The stairs that led to the wooden walkway above the gate were difficult with the coracle on her back, for she was tired and hungry. But the sky was her reward, for there above her head was the country of the stars where her parents and her child now lived. Signy held up her hands. “Bless me on this journey, Mother and Father, and my beloved daughter. May I know peace as you know peace.” There was no time, but this was necessary.
She peered out toward the strait.
The moon was beginning to rise over the lip of the world, a disk of dim gold. Soon the sea road would be thrown down upon the water, the silver path. She had to find a way to get down, but the gate was sheer and she had no rope. Therefore she must jump though it seemed a very long way. The coracle, too, might break if she threw it down. Signy swallowed. Distracted, she stared at the cove. So near and yet . . .
Ships were riding in on the tide. Hulls with shields on their sides, and moonlight found the helmets as the oarsmen bent and pulled. Very soon they would land, and then they would storm the cliff path. The gate was strong, but how strong?
Tears dropped from Signy’s open eyes. There was no escape. She had to do it, she had to warn Gunnhilde. She had to warn them all.
The force to run came suddenly. Her feet did not feel the stones in the path as she fled toward the Abbey.
The night climb had been hard. Two chosen companions and him. From Grimor’s followers Bear had chosen Edor’s steady-eyed helmsman—whip-slight, but strong enough to hold a boat in a wild sea and not old or young. The other was a tall boy who was good with both ax and sword—Bear had watched him at practice. They came from Wave Biter, and neither choice pleased Edor since it meant he lost two valuable hands and he’d not been consulted by Grimor. That rankled.
On the chosen day, the three rowed through dusk and on toward night, toward Findnar. Bear knew how to climb the rock pipe from the sea, but the others did not. They’d be fast learners or they would die. He’d found the pipe while looking for somewhere to stow his coracle out of the way of the nosy monks, and he’d taught himself how to climb it, down and up. Perhaps the little craft was there still, wedged in at the top.
The night was calm when they landed on the wave platform at low water. There was a head of rock there, and to this they tied the hull.
Bear led his companions to the start of the climb. “Listen, and listen well,” he told them. “It will save you. Watch where I put my hands and my feet. Use your back to wedge your body while you find the next handhold. I’ll drive bolts into the rock for handholds and footholds as we go. Think with each breath that it may be your last.”
Bear did not look down, he looked up. When his eyes got used to the dark, faint starlight showed him the lip of the narrow crevasse far above his head. Soon there was nothing but breathing and hammering bolts with the ax and hauling his body weight higher, higher, closer to Signy.
Dressed in leather to save his knees, the helmsman copied Bear silently, move for move. He’d been a good choice. Their other companion, however, confronted with the height of the climb had frozen.
Bear said, “Better you guard the hull.” That consideration shamed the boy, and of course he followed—more slowly, but he overcame the fear. This choice, too, was vindicated; the youth would be useful after all.
As Bear heaved himself out of the mouth of the rock pipe, the moon was rising. The coracle had disappeared—that annoyed him. He’d spent long nights making it. But there was no time for regret, for the helmsman was close behind. He could hear the man breathing as he scrabbled the last handholds. Bear leaned to pull his companion up. A grim white face stared up from below—the youth, farther down but relentless. Bear respected that.
“We go to the gate. Follow.”
Skirting well clear of the Abbey grounds, Bear ran half-doubled toward the palisade under a rising moon, the helmsman at his heels. He knew the gate, for he had helped forge the bolts that held it closed.
Bear had thought of this moment so many times—rehearsed each action in his head. This part was easy, and the rest would be, too, if he and Grimor could keep the men in check. And Edor. Edor did not like him.
He grinned. Many men did not like Bear, maybe some did not like Magni either, but they were both Grimor’s brothers. He’d have to prove that tonight.
The helmsman breathed easily as they arrived at the palisade, and he said nothing unnecessary. Good signs, both; the man was intelligent and staunch.
Bear pointed to the far end of the bar that held the gate. He mimed hitting the bolt out of the hasp. The man nodded and took out his ax; Bear did the same.
