The Saint and the Sorcerer

by J. C. Hanna

  He tossed the glass onto a table in frustration. Answers had to come from somewhere—the future of England, and the life of his queen depended on him successfully engaging his legendary intellect. As he scanned the many cases packed with books, his heart sank. The number of references to vampires, and other blood demons, in his collection, was alarmingly small. He set to work.

  The most instructive text on vampires was a heavy tome written by an anonymous Italian monk. Anonymous, through fear, mused Dee. The only section of interest to him, given the queen’s instructions, was to be found near the end of the volume—how to trap and to restrain one of the bloodsuckers. As he carefully analysed every word before him, a plan began to take shape.

  So engrossed was he with the book, and with the emerging strategy, he did not perceive Heath’s delegation as they arrived from London. Six men accompanied Heath. The six men with Archbishop had been transformed and recruited into Heath’s army, and they moved through the palace with silent and deadly determination. Heath’s plans necessitated that all witnesses be put to death, or chased from the palace in senseless terror. The second part of their dark mission was much more personal—kill John Dee.

  Dee collected the various vampire stopping paraphernalia endorsed by the monk, and he hurriedly stuffed the small collection into a brown leather satchel. Plucking an ornamental, silver-leafed sword from its mount on the wall next to the door, he was ready for the fight. He summoned false confidence in the untested assortment of weapons as he strode powerfully across the room.

  His blood iced when the fight came to him. As he was about to leave his rooms, two men appeared in the doorway. They gazed into the space where Dee was standing, frozen to the spot through fear and rage. They did not enter. The glamour of Dee’s spell worked equally well on creatures of the night as it did on mortal men. Dee retreated cautiously to a side room and he promptly returned with a crossbow. He aimed and then fired. One of the vampires took the metal tipped, wooden bolt, to the chest. It spun around and fell to the floor. The second vampire moved towards its fallen comrade. As the creature turned to the place where the deadly bolt had emerged, it was met by Dee as he stepped through the magically concealed doorway. Dee swung the silvered sword with all his might. His effort was more than adequate as the creature’s head popped free from its body as the blade completed its deadly arc.

  “Beheading, and wood to the heart,” Dee mused, as he walked past the bodies. “But no combustion. Not that different to a man, methinks.”

  As he said the words, the bodies at his feet burst into flames. In seconds, the demon flesh was mere piles of smouldering white ash.

  “Immolation on death,” Dee purred, as he walked on.

  The sickening fear eased somewhat as he pressed on determinedly to rescue Bess. On the spiral staircase that led to the entrance hall of the palace he met two more of the damned creatures. The vampires rushed towards him. Dee calmly pulled a large green bottle from the satchel. He threw the bottle at the wall next to the creatures. Water inside the bottle splashed the vampires as the glass shattered. The liquid caused them intense pain and it instantly arrested their progress.

  “Holy water slows them down,” he muttered.

  As he approached the fiends, he drew his sword. With less effort than on his first attempt, he relieved both creatures of their heads. The bodies burst into flames as Dee passed them where they lay on the staircase. The long-dead monk had left a detailed account, and if Dee managed to divine the workings of the strange glass in his quarters he resolved to send a message of thanks through time to the holy sage.

  Dee bounced along on a cushion of confidence towards the Queen’s Chambers. There were no men at arms guarding her rooms. In fact, and alarmingly, he did not pass another living soul as he rushed along the passageway towards his Queen. When he entered the queen’s rooms he was relieved to find her sitting primly next to a roaring fire. Relief turned to alarm when his eyes came to settle on the pallid features of the demonic Heath. The Archbishop sat on a chair opposite Elizabeth. The demon’s face was devoid of all concern. Its yellowing eyes quickly came to settle on Dee.

  “John Dee,” said Heath, through a wide grin, outlined with thin, black lips. “Mistress and magician in one place. Come in and have a seat. I was explaining to Her Majesty how her reign is going to be history making. It will be shorter than that of the poor Lady Jane.”

  Dee remained rooted to the spot.

  “I will extend the invitation one last time, John,” said Heath, firmly. “Defy that invitation and I will rip open the delicate royal throat and drink her precious blue blood. Come in!”

  Dee stepped into the room. He dropped the bag and the sword onto the floor with the clatter of surrender.

  Chapter Eleven: A Rebellious Whisper

  Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD

  Broken and bloodied, men lay in crumpled heaps of pain across the tiny battlefield. As the carnage came to an end, only ten of the king’s soldiers, and the wise man, remained standing—they were so insensible through confusion and terror that they were not capable of attacking Patrick, even if the king had ordered it. To a man, they knew that they were bested by something much more powerful than anything that had come before.

  The king ushered four soldiers, and a lad who ran with his men, fetching water and tending to the horses, towards Patrick.

  “I give your god these souls in the hope that He might be appeased,” said the king.

  Patrick stepped forward.

  “Do each of you give your life freely to the Lord your God?” Patrick asked.

