by Peter Grant
He took one tottering, shaking step forward, then another. The dark figure threw back its head and laughed, a mocking roar that echoed across the grasslands. “You dare to struggle against your death wound? Fool! How vain you are, to think you can still resist me!”
Owain didn’t bother to reply. His eyes were fixed on the stone, now mere feet away. He saw eyes, millions upon millions of eyes, staring out of it, and flames flickering within it. He suddenly remembered the dreams he’d had on the way to his second meeting with the old man… and he knew what he faced. This was the Dark Altar. It could be nothing else.
Even as the figure looming above him stopped laughing and looked downward in sudden consternation, Owain raised the ampoule in his left hand, and slapped it hard against the edge of his battle-axe’s blade. It cut his hand, but that didn’t matter now. The ampoule shattered, the glistening fluid within it running all over the blade, up and down its edge. The axe’s head seemed to catch fire as the light flowed into it.
“No! No!” the giant figure screamed, reaching down to swat Owain away from the altar – but it was too late.
Owain raised the axe over his head in both hands. He shouted aloud, with his last breath, “One more blow, axe! For Sigurd! For the Light! FOR AHURAEL!”
He brought down the axe in a swift, strong, deadly blow. Its edge struck directly in the center of the stone altar, and clove it in twain.
—————
Hevel and Sisa would never be able to adequately describe what they saw and heard in that instant. They were too close, too emotionally and spiritually overwhelmed by the sound and light and fury and glory of it all. However, their fellow priest- and priestess-mages saw it through their respective telepathic links. So, too, did the patrol, staring at the scene from four and a half miles away. All the witnesses’ accounts would later be recorded in the annals of the Order, and those of the Sisterhood in Qithara.
To those watching, it seemed like a lightning bolt exploded inside the Dark Altar as Owain’s axe struck home. The black stone split, and a glory of light and fire shot upward, a pillar seeming to boil higher than the sky itself. The dark figure reeled backward, screaming in agony, raising its hands to shield its red-coal eyes; but it was seized, and held fast, and bound in place, by streamers of fire erupting outward from the pillar of flame rising from the altar.
From out of the pillar, countless pairs of eyes began to flow. They shot outward, gaining form as they flew, until human figures could be discerned – first dozens, then scores, then hundreds, then thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands. They clustered around the pillar of flame, their ethereal bodies radiating light, forming a glowing umbrella around the hill in all directions. As their numbers multiplied, the umbrella stretched out further and further, until its edge passed over the patrol, four and a half miles away. They knelt in awe, stunned and silent, gazing up through the trees at the glory of light above them.
As every pair of eyes erupted from the pillar and grew into human form, so the dark figure was diminished. It writhed and screamed as wisps of smoke flew away from it, melting and dissipating in the light and heat. Its body grew smaller and smaller, until at last it vanished into the pillar of flame, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
At last the torrent of eyes and bodies pouring out of the pillar of flame slowed, then died away. They surrounded the hill in a circle at least ten miles across, perhaps more, millions upon millions of glowing, transparent human figures, men, women and children. They wore clothes from every age of history and from all walks of life, from noble to peasant. There were soldiers, priests, merchants, farmers, tradesmen and more. All looked towards where the altar had stood on the hilltop. It had completely vanished, its stone crumbled into fine black sand. A sudden, strong breeze swept across the hilltop, staggering Hevel and Sisa where they stood, captivated, beside the standing stones. The dark sand was lifted and blown away, vanishing as if it had never been there.
The priest- and priestess-mage recovered their sight and their senses in time to see two new figures form slowly in the air above the hilltop. One was an old man, his hair gray, carrying himself stiffly upright, wearing a long white robe. His face and eyes were alight with joy. Beside him stood an old woman, her white hair bound back with a circlet of silver, wearing a snow-white ankle-length gown, an amber amulet glowing on her breast. She, too, was smiling, even as a tear of joy trickled down her cheek.
