by Peter Grant
“Wonder what that is?” Sigurd wondered aloud, wearily. “Looks like a sort of pimple on the landscape.”
“A useful pimple, though,” Owain observed. “Let’s climb it and see if we can see anything from on top.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to drink some water from that stream over there.”
“All right.”
Owain scrambled up the steep sides, but his effort was wasted. There were no houses anywhere in sight, not even a trail of smoke from a chimney or a camp fire. He slid down the hillock again, and joined Sigurd at the stream.
“Not a thing in sight except empty country. Looks like we camp tonight without food or fire.”
“At least it’s midsummer. We won’t be cold.”
“That’s something to be grateful for. Do you want to press on for a while, or sleep here?”
“I’d say let’s stay where we are. We can see anything that comes along, and we have water. If the wind comes up, we can move to the other side of that mound and use it for a windbreak.”
“All right.” Owain sat down on the grass. “We can watch for passing ships, too.”
“Yes, but we can’t signal them without any means to make a fire.”
“I hate it when you make sense like that!”
—————
Owain woke some time later. A thin layer of cloud had covered the sky shortly before sunset. It reflected the light of the moon above it, bathing the land in soft radiance. He lay still, enjoying the peace of the moment… until a sudden muffled rumble on the far side of the mound behind them made him sit up, startled. The cloud had parted enough to let the moon shine from seaward, casting its path on the water, bathing the far side of the mound in brighter light.
He stood up, wondering if he could believe his ears. He seemed to hear faint music from the direction of the sea. Beside him Sigurd slept on. He glanced down, considering, but something made him decide not to wake him. I’d better find out what’s going on first, he decided mentally. I don’t think it’s a threat – at least, if it is, I’ve never heard of one that announced itself by playing music like that!
He set out around the mound, walking in a wide circle to avoid getting too close to it and whoever was making the music. To his astonishment, as he drew nearer it seemed that the light grew stronger from inside the mound than from the moonlight outside. Hesitantly he widened his circle, keeping at what felt like a safe distance, and moved forward until he could see the whole of the seaward side.
The face of the mount had become transparent, allowing him to see through the grass and earth to a pillared building façade inside it. Light streamed from an open door, and music could be clearly heard from inside. Before the door, the figure of an armed man lay sprawled face-down upon the steps. He had clearly fought a hard fight, and taken his death wound in the process. The blade of his sword had been cut almost halfway through where it had met the edge of another weapon; his shield was riven with gashes and dents; and the surcoat over his mail was rent and torn. Blood trickled from beneath his body, pooling at the edge of the stair beneath his breast, dripping over the edge, running down.
As Owain watched, dumbfounded, it seemed to him that four shapes of light – their faces and forms could not be distinguished – came out of the door and surrounded the fallen fighter. Gently they bent and raised him, and as they did so color came back to his ashen-gray features. The blood faded from the steps, and the rents in his surcoat disappeared. He straightened, looking into what would have been the faces of each of the figures of light in turn, and smiled joyfully. He sheathed his sword and hefted his shield – both now made whole – and followed them as they led him into the building.
Owain felt tears prickling in his eyes. He could not understand all that was happening, but could grasp enough to be sure that this was a warrior who had fought his last fight valiantly and well, and was now being received into whatever afterlife awaited him. Hardly realizing what he did, he straightened, clapped his right fist across his left breast in salute, and intoned the last stanza of the Battle Elegy.
“We who yet live shall not forget thee.
We shall keep faith with thee as long as we draw breath.
Now and forever, brother in arms, hail and farewell,
Until we meet again in the halls of the brave.”
He ended softly, “Ahurael guard thy soul, and keep thee in his vales of light.”
There was a moment’s silence, then a voice behind him said, “That was fairly spoken, stranger. Who are you that walks my lands?”
Owain spun around. The speaker was an old man, hair and beard snowy white, face lined and creased with age. He wore a light gray robe, and leaned upon a staff.
“My name is Owain. I – I didn’t know these were anyone’s lands. We were shipwrecked yesterday in the storm. We’re heading north in the hope of finding help, and a way to Seahaven.”
“Seahaven? I know not a town by that name, but the nearest port to the north of us is five days’ journey on foot from here.”
“That would be it. What do you call it? And may I ask your name?”
“That is of no importance now. You say you were shipwrecked? That explains your tattered clothes, and your lack of a weapon. Who is with you?”
“One other, Sigurd by name. He sleeps by the stream. We were both on our way to join a regiment in Seahaven. Our ship sank last night, and we reached shore aboard a raft earlier today. I woke when I heard something on this side of the mound. I came to see what was going on.”
“Well, if you walk this place towards midnight on Midsummer Night, when the moon falls on the face of my mound, you can expect to see things no living eye has seen for lo, an age and an age.”
Owain’s voice caught in his throat as he stared at the man. He suddenly realized the import of what he’d just heard. At last he managed to stammer, “Are you, then, not living?”
“I was alive, and I live still, although in a different place, but for this one night every year. These were my lands, long before your time.”
Owain bowed low, trying not to show fear. “I ask your pardon for disturbing you, then. I… I do not understand this, but I must leave you in peace.” He began to back away.