  They turned to the king in hope. He had no hope to offer. The king nodded his head to indicate that they should proceed. Eventually, and in turn, they nodded in agreement to the question. Patrick felt certain that they did not know what they were agreeing to, and that they only consented to please their king, but it would have to do—halfway to damnation was halfway to salvation, and in time he could tip that balance towards the good.

  Patrick blessed the men and the child. Filled with a power that they did not understand, the men and the boy fell to their knees. The king and his remaining unblessed men looked on with disgust. The men had been offered to Patrick as a sacrifice to save Tara. It had been intended as a noble death to ensure peace—a death fit for brave warriors—but Patrick had brought the warriors to their knees with words, and the king was outraged. He would get justice.

  “I will meet your challenge tomorrow,” said Patrick, as if he knew what the king was scheming in the depths of his blackening heart.

  Before the king had a chance to protest, Patrick and his new followers walked calmly from the scene. The king looked away from Patrick for a moment as he turned towards his men. When his gaze returned, Patrick and his followers were gone. In their place, eight deer and a fawn stood in perfect stillness. Without concern, the creatures began to flee.

  “Shall we give chase, Sire?” asked a soldier.

  The king paused for a moment. The stranger and his followers were in a vulnerable form. If his men moved swiftly then Patrick could be slain and the menace of the new religion would end.

  “No Sire,” Ronal said.

  The wise man had infiltrated the king’s thoughts, just as Patrick had appeared to have done.

  “If you send your men after him now they will all die and you will reign for one more day. Tomorrow he will return and we will defeat him. At a time of our choosing, and in a place where we hold all of the power.”

  “Very well,” said the king. “But do not leave this place until that fire is extinguished. For the love of all the gods, at least let us have that one small victory on this night.”

  “It shall be so, my Lord,” said Ronal, as he bowed his head.

  The king returned to the safety of the settlement.

  Ronal set to work on the fire. For two hours Ronal called on every deity to which he had a connection. Each time his efforts fell short. The flame continued to burn as the wise man’s in
cantations grew in desperation. Just as he was about to give up and return to the king, with his excuses for failure still forming in his head, a small body of water sailed over his left shoulder and doused the flames. Ronal turned to find a tall figure with a wooden pail in its hand. The creature gazed down at Ronal with disdain. The demon’s yellow eyes glowed brightly in the darkness.

  “Sometimes the simplest solution is the most effective,” said the demon.

  “Who are you, Lord?” Ronal asked.

  “A friend,” said the creature.

  The creature turned smartly, and it began to walk away. Ronal called out after the retreating figure.

  “What god gave you this wisdom?”

  The creature stopped. It turned slowly to face Ronal.

  “All of them. None of them,” said the demon.

  The creature moved off at high speed, and away from Ronal’s extent of sight, in a flash. A painful sickness knotted the wise man’s guts.

  Chapter Twelve: Doubt

  Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD

  Patrick and his followers huddled around a large campfire by the edge of a forest, not far from Tara. The fire burned in a natural trench that was well out of sight of the king’s stronghold—Patrick did not fear the king or his gods, but he saw little sense in provoking another conflict so soon after the first. There would be time enough for conflict when all the kings of Ireland, and their various wise men and lesser sorcerers, stood in opposition to him.

  The old faith was on the way out, but the magic and power of the old gods were still very real, and mortally dangerous. The wise man, Ronal, had assumed a secondary role next to his fallen companion, through choice; but everyone knew that the true power of the old ways was strongest in Ronal. Patrick had been presented with that fearful truth many moons ahead of meeting Ronal. The revelation came to him several times; much stronger than any revelation that he had experienced before.

  “For men who have been touched by the one true God, you do not appear content,” Patrick said.

  Patrick reached into his cloak and he produced the little snake. He held the creature out for his followers to see.

  “This slithering, lowly thing. This damned creature. Did I not save it? First from the flames of God, and then from the boot of man,” Patrick said. “How much more do your lives mean to me? If any of you doubt that, then Tara is just over there. Fall at the feet of the idolaters if you believe that salvation is in that place.”

  Patrick indicated with his head. He stared hard at his followers for several tense moments. He dared them to contradict him. They remained silent. Patrick turned his attention to the snake. He smiled at the tiny reptile.

  “Who knows,” Patrick began. “One day the people of Ireland may remember me as the man who saved the snake?”

  Patrick released the snake. He picked up a small wooden plate laden with food. He bit into a fist-sized lump of stale bread.

  He chewed on the bread for a time before swallowing.

  “You need not worry. The Lord will sweep aside the many as easily as the one,” said Patrick, with a broad, threatening smile.

  It was the manic grin of a warrior that concealed the compassionate heart of a coward. Patrick feared for the human souls that might fall in the coming battle, but that fear paled into insignificance when measured against the loss to the Old Ones. They had been by his side since he was a child—his guides, his protectors, and his saviours. Once he defeated the old religion he knew that it would mark the beginning of the mass extermination of the creatures that meant so very much to him. The old religion and the mythical beings were intertwined. He could not save the souls of men without destroying the beings at the heart of their faith. It was his mission, and his burden and none of his followers could share in the secret sorrow that he had to endure.