The old man reached down to Owain’s body. It lay lifeless on the hilltop, still clutching the haft of the battle-axe in its hand. Of the blade, there was no sign. The witnesses watching through the telepathic link saw a figure of light rise from the body, standing upright, looking around uncertainly until it caught sight of the couple waiting above. The figure, now clearly recognizable as Owain, smiled with joy, and rose up to embrace the two, who returned his greeting warmly. Their lips moved as they spoke to him, but the watchers could not hear or make out what they were saying. They could, however, see that the scars formerly on Owain’s face and forearms were no longer there.
Owain turned, and gestured to the crumpled bodies of Ofer and Raz. Above them, too, figures of light appeared. They saw his beckoning hand, and rose to meet him, exchanging the warrior’s grasp, wrist to wrist, standing proud, smiling at each other. Owain turned to the couple, seeming to introduce the two troopers who had stood beside him in his last fight. The old man and woman greeted them with smiles and a warm embrace.
A shape dropped downward from the cloud of glowing figures above the hill. As it grew nearer, the witnesses could see that it was a man, strong of build, with scars on his face. He sank to the hilltop and stood a little apart from the small group, staring at Owain. The King’s Champion noticed him, and his face split into the biggest smile that any of them, later, could ever recall seeing. The onlookers saw his mouth move in a shout of welcome, and this time they could read his lips. “Sigurd!” He ran to meet the new arrival, and the two embraced. As they did so, the scars on the man’s face began to fade.
As Owain led the new arrival back to the others, two more figures descended through the pillar of fire. The first, a woman, stepped out of its base. Sigurd stared, then tugged at Owain’s arm. Their lips moved in a silent, united shout. “Mair!” They ran to meet her. The trio hugged, a joyful threesome, for an endless moment.
The second figure ran out from the pillar. It was a large, brindled war hound, in the prime of its life. It gamboled around the three, jumping up at Owain, mouth opening in soundless barks of joy. Owain tore himself loose and knelt to greet the dog, smiling from ear to ear. They saw his lips form the word, “Gerd!” before he was almost knocked flat by the joyful beast.
As the three walked back to the old man and woman, the dog running around them, its tail wagging so fast as to be a blur, the pillar of fire changed. It became a vertical shaft of pure golden light. As the onlookers watched, the myriad souls surrounding the hilltop began to flow towards and into the shaft, vanishing upwards. The glowing figures on the hilltop watched as the huge cloud of bodies wafted inwards, growing smaller and smaller as more and more of them passed into the light.
At last, when almost all the others had gone, the old man and woman turned to those beside them. They all took each other’s hands, and in a single, united group, walked towards the shaft, the dog pressed tightly against Owain’s leg. The King’s Champion looked back for a moment, and smiled at Hevel and Sisa… then the group entered the light and were swept upwards, out of their sight.
The pillar-turned-shaft lingered for a moment, then began to fade. Within a minute, it had disappeared. The countryside, which had been lit up as if it was full daylight, fell dark again. Night dropped like a curtain, leaving only the glow of the moonlight over the hill.
—————
Hevel and Sisa stirred, looking at each other in awe. “What… what did we just see?” she asked him in her own tongue.
“I think we saw millions upon millions of souls, trappe
d for aeons, suddenly set free,” he replied slowly. “Owain told us something he had learned from a place of the Ancient Ones. That black stone altar seemed to fit what he described. The old couple who came to meet him… that, too, was very like something he shared with us, before he left to come here.”
“You must tell me more, when we have time.”
“Oh, most certainly! Thank you for your help, sister mage. I could not have survived this night without you and your sisters.”
“And I could not have done so without you and your brothers. With your permission, I shall travel back with you, to thank them in person before I return to my sisters across the sea.”
“Gladly; and I shall ask permission to accompany you, to share what we have learned with them. I think that, after fighting so great an evil together, there will be a permanent bond between our orders.”
She smiled and nodded, then looked at the three bodies lying on the grass. “How do you normally deal with your honored dead?”
