by Troy A Hill
“Come with me,” Lecerf said. “Kill anyone who attempts to harm me.” He glanced at me. “You don’t get a sword… yet, Maria of Rome.” He chuckled with his high, thin voice. “Not yet. Both of you, follow me.”
Bechard waited in the thin grey light of the moon by the gate to the abbey’s graveyard. He paled when he saw us approach.
“Must you bring a damaged one?” He shivered as he looked away from Osbert’s neck wound. Black blood still caked the dead man’s bare torso.
“Bandage it if it upsets you so, Seeker.” Lecerf chuckled again. He led us into the graveyard. Bechard stepped in next to him, in front of me. His shoulders shuddered again as we walked.
“Perhaps we should kill one of the hostages and bury them on the hill, so we don’t have to return to this graveyard?” Bechard suggested as we walked through the mounds and stone markers.
“The old graves work best,” Lecerf said. “The older it is, the more power it has. A new grave wouldn’t transport even a mouse between the Underworld and ours.”
With that, he tilted his staff towards one of the oldest markers around us. Another little spark leaped from the top of the staff and the stone of the old grave. A black rift opened, and the two wizards strode into the void. Osbert and I followed. Silent. We had no orders to speak. I wasn’t sure Osbert’s corpse could speak since I had cut his throat open.
The path through Lecerf’s rift into the Underworld was as dark as night. I wondered if it was another part of the Otherworld, or somewhere separate? There was no real sense of direction. The only sights were occasional wisps of souls that floated by.
I tried to piece together the riddle Lecerf was weaving. What did he want with Ruadh? With Enid? Where were we going now, and what part was I meant to play in it?
As we came to the portal back to our own world, the spirits of the departed again formed a stairway out of the void. My thoughts echoed the shiver that my body couldn’t reproduce. Gwen, I doubted, would have been able to step foot on that stairway of dead souls.
Gwen. I hoped she was all right. Had Seren been able to tree walk with her and Emlyn to The Lady’s pool? And had Seren been able to bring them out again? If so, I hoped they hadn’t gone to Caer Penllyn. To escape one battle, only to walk into another… Then again, Caer Penllyn needed Emlyn right now.
When we emerged from the black mists, I was surprised to see Caer Penllyn itself, closer than before. We were on a hill, near the village below the fort. I didn’t see any grave markers here, but knew there had to be one.
“As I said,” Lecerf wheezed as we walked to the edge of the small wooded hilltop, “old graves have more power. Whoever lies in this solitary grave had no idea, centuries ago, what they would allow us to do because of where they were buried.” He chuckled. “I’m sure they merely thought it was a lovely view.” He pointed his staff at the hill where Bleddyn’s fort stood and intoned, “Seeker Bechard, begin.”
Bechard waved his hands in an intricate pattern and muttered syllables that made no sense. The air around us crackled. I assumed the veil had drawn around us again.
Having concealed our position, the seeker reached into his dark cloak and pulled out a short, thin stick, adorned with intricate carvings. He pointed it towards the hill fort. I recognized Fadog on horseback, leading his men around the palisade. They yelled taunts at those inside and released flights of arrows towards the guards on the wall.
Bechard flicked his wand. An arrow popped out of nowhere and appeared to catch fire. It blazed towards the fort, only to fall just short of the wall. “Fadog’s spellcaster should see that.”
“Please,” Lecerf growled. “That imbecile has as much of a chance successfully starting his boots on fire with a spell, as Fadog does of becoming King of Powys.”
The arrow drew the attention of one of the riders by Fadog’s side. He turned and faced our hill. With a flowing purple cloak draped over his shoulders, he seemed hardly dressed for battle. Even from this distance, I could make out the large, bejewelled clasp at his throat. He carried no sword, but only a long staff. His gaze swept the hilltop where we stood but didn’t stop. He must not be able to see us. But the flaming arrow was apparently a signal. He stood in his stirrups and raised his staff above his head, staring down into the ditch around the fort.