  Patrick began to pray inwardly. The doubt that had settled in his men was strong. He feared that some of the doubt that they felt would enter him and corrupt his certainty. He uttered “Amen” as he concluded the prayer. As he opened his eyes his heart gained strength. Across the river, by the edge of the forest, a familiar form stood tall and still. From the time of his childhood, the heavenly figure had appeared to Patrick in moments of great need or danger. The instant of joy and strength quickly passed as Patrick recalled, that except for one glorious occasion, the being had only ever appeared to him a heartbeat ahead of pain or death. Patrick blinked, and his protector and guide, and God’s harbinger of suffering and death, was gone.

  He closed his eyes and he allowed his mind to seek comfort in a less complicated, less deadly past. The magical world that he had stumbled into as a wide-eyed youth was on the brink of annihilation, and he longed for it not to be so.

  Chapter Thirteen: Twenty-nine Days Until Amy’s Death

  The walk home from work to her apartment had been dull and uneventful. A bank of dark, fast rolling storm clouds quickly filled the little blue of the sky observable through the tall buildings from street level—the first fat raindrops had already fallen and evaporated from the hot sidewalk. The prospect of a soaking did not trouble her; in fact, as she sweltered under the New York heat, the thought of the cool, chemical-free water, induced a little thrill. Excited expectation turned to disappointment as she neared her building and the clouds held on selfishly to their watery blessing.

  Her apartment was on the fourth floor of an uninspiring, box of a building. She turned the key in the lock and automatically threw her left shoulder against the large metal plate on the stiff door. It was a well-rehearsed ritual and the only practical way to get the door to open. The metal-clad gateway to her private world opened violently to reveal a mess. Clothing and empty packaging lay everywhere. It was a trail of devastation that summed-up the pendulum-like swing between good intentions and comfortable lethargy, that was Amy—empty cartons of fruit juice and whole food packaging merely peppered the greater mass of chip and candy wrappers—good intentions never held on to for long.

  As she stepped into the apartment, she froze. Someone was sitting in the chair in front of the television. The uninvited guest did not turn around to face Amy, even though there had been nothing stealthy about her entrance. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to walk back through the doorway to get help. She didn’t do simple. The danger and incongruity presented a curious challenge that she could not resist.

  The sword, she thought, with satisfaction. It was a bit much, but breaking into her place was a bit much too. She decided to buy the sword as she closed the store the previous evening. It had given her a slight tingle of manic power as she had observed the worried expressions on the faces of those that she passed on the walk home. It was store policy to wrap or box all weapons before the customer left the shop; but where was the fun in that? An angry girl dressed in black, carrying a sword and terrifying members of the public—it was so New York—so her.

  With debris covering every inch of floor, a sneak attack on the intruder was not going to be easy. She had to get to the kitchen area to pick up the sword before she could begin her assault—whatever form that assault eventually took.

  She picked her way through the disorder on the floor while keeping a very close eye on the head of long, black hair, sitting in her chair. Eventually, she made it to her destination. She frantically scanned the kitchen for the weapon. She was certain that she had left it on the countertop. Her search for the sword grew more desperate and she spent more time scanning the kitchen area for the weapon and less time keeping tabs on her guest. Amy didn’t move a muscle as she hunted for the sword. Her eyes did all the work. The search for misplaced objects and paperwork was a frustrating ritual for her—but she was so certain that the sword would be found exactly where her mind’s eye had last placed it. The sword was gone.

  “Looking for this?” Branna asked, calmly.

  Branna was standing directly in front of Amy as she turned around. Branna held out the sword, with both hands. It was a friendly gesture of offering
rather than an act of imminent attack. It made no difference. Amy stepped backward. She stumbled over a small peddle bin that she used for recycling. It was well weighted as more than a month’s worth of litter had accumulated inside. The triple shock—Branna with the sword; stumbling over the bin; and the sound of glass on glass as the bin spewed its contents—caused her heart to race inside her head as she fell. A terrified sweat instantly beaded on her forehead.

  Branna stepped forward. She set the sword down gently on the countertop, and then she held out a hand for Amy to take.

  “We need to talk,” Branna said, with mild frustration.

  Amy paused for a moment. No matter how she looked at it, she was in no position to argue with the girl. Amy took Branna’s hand. The stranger was strong. She pulled Amy to her feet, effortlessly. As Branna let go, and she turned to walk away, Amy seized her chance. She lunged for the sword. Taking the weapon with both hands, she swung the blade hard in Branna’s direction. The expected impact did not materialise and Amy tumbled into the living space. The sword ripped free from her grip as she fell, and it slid across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop as it ran into a pair of jeans that she had casually discarded the day before. Amy sat up smartly. She frantically scanned the room. Branna had gone. As she got to her feet she spied Lord Norfolk sitting in the seat in front of the television. The cat uncurled from a nap, and he stretched lazily. The cat’s green eyes scanned her hungrily. It blinked with disappointment and disgust, before returning to its apathetic slumber. Amy shook her head.

  “If I died in my sleep, you would eat my corpse,” Amy said, sardonically.