Bolts gone. Now for the bar.
There were feet on the cliff path.
“Magni?” Grimor. A low call.
Bear whispered back, “A moment, Brother.” It was odd to be called by his old name but less odd than it had been.
Bear held up three fingers to the helmsman. Two. One. Heave!
The bar dropped from the keepers, and Bear stepped neatly out of the way as it hit the turf. He called to Grimor. “Push, Brother.”
Willing shoulders pushed the gates apart and in toward the meadow and the Abbey.
Bear stood back and watched the men stream past. They moved silently, the moon finding their swords and axes.
Grimor joined his brother. Bear grunted. He pointed at the waiting men. “They know what to do?”
Grimor smiled with his teeth. “They do. We’ll muster here until you send word. How many do you want?”
“Them”—Bear pointed at a small group of fighters—“and the helmsman and the youth.” His last companion had just arrived in a hurry.
Grimor beckoned the other men over. “You go with Magni.” He glared at one who dared to look cocky. “As few deaths as possible. Do you hear me?”
Bear stared toward the Abbey. Very soon the monastery would assemble for Compline. The lay servants entered the church last—that would be his best chance of finding Signy. He would make sure she was safely hidden, then the other men would be summoned.
Bear rolled his head to loosen the shoulder muscles. So, Cuillin. The end-time approaches. He grinned. That was a good joke.
Grimor slapped Bear on the back. “Ready, Brother?”
“Never more than now, Brother.”
Hand to forearm, they embraced.
“Brother Vidor?” Signy hurried to the kitchen. It was empty.
A door opened behind her, and a young monk stood there.
Signy ran to him. “Help me, Brother.”
The boy gulped. He ducked back and slammed the door behind him.
“You do not understand.” Signy rattled the latch. She could hear the novice breathing on the other side.
He yelled, “The Pagan witch! Save me, Brother.”
The door was torn open. An enraged monk stood there, carrying a burning torch. The boy cowered behind. “In the name of Christ, be gone, Succubus.” The man thrust the flame toward her face.
Backing away, Signy tried reason. “Brother, please. Listen to me.”
“Sorceress!” The man feinted forward.
Signy dodged; she was desperate. “They are coming! You must warn the others. Or all of you will die.”
Behind the monk, the boy’s eyes bulged. He fled, wailing, as the man ran at Signy. “We shall repel the legions of Satan!”
Signy turned and ran.
Owl-light is treacherous for one whose world is blurred. As Gunnhilde groped along the cloister toward the chapel, she heard men’s voices. In the personal hour, her place was the nuns’ day chamber, and to be caught in an area more commonly frequented by the brothers was unsuitable, old though she was.
Fearful of discovery, Gunnhilde hobbled on until she found the door that led from the outside of the church to the robing room inside. Arthritic fingers prized the latch from its keeper. Thanks be, Holy Mary! She was safe.
Opening an inner door to the women’s side of the nave, Gunnhilde knelt with some trouble. Compline tonight would have special prayer
s, she knew—thanks to God for the completion of the great book of the Apocalypse. She could just make out the manuscript lying on the altar, the gilded binding gathering what light there was from the candles left burning.
Gunnhilde crossed herself. For all her grief about Signy, she was under the Lord’s protection in this place and she could give herself up to worship. If she was seen, she could justly say this was a moment of private prayer, for there was never enough time to reflect upon her sins.
From long practice, the old woman stilled her mind. It was better, these days, to listen for Christ’s voice in silence rather than strain to see Him, even within His dwelling place. Once, as a very young novice, she had caught a glimpse of His glory as a great light—a light that only she had seen—poured from the pyx that stored the Holy Bread. It had happened only once, but in that moment she had known the truth. Her invisible bridegroom lovingly waited for her to join Him, and she so yearned to bathe in that light again, longed to surrender to the radiance. She opened her heart, seeking the comfort of her husband’s presence . . .
Something niggled, a formless fidgeting behind her prayers. Gunnhilde’s focus dispersed, rippled away like the surface of a lake disturbed by wind.