“Do not be afraid. I shall not harm one who bade farewell to my son’s mortal body in so courteous a fashion. Who is this Ahurael you invoked?”
“He is the God of Light.”
“I know him by another, much older name. I am glad to hear you follow the path of light. Those who choose darkness find no welcome here – rather, the opposite.” He considered for a moment. “If you are a fellow warrior, and a follower of the Light, the least I can do is help you reach your destination. You salvaged nothing from the shipwreck?”
“Only what you see before you. My companion is in no better state.”
“You will be hard pressed to reach – what did you call it? Seahaven? – with no weapons to defend yourselves, and no way to gather food. Wait here.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, the old man walked towards the mound. He seemed to pass effortlessly through its surface, climbed the steps, and disappeared through the door from which light and music still streamed. Owain couldn’t help noticing that despite his apparently advanced years he walked swiftly, and sprang effortlessly up the stairs as if he were a man in his prime. He was inside for a few moments, then came out again, carrying a sheathed sword and dagger, a battle-axe, and a coil of thin line. He hardly seemed to notice the weight as he carried them down the staircase and over to Owain.
“I have no food to give you that would be of any use to you. However, these weapons are still bright and sharp, despite having been placed here untold years ago by your reckoning. Use them with my blessing.” He looked appraisingly at Owain’s broad shoulders and chest and well-muscled arms. “You have the look of one who can wield a battle-axe to good effect. Your companion can use the sword and dagger. The line will make snares to catch small animals.” He reached into his robe. “H
ere are flint and steel, to start a fire to cook them.”
“I – I thank you.” Owain accepted the weapons from him, and looked closely at the axe. Its double blades each bore a sunburst symbol. “I recognize that. It’s very like the sign we use to represent Ahurael, whose face is not for us to know.” He hefted the axe. “This is light – much lighter than what I’m used to.”
“Yes, but you will find it just as effective as a heavier blade, if not more so, and easier to handle. It will swing fast and cleave deep. We knew things about metalworking that died with us, and more than metalworking. These will serve you well, provided you use them always in the service of the Light – never the Darkness. Be warned, though. If you fail in that duty, they will break in your hands. They will not serve the cause of Darkness, nor will they protect one who has fallen prey to its temptations.”
“I hear you.” Owain hesitated. “How shall I return them to you after we reach safety?”
The old man smiled as he shook his head. “Hand them on in your turn to those who will serve the Light after you are gone. If you chance to be nearby on Midsummer Night in years to come, I give you leave – you alone, mind! – to visit me between the eleventh hour and midnight, and tell me how you have used them. I should be glad to know that they have served the Light once more.”
“If I’m nearby, I shall.”
“Farewell then, young Owain. Return to your companion. Do not be afraid of anything else you hear from this side of my mound, but do not seek to watch it. The rest of this night is for us alone, who were here long before you.”
—————
“And that’s almost all there is to tell,” Owain finished. “We used the line to build snares in a wood we reached the following day, and caught a few rabbits and hedgehogs – enough to feed us until we reached Seahaven. Sigurd fell in love with the sword and dagger, as I did with the axe. They were the best we’d ever used, and as far as I’m concerned, my axe is still the finest battle weapon I’ve ever come across. Sigurd used his sword in his last fight before the Battle of Tarbon, when it broke in his hand before he was killed by the Graben champion. I buried its shards with him, but kept his dagger. I have it still.”
“Had he, then, fallen into darkness, causing it to break?” The Abbott’s voice was quiet. He and Pater Archelaus had sat spellbound through the narrative. “And if his sword broke, why not his dagger?”
Owain sighed sadly. “Depending on what you mean by ‘darkness’, I fear that may be so. Sigurd always had a roving eye for the ladies – it was his worst fault. He’d begun a dalliance with the wife of a powerful noble. To him it was nothing of consequence, but when the lord found out about it he was outraged, and withdrew his contingent from our forces. That materially weakened us, so in that sense the Graben won a victory even before battle was joined. If that can be said to have aided the darkness, then yes, Sigurd was guilty.”
Archelaus shook his head. “Guilty of that, and also of the adultery itself. I know many take that lightly, but it remains a moral evil to come between two who are covenanted together.”
Owain nodded slowly. “As for his dagger, he wasn’t wearing it that day – why, I don’t know. He carried his sword and a buckler. I found the dagger in his gear afterwards, and kept it.” He sighed. “I married his widow some time later. She could never forget him, but I could live with that, for I’d also loved him in my own way. I know I’d have taken it badly if she’d strayed, but she never did, and neither did I. We had a good life together until she died, three years ago.”
“You say you ‘loved’ Sigurd? That’s a word I’ve not heard one man use of another – outside our Order, of course.”
“It’s a completely different emotion to the ‘love’ that the bards and poets celebrate between men and women, or that you find in your fraternity of faith. Sigurd and I saved each other’s lives at least half a dozen times over the years. You can’t live through that without becoming the closest of friends – closer than lovers, in a sense. We called one another ‘sword brother’, and would have died for each other if need be. When he fell, I fought my way to him, killed the Graben champion who’d slain him, and recovered his body. It didn’t require an order to do that, or even conscious thought. It was just the right thing to do. He’d have done the same for me. I buried him later in an isolated clearing high in the mountains, as he’d asked, telling nobody where he lay. I’ve mourned him ever since.”
