does not know how old this scene is, but at a guess it is at least ten centuries past.
Rennes has cut a deep furrow in his left arm and is letting his blood flow into the cauldron, where the severed head of the pale Other sits, a grin spreading on the face as the blood pools around it.
After a while the man binds his wounds. His eyes are still glazed and unfocussed as he dips his hand into the cauldron, and allows himself to be bitten.
The severed head speaks.
“I am Baphomet...the once and future King of Kings. And you are the first of my New Order. You will be the King’s right hand, and together we will grow strong again, and through us our kind will prevail.
Once more the scenes shift, faster now.
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