“These are warriors. Our tradition is to cremate them on funeral pyres, but there is no wood here.”
“That I can do for you. What do you do with the ashes?”
“We gather them up and inter them in a memorial, if possible.”
“Very well. Let us cut the sleeves from Owain’s shirt, and one from yours. We shall tie them at the bottom, put the ashes inside, then tie them at the top, so we can carry them back to your country with us.”
Hevel cut the left sleeve from his shirt as she requested, then crossed to Owain to collect his. As he knotted them, Sisa walked to each body in turn. She spoke a few words, holding out her hand above them. Fire fell from her fingers, a soft, merciful flame, and flowed over each of them. Within seconds, their flesh and bone was reduced to a free-flowing ash. As they were consumed, Hevel drew himself up and spoke the words of the Battle Elegy for them all.
As soon as the ashes cooled, which did not take long, Hevel scooped them into the shirt-sleeve pockets he had made. As he tied off the last sleeve, Sisa asked, “How will we get back?”
Hevel picked up the handle of Owain’s battle-axe as he replied, “I have mind-spoken with my brother priest. He is with the rest of our patrol. They will wait for us to join them. He says his scrying-spell shows that the soldiers at a nearby fort all fled in panic at the sight of what happened here. He can detect no other patrols anywhere in this area; and, given what we have just seen, I think enemy forces will be slow and very reluctant to investigate what happened this night. That will give us time to get away. Our horses are picketed near the base of the hill. Can you ride?”
“I can, although it will be difficult in this dress. We normally wear riding habits for that purpose.”
“That can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Perhaps, when we reach the patrol, we can adjust some of our spare clothing to fit you. It may look and feel strange, even immodest, but I fear we have a long, arduous ride ahead of us. Your dress probably will not survive the journey.”
She shrugged. “We shall find a way to cope. Shall we go?”
He held out his hand, and she took it. Together, they turned around and walked down the hill. They reached the horses, untied them, mounted, and rode away across the moonlit grassland towards the patrol.
They did not look back. There was no need.
XXIII
The Abbott of Atheldorn concluded, “And so we come before Your Highness, to tell you all that we saw. It was truly a miracle of grace. None of us who participated in the telepathic link, and saw it, will ever be the same again.” His face and voice were alight with mingled sadness at losing Owain, and triumph at the defeat of an aeons-old evil.
The newly-appointed Prince Regent stirred on his throne. “You tell a tale almost beyond belief, my lord Abbott; yet I cannot believe you would tell us anything but the truth. This is astounding!”
“It is all true, Your Highness,” the Abbott of the Mother House in Kingsholme assured him. “I, too, participated in the telepathic link, and I saw all that my brother Abbott saw. What is more, Pater Hevel and Sisa, our reverend Sister from Qithara, witnessed it in person.” He gestured at Sisa as she stood beside Hevel, dressed in a newly-woven white robe, patterned after the filthy, ruined one she had brought back to Brackley.
“Ah, yes. I am honored to meet you, sister-mage.” The Prince inclined his head to her as Hevel whispered a translation, and she curtsied to him. He turned back to the Abbott. “Will she stay with us for a time?”
“No, Your Highness. We shall take her to Seahaven, where we shall book passage to Qithara aboard the first available merchant vessel, for her and Pater Hevel. He will be our envoy to her sisterhood, to confirm all she tells them. We hope to establish a lasting relationship with them, that we may both better serve the Gods as we know them through our mutual support.”
“That pleases me,” the Prince replied. “I think we can do better than a merchant ship. I shall give you orders to our Navy at Seahaven to have one of their ships transport them to Qithara, as an official gesture of thanks for all she has done to help us.”
The Abbott bowed. “I thank Your Highness for his generosity.”
“What do you intend to do with the ashes of Owain and his two comrades-in-arms?”