“We call upon the old gods,” the deep baritone of the rider sounded around us, “to bring forth our ancestors to rid Powys of the disloyal who seek to usurp Fadog, the rightful king of the land.” I had no idea where Fadog had found him, but this dandy seemed to play the wizard well.
Apparently, Fadog had learned nothing from the previous battle if he allowed this lackey of his men to announce him as the “rightful king” of Powys. Nor had he learned anything about Witch Hunters. Fadog didn’t have my perspective on them. They lived to serve themselves. I had no doubt they would find a way to double cross Fadog, sooner or later. He’d learn, or die believing their lies. Emlyn would remove the idea of a kingship from his head… or perhaps just his head from his shoulders, should Fadog manage to get into Caer Penllyn again.
While the rider waved his staff dramatically over the ditch, Bechard made tiny gestures with his stick. A mass of undead emerged from the ditch. The path Emlyn’s new recruits ran now teamed with undead warriors, like those in waiting at the encampment near the abbey. There was something strange about this undead horde, though. I mean, stranger than skeletons moving about on their own. And not just because I couldn’t quite understand who had summoned them, the showy rider or Bechard.
“Work in some variety,” Lecerf hissed. “They all appear exactly the same.”
Ah, that was the difference. These undead all looked alike. Their clothes were torn in the same places. Their hands gripped the same kind of sword. They even shuffled and lurched with the same gait, all as one body, like grass blowing in the wind. They weren’t real. They were just another of Bechard’s illusions—and the flashy rider was just for show. But what could Lecerf possibly want with an army that wasn’t even real?
Bechard waved his fancy stick. The undead shifted appearance subtly and began to act as individuals as they swarmed towards the gates at the fort. Penllyn men lined the walls near the gates and shot arrows into the oncoming army. The arrows passed straight through the skeletons’ bodies. The defenders were too far away for me to make out features. I couldn’t tell if Emlyn was among them.
Bechard continued to weave his illusion. Two figures on horseback appeared from the village. From the fort, it would appear as if they had ridden in, and not just appeared from nothing, as we could see from our vantage point. I blinked and glanced out of the corner of my eye between the two riders and the two Witch Hunters standing beside me. The riders were duplicates of Bechard and Lecerf.
As the new figures neared the base of the hill, Seeker Bechard whispered next to me. But his voice boomed out from his illusionary double below us.
“HOLD!” fake Bechard bellowed as real Bechard whispered the same words. “In the name of the one True God I command all that is unholy to be gone from these lands!”
Below us, the illusionary Witch Hunters stood in their stirrups. The fake Lecerf gestured with his black staff towards the undead. As before, he appeared nothing more than a doddering old man, entrusted with carrying the symbol of the Witch Hunters Guild. Fake Lecerf acted almost afraid as a wave of white light, similar to the light The Lady sent to my ivory cross and Cadoc’s sword, swept over the battle field. All around him, the illusionary skeletal warriors appeared to crumble into dust.
The white glow rushed across the landscape in all directions—including towards us on our hill. Internally, I braced for whatever magic this was. It didn’t look friendly to my kind. But as the wave rushed over us, it left me and Dead Osbert standing and unharmed. It was nothing more than a pretty light. Once again, Bechard was full of nothing but illusions and lies.
The guards on the wall peered over the palisade into the ditch. A moment ago, it had been full of dead fighte
rs. Now, it was empty, except for Fadog, his army, and the fake wizard. The Penllyn guards exchanged glances with each other.
“Lord Penllyn,” the two Bechards, real and fake, intoned, “This day shall you regret banishing us from your lands.” Fake Bechard spread his arm welcomingly. “But you see we are full of love and generosity, willing to forget past slights. The true church has driven the threat of the dead away.” His tone hardened and he dropped his arm to his side. “But the Guild will not forget that you harboured witches in your land. Come down from your fortifications and submit yourself for the judgement of the church.”
Emlyn’s voice cut through the night. My heart jumped.
“You are welcome to enter our fort and discuss the matter,” he yelled from the wall. “Bring Fadog with you, and you can pronounce judgement on him as well. We will provide you both with a warm welcome, I guarantee it.”