Voices. She had heard men’s voices and they had been whispering. Why would that be so, when it was permitted to speak between Vespers and Compline?
The voice of one who whispers is hard to recognize—almost sexless, nearly ageless—but Gunnhilde remembered something, the language that was spoken. Memory nudged—Bear, as a child, this had been his tongue.
There were strangers on Findnar.
The outer door in the church wall creaked as it opened. Someone was coming.
The only way to leave the church now was through the west door, and to get there, Gunnhilde must hobble the length of the nave. She was dressed in black, and when she hurried away, turning her back on the altar—something she’d never done in all her long service as a nun—she became a shadow among shadows, moving over the earth floor with little more noise than a night breeze or a mouse. As the strangers entered the nave, she was gone.
The rest was not so easy. She heard other voices, those of her brothers and sisters—and the difference was clear.
Gunnhilde tried to run to her companions, but she stumbled. Something was wrong, she could feel it in her head, a terrible ache; her heart, too, was jolting, and there was an immense pressure behind her eyes. Moving was difficult, for her legs were weak suddenly. Was someone shouting—close or far away? Hold on a little longer, just a few more steps. She must find Cuillin, must warn him and . . .
“Mother!”
Gunnhilde was lying beside the path, a black huddle. The voice called her back from the dark. Signy! “Help me, child. Help . . .” The words bubbled away half-said, but Gunnhilde tried to make Signy understand. “Cui—the, the men.” Her tongue had thickened.
The old woman was a dead weight. Signy could not lift her. “Hush, I am here.”
Gunnhilde convulsed against the kind arms of her daughter. She tried to point.
The girl slewed around. A man was running, his sword drawn high; at his back came others. A torch was thrown against the sky. It landed on the refectory roof. Flames spread through heather like a red knife, and the bell began to toll. Not measured, not sonorous, a frightened clamor.
Signy crouched over the old woman as a hand ripped at her clothes. She tried to bite—she had no other weapons—and the man howled. He hit Signy and then pitched over her, pumping blood. She saw the sword in his back.
Another man loomed. He hauled the raider’s corpse away; fire filled the sky behind, and heat hurt Signy’s eyes. This was death. She would never see Bear again.
Arms scooped her up as light shifted. “Signy!”
She saw his face. Had Cruach sent her comfort as she died?
No. This was Bear, and he was real. He had killed her attacker as the world turned to flame.
Bear was with the raiders.
“Traitor!” Signy knocked his arms away. She stumbled to Gunnhilde, weeping. The nun could not speak, but Signy pulled the old woman up, and as she staggered away she screamed out, “Get away. Go!”
Bear’s sword arm dropped to his side. Signy’s anguish sliced him open like a blade. Around him, the Abbey burned as fire spread from roof to dry roof. Cinders fell, burning rain. Men ran like shadows through red light—monks and raiders, some the prey, others, predators. Screams ripped the night like cloth.
The raid was out of control. This was not what was planned. Who had done this thing?
The bell stopped. There was no one to pull the burning rope.
Gouts of flame—ravenous tongues—reached up into the night. Hot crimson, ice white joined in the cold sky as the stars faded against heat and the risen moon. Behind that silver disk, a white ball moved. It was small, as yet, but it would grow larger in the days to come.
Many of the monks were already dead. Lining up for Compline, they’d scattered into the path of the raiders’ swords. Struck down, they littered the ground like straw dolls.
There would be a reckoning later from Grimor, from Bear, but not now, not as the flames and fury took hold and the berserkers became a howling plague of death.
Beside the church a bloodied corpse rose up as Signy stumbled on. Pointing with a scarlet hand, it spoke to her. “Sanctuary.” Anselm.
Through the blood veil, Signy saw enough of his face to push shock aside. “Help me, Brother. Please!”
The old order of master and pupil was gone. Anselm and the girl lifted the nun, and together all three stumbled toward the side door of the Abbey. It was the last undefiled building left on the island.
Anselm opened the door just a crack. The space behind was empty. Around the church, men roved between buildings, swarming death.