“Before he left, he had asked to be interred at Atheldorn in case of need, if circumstances permitted, Your Highness. We are building a memorial in the crypt of our chapel, to contain his ashes and the handle of his axe. It will also hold the ashes of Ofer and Raz; those of Sigurd, the former King’s Champion and Owain’s sword-brother, and the shards of his sword; and those of Rajczak, the Graben gruefell rider who helped Owain in his mission, and converted to our faith before dying. The patrol cremated his body during their return journey, and brought back his ashes. We are already discussing whether Owain should be raised to the altars of the Order, as one of those whose memory and example we venerate. That will take some time, of course; we never rush such decisions. Nevertheless, the fruits of his life and work are so great that I think it is not impossible.”
The former Baron of Brackley, now the newly-installed Earl of Elspeth, rumbled, “And if Owain hears of it, wherever he is now, he’ll laugh his head off! He never stood much on ceremony, so the thought of priest-mages chanting solemnly and waving incense around his ashes will really set him off!” A chuckle ran through the group before the throne.
The Prince smiled. “I only met him once, when I was still a child, so I never knew that side of him. You are fortunate to have been his friend, my lord. Are you settling in comfortably at Elspeth?”
“I am, Your Highness, and my oldest son is doing the same at Brackley.” He nodded to the Duke of Gehlen, standing next to him. “Thank you for releasing him from the Border Guard, your grace. He is more than ready to assume the responsibility of the Barony. I can sleep easy, knowing that my people there are in good hands.”
The Prince asked, “What about the Graben? Do you think the threat from them is past?”
The Duke shook his head. “Not past, Your Highness, but certainly diminished. We now know, thanks to what that gruefell rider, Rajczak, told the priest-mages of the Order, that the sorcerers slain by Owain and his companions were behind much of the trouble on our border. We also know that the gruefells were produced by sorcerous intervention in natural processes. Now that the sorcerers have been removed, there will be no more gruefells born.
“Those still alive can live for fifty or sixty years, so we shall have to deal with any mischief they may cause; but the Earl has suggested a way to counteract that. We shall send a message, telling their riders where to find the bodies of their comrades that were slain by the sorcerers, as they returned from their abortive raid against the King’s Champion. Once they have confirmed what we tell them, their riders are likely to blame their former masters for everything that went wrong for them in recent months. We hope that will lessen any hatred they still bear towards us.”
“I hope it does,” the Prince approved. He rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. “Speaking of the King’s Champion, I understand he sent you his dagger, Captain Garath.”
Garath nodded, snapping to attention as everyone turned to him. “He did, Your Highness, along with a message telling me to live up to the ideals it embodies. It belonged first to Sigurd, the previous King’s Champion, and then to him.”
“That is a lot to live up to. May I see it, please?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Garath unsnapped the leather sheath from his belt and handed the weapon to an equerry, who walked up the steps to the throne and handed it hilt-first to the Prince-Regent. He drew it from its sheath, balancing it in his hand.
“A fine weapon. Will you give it to the Order, to retain along with the haft of Owain’s axe? It is a relic of his life, after all.”
Both Abbotts looked eagerly at Garath, obviously approving the Prince’s idea, but he shook his head firmly. “No, Your Highness. I shall honor the King’s Champion’s wishes, and wear it as a personal reminder from him of what is truly important in life. Perhaps, after I die, I may leave it to the Order in my will – but, again, perhaps not. There may be a more appropriate use for it. Who can tell?”
“That is true.” The Prince returned the blade to its sheath, and gave it to the equerry to return to Garath. “Speaking of the late King’s Champion, there is the question of his office. Your Grace, do we need to appoint a successor?”
“That is a royal prerogative alone,” the Duke of Gehlen replied, bowing slightly. “If we are not at war, there will be little need for one; but it is an important symbolic office. That is why, when Owain wished to quit his position so as not to be an unnecessary burden on the public purse, the King would not accept his resignation. Instead, he made Owain the Champion Emeritus, retaining his title, with the option to resume his office at any time he felt it necessary for the good of the Kingdom.”