I wanted to smile then, but the control spells woven into the torc denied me even that little gesture.
“If you will not ride out to surrender to the church for our judgement,” Bechard wheezed next to me, and his doppelgänger below bellowed at the fort, “then we shall release you to the mercies of your enemy. We will deal with whichever of you is victorious tonight.”
“Traitor!” Fadog screamed at fake Bechard from his horse’s back. “Villain!”
No one seemed to mind him.
“You have violated Lord Penllyn’s order to remove your guild from our lands,” Emlyn’s voice shouted from the walls again. “Be gone—but remember that when we meet again.”
“Very well,” fake Bechard hissed. “Let your lands be overrun by your enemies and their deviltry. You were given grace, and threw it down in the mud.”
“‘Deviltry!’” Fadog screamed. “I’ll break your staff over your skull!”
“Fool,” Bechard whispered. His voice no longer carried into the valley below. “We told him he had a part to play. And the idiot can’t even handle that bit of instruction.” The seeker paid Fadog no mind after that, and directed his illusion of himself and Lecerf back into the village, where they disappeared out of sight of those in the fort.
Lecerf chuckled and turned to me. “More involved than the illusion of the spirits at the wedding where you interrupted our plans.” His words, too, were not duplicated near the fort. Only we on the hilltop could hear him. “But all for the best. We never would have noticed you.”
By now the fake wizard next to Fadog danced and gestured again. This time, Lecerf stepped forward, while Bechard and his wand remained still. Lecerf spoke a single word, something magical, and his black staff hummed for a few seconds. This time, a score of undead rose from the defensive ditch. I feared this time they were made of more than imagination.
“Is that enough undead?” Bechard asked. Head tilted, he eyed Lecerf’s work critically.
“Enough for now,” Lecerf replied in his nasal voice. “Fadog is not supposed to win, despite what he hopes. We need to draw out the young lord and his sword.” The old wizard chuckled as his gaze met mine.
“The plans are laid. Now we let them come to us. You, Maria,” he laughed again, “have a major role tonight. We must get you back for your performance.”
39
Old Friends
Lecerf led us through the unmarked grave and back through the dark part of the Otherworld. We emerged once again in the Abbey’s graveyard. He was talkative as we climbed the hill to where his army of skeletal, undead warriors and the rest of the live guild fighters hid in Bechard’s illusion.
“You have led our guild on a merry hunt back in Europe,” he said. “I did not expect to find the famed Maria of Rome on these shores.” He stopped and spun towards me. “When was the last time you saw Aemilianus?”
“Seventy-two years, three months, and twelve nights ago,” my voice said. I was surprised that my mind kept track of such things—and dismayed that his spell forced me to provide information. What more would he get out of me?
“Do you know where we can find him now?” My head shook side to side. My earlier precaution to stay away from my siblings, especially Aemi, paid now. I never wanted to be the reason any of them fell into the guild’s hands.
“Did you ever create undead children of your own? Tell me if you did.”
Again my head moved to indicate I had not. His eyes lit up. “Then I am fortunate, indeed. Other than you and Aemilianus, only one other Blood-Witch listed in our book has the potential to be as strong as the two of you. We shall control these islands within a year or two, and all the nobles and peasants shall embrace the true faith.”
I blinked.
My soul was screaming. I wanted to cry, to sob, to run away. To find out I had become one of the most powerful among the Children of the Night, but was about to become a permanent puppet of the Guilders, crushed my soul. Yet I couldn’t even tremble with the despair that wracked my soul.
Lecerf led me through the ripple in the air that concealed the guild army and the undead army. The old wizard walked with a purpose. He strode towards a pocket of undead that included some more recent recruits. About a dozen human corpses, their flesh still whole, though pallid and sunken, stood silently with clubs and sticks among the skeleton warriors. Their clothing was dirt-encrusted and already smelled of the grave.