Terror has no words, no plan. Clumsy, silent, they pulled Gunnhilde inside. Beneath the latch they braced a prie-dieu.
Time had come full circle. The two, carrying the third, crept deeper into the body of the church. It was empty, a light burning peacefully before the pyx. There, too, lay the greatest work ever to come out of Findnar’s Scriptorium: the Book of Revelation.
Dressed with gold leaf, pages of calfskin vellum—cured by Signy’s fingers months before—were pressed between cover boards of whale’s ivory. Crystal, chalcedony, and sea topaz graced the surface; the topaz was from the cove where the raiders had landed once again.
The monk moaned at the sight of his masterwork.
“Anselm! We cannot stay here,” Signy told him.
Anselm did not hear. Lost to shock and remorse, he knew he would die soon, as would Signy and Gunnhilde. Just as his brothers were dying now.
“Anselm!”
The bewildered monk stared at the girl.
“The west door. Then we run to the combe.”
“God is Mercy.” Gunnhilde. Her voice brought Anselm back. The nun’s eyes were wide; the next world was very near, and just a veil remained, only a veil.
Signy gasped. “Please, Anselm.”
The brother sighed. “Come, dearest Sister.”
Gunnhilde managed to nod as Signy and Anselm swept her up. In that same moment, Anselm plucked the book from the altar. He cuddled it to his side with one arm.
“Now!” Signy, a scorching whisper.
The three hobbled toward the west door.
They nearly made it.
Behind them, the prie-dieu fell backward as the side door burst open.
Fiachna hurdled the broken prie-dieu. Behind him, like silent wolves, came two more of Solwaer’s thanes.
“The altar!” Candlesticks and the pyx, and a great silver cross.
Half-carrying Gunnhilde slowed Signy and Anselm. Her weight, their kindness, brought disaster.
Fiachna saw the trio. “Women!” He threw his ax.
Signy pulled Gunnhilde down. And screamed as Death flew toward her.
The door behind crashed wide. “Fiachna!”
Bear. He�
�d seen the man enter the church.
Fiachna turned. “I see you, Demon.”
Bear roared “Betrayer!” as Fiachna hurled forward with Solwaer’s men. Swords whirled in the hot light of the open door.
Bear fought from reflex. His sword so quick it bit and cut. Two of the three died, but Fiachna danced toward him and away. Solwaer’s chief carl grinned like a red dog.
“Why?” Bear challenged.
Fiachna laughed. Sweat flew and breath was short. “The game changed. You won’t win.” A taunt. A thrust, another.
Bear feinted from the carl’s blade; the man was better than he’d thought. He sneered. “Envy will kill you, Fiachna, or Solwaer.”
“No.” The death smile. “And you won’t have her.”
It was then Bear saw Signy and understood. “She was promised to me.”
Huddled with Gunnhilde by Anselm’s corpse, his life ended by Fiachna’s ax, Signy lifted her head. Bear meant her.
Solwaer’s lieutenant howled, plunged forward. “That pledge is broken.”
Sword sliced on sword and clashed and slid, Bear’s blade against Fiachna’s hilt. It broke in a blood fountain, Fiachna’s sword wrist, his fingers, shorn like wool.
Bear pressed hard. The knife in his other hand plunged deep in his opponent’s guts.
Fiachna screamed, a pig at year-end slaughter. He fell.
A fourth man, foolishly, had his back to Bear. He’d hacked at Gunnhilde trying to get to the girl. The nun’s arm flew away, but Signy had the great book of the end of the world, of the Apocalypse, as a shield. She screamed to Mary. A curse or a prayer.
Bear slashed out, a great unbalanced lurch. In the whirl and confusion, the half-light, the blade connected with the man’s face, slicing an eye and into a shoulder. The man dropped, blinded. He died with an arm slung across the nun’s body. Bear ran to Signy, grabbed her wrist, wrenched her up.
He took her from the noise and the death. There was one safe place they both knew. Chest heaving, he dragged her to the edge of the stones. “I’ll come back.” And turned to go.
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