Archelaus nodded. “I’ll pray for his soul. However, to get back to your story, did you ever go back to the mound to speak with the old man once more?”
“No. I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Could you find it again?”
“I’m sure I could, but it’s unlikely I’ll pass that way again.” Owain hesitated a moment. “I feel in my bones that great evil is stirring, and that I’ll have to confront it before long.”
The Abbott nodded slowly. “The same sense has come to several of our priest-mages who are gifted with the Sight. We don’t know what’s coming, but we’re sure that evil is afoot. Recent events have only reinforced that foreboding, particularly evidence of the possible survival of some of the Master Sorcerers of Karsh.”
Pater Archelaus said, “I’ve suggested to our lord Abbott that we need to discuss what you brought us, and what’s happened here recently, with some of our priest-mages in Kingsholme. If you can come with us, I’d be very grateful, as they may have questions for you that we haven’t thought to ask. You could also discuss the spy rings with the Duke of Gehlen, and testify before the King and his Council if they see fit.”
“Will they?” Owain’s voice was skeptical. “His Majesty has acquired a reputation for saying little and doing less in recent years. Will he act, even in the face of evidence this strong?”
“Perhaps not, but if he doesn’t, that will be a strong argument that the Council needs to reconsider his situation,” the Abbott pointed out. “If his grasp on reality has slipped so much, a Regency may be possible. It’s happened in the past, and the Crown Prince is a very different character to his father.”
“So I hear. I met him only when he was a child, but recent reports of him are good. Still, I fear the great nobles are too busy lining their own pockets, and jockeying for position and influence, to care overmuch about the safety of the Kingdom. I don’t trust any of them further than I can throw them. I can’t see that my being there would do much to help change things. I’d rather try to find out more about what the Graben are doing. A raid as large as last week’s hasn’t happened since the Wars. What sparked it, and what were they hoping to achieve? What else are they planning?”
“That’s precisely why I want you to accompany us,” the Abbott responded. “You’ve got firsthand recent experience of fighting the Graben, and you’ve killed three gruefells and four raiders with your own hands. Together with the evidence you brought us, that’ll carry far more weight than our words.”
“I don’t like it, but… very well, my lord. If you think it advisable, I’ll accompany you to Kingsholme.”
“Good. You mentioned needing anti-scrying amulets. We’ll all need them to conceal our movements from anyone watching us, as I’m sure whatever is stirring out there is trying to do. I’ve already set our priest-mages to work producing more of them. How many do you want to buy?”
“I’m not sure yet, my lord, but I’ll need at least twenty – perhaps as many as thirty. It seems the Graben are watching me for some reason. I need enough amulets to equip a group of men traveling with me, wherever we may have to go to find out more about what’s going on.”
“Remember you’ll need one amulet per animal as well as one per person. For example, if you want enough for twenty people, each with one horse, that’ll mean forty amulets.”
Owain shook his head. “No, because there’ll have to be two horses per person, to serve as spare mounts and pack horses. I hope to have twenty-three people in all, and I’ll want a few spares. How much will, say, seventy-five amulet
s cost, and how long will it take to prepare them?”
Pater Archelaus grimaced. “It’ll take several weeks. We normally charge five gold cruzados per amulet, but for so many, I’m sure that can be reduced.”
“I think, under the circumstances, we’d better bring it all the way down to five silver cruzados per amulet,” the Abbott observed. “You’re not buying these as a just-in-case or for private purposes, but for important work that concerns our safety as much as that of the Kingdom. Including the monastery’s own stock of amulets plus newly-made ones, we might have as many as a couple of dozen available by next week, to use on our fast ride to Kingsholme.”
Owain nodded. “That’s good. The delay to produce the rest won’t be crippling. I’m sure it’ll take us almost that long to finish our business in Kingsholme and get back here. How many of you will make the journey?”
“There’ll be three of us. I’d better arrange for some more amulets in a hurry, if we’re going to travel with pack horses or spare mounts.”
“Fair enough. I have some arrangements to make before we leave. I’ll return here in three days. We can use my light wagon to carry supplies and our belongings, if you wish, or we can travel light.” He grimaced. “Some of the inns along the way aren’t worth the horse droppings in their paddocks, but if we’re in haste, we’ll have to take what we can get. I recommend camping out, rather than staying at such places.”
“I fear you’re right. I think I can arrange for us to change horses at one or two of our houses between here and Kingsholme. Fresh mounts will let us travel faster. Very well, my son; we’ll leave here at dawn, four days from now.”
Archelaus sat forward eagerly. “By the time we’re done in Kingsholme, it’ll be only a week or two before Midsummer Day. If that mound’s a couple of days’ travel south of Seahaven, we could reach it by then. Would you consider visiting there before returning here? If you give your mysterious benefactor the news he requested, and at the same time ask him whether he’d be willing to talk to us about his origins and the spells on your weapons, that might be of great benefit to us.”