The sight of two familiar faces shocked me. Their throats had been ripped out. Their flesh was green and blue, their tunics still drenched in the brown of their own dried blood. Onion Breath and The Hunchback. Their right arms were twisted where I had broken them. They still flopped about due to the broken bones sticking out of the palid flesh. In their left hands, each held a rusted and brittle sword. I would be surprised if the weapons survived one swing each. They stood silently and stared at nothing. Dead.
“You are now my pet, just as Bjørulf is.” Lecerf’s hand touched my chin. I needed to slap his hand away, to recoil, to scream at his touch. Instead, my body stood stoic. Waiting.
“Tonight we will complete the spell that locks you forever in my control. The dead you see here—some will fall in the battle tonight. Those I shall raise again tomorrow through your link to undeath. When I mix your energy with the spell, they shall have your skill with weapons” His wrinkled old face wasn’t used to smiling beyond his sick little laugh-grin, and seemed to creak and groan under the new expression. “Tonight, you will take the Sword of Light from the young lord when he comes to rescue his wife.”
Cadoc. That’s why Lecerf wanted Enid. She was meant to lure him here, into a trap. And the Sword of Light must be the sword Gwen had blessed for his wedding. Lecerf had seen how it glowed when Cadoc attacked the illusionary ghosts.
“You will kill the other lycanthrope with that sword,” Lecerf went on. My heart shuddered as I pictured myself attacking Ruadh, unable to do a thing to stop myself “Coat yourself with his blood. I have already cast the spell. His death, his blood on you, will sink that torc into your skin. It will become one with your body, and you shall be mine to control forever. With the power of that sword, we shall drain this false goddess of her power, and use it to secure our own future. This land shall be ours.”
He stepped back and looked around. I wanted to scream and tear his head from his body. All I could do was blink.
“You will need energy once you have completed the ritual of binding. The other two, the girl and the young man, are there to feed you. Drain them of life to fuel your own,” he said.
Then he pointed his staff at my two dead tormentors. He touched each on the head with his staff. “You and you, follow her.” He chuckled again, his laugh still annoying. “Maria, follow me.”
He led me and the animated corpses of my former captors from one magical veil to the next, to the posts where Enid and the others stood shackled. Osbert, as the wizard’s undead body guard, followed behind us.
We found Bjørulf the shifter pacing, flexing his fingers, and swinging his arms with nervous energy. Pedr kept as far away from Bjørulf as he could and still be wit
hin the shimmering wall of the illusion. Probably for the best. The shifter seemed to enjoy the discomfort he gave Pedr. I did too, that traitor.
At the sight of the three animated corpses that followed me, Enid gasped and Talian’s face drained of colour. It was clearly an unpleasant shock to be thus reunited with the men they hated—Talian’s former masters in the guild, and the man who had tortured Enid’s sister-in-law. I didn’t much like their company either. I would have gladly killed them all a second time.
The old wizard produced a pair of manacles and told my body to place my hands into them. My hands slid in easily, and it was clear they could slide right back out, as soon as Lecerf gave the command. They were only there to make me appear shackled. Then he had his pet shifter raise my arms and hang the irons over the hook at the top of the post. The one glimpse I got of Ruadh’s face, twisted into a fierce scowl, showed me he wasn’t ready to stop fighting. But like the rest of us, he was without options to do so.
“Maria,” Lecerf hissed at me again. “Keep your arms there. Do you remember my orders I gave you earlier?” Oh, boy, did I ever remember them. Kill Cadoc, take his sword, kill Ruadh, bathe in his blood, drain Enid and Talian, and destroy everything I loved and wanted to protect.
“NO! I WON’T!” I screamed inside my mind. But my head nodded.
“Good. Stay in that position until your first opportunity to carry out those orders.” He pointed to where the undead guilders had already positioned themselves behind me. They took the order to follow me very literally. “You two. Kill anyone who tries to free any of these people.” With that he walked away. Osbert and Bjørulf followed him. Pedr took one last look at us, his gaze lingering on Enid.
“What a waste,” he mumbled. “If only you had listened to them.” He followed the others down the hill to the army’s encampment.
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