The Iron Chalice

by J. M. Briggs

  Grimacing at the sight of the water tunnel, Alex’s mind went unbidden back to the sight of Arthur vanishing into it, and leaving her to die on the rocky shore of Ravenslake. Morgana reached over and took her hand with a reassuring nod and a slight squeeze. Merlin’s left hand was hovering in front of the portal, his green magic spinning across the surface of the rushing water. The sound of it was tremendous up close, like a waterfall only a few feet away. Merlin took Alex’s free hand, putting her firmly between the two most experienced mages. The others formed a line off of Morgana’s other side. With the Iron Chalice in her bag and Merlin and Morgana hovering nearby, Alex knew that she should feel safe, but their protectiveness was putting a bad taste in her mouth.

  “You’ll look after them too right?” she asked Morgana in a soft voice, drawing the older woman’s attention. “Please?”

  Morgana’s green eyes softened and she nodded gently, her thumb rubbing the back of Alex’s hand. “I will,” she promised quickly as her hand began to glow a soft silver. The glow traveled down the line of friends, though the others didn’t seem to notice. “That will help everyone hold tight.”

  “You need to hold tight: if you are separated then it is all but impossible to follow someone through a water portal,” Merlin lectured calmly as the water swirled in front of them. “I will guide our passage.”

  “Merlin and I learned that when we chased Badb,” Morgana observed. “Thankfully Merlin had my hand, but we had almost no control over following Badb when she left the water portal.” There was a hint of frustration and regret in Morgana’s voice, beneath her usual casual tone. She squeezed Alex’s hand again. “Just focus on holding on; close your eyes if you have to and we’ll keep you safe.”

  “I hate to point this out now,” Jenny called out. “But our stuff is back at the hostel…”

  “We’ll take care of that,” Morgana promised quickly giving Jenny a much gentler look and even a reassuring smile. “The priority is getting all of you out of this area before more Sídhe relatives show up.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” Jenny replied, seeming more than a little thrown by Morgana’s suddenly warmer behavior.

  Then Merlin moved forward, his hand reaching out to touch a stream of water. It spun around his hand. He looked nervous, Alex realized with a sharp twist in her gut, but it was too late as he stepped into the portal and pulled her along behind him. Everything around her became a wild blur of waves, brief flashes of shorelines and the sounds of the world moving quickly around her, like a room full of televisions all on fast forward. Alex was aware of a strange pressure on her body and her ears popping painfully. She couldn’t see anything except Merlin in front of her and the steady glistening of his magic around them. It was getting harder and harder to breathe as the pressure on her body forced the air from her. On instinct, she kicked with her legs and tried to move them, but there was resistance as if she was truly submerged.

  Then the tunnel gave a sharp turn making the bottom of her stomach drop. For a moment she was floating as the sounds around her suddenly vanished. Around her, the brief sights of other places suddenly slowed, and she glimpsed a dark moonlit beach with rolling waves. Then a rush of cold hit her like she was being dumped into an icy swimming pool, and her vision went white.

  Panting for air, Alex nearly collapsed to her knees. She was disoriented for a moment but forced her head up. The fast rush of water was gone and she was amongst a collection of bare trees. Behind her were the sounds of the others coughing and moving, and the soft lap of water against rocks. Looking around a soft sigh of relief escaped her as she recognized the nearby path that she was fond of jogging through in the spring and autumn. They were on the southern shore of Ravens Lake in the university arboretum. They were home.

  30

  Goddess of Death

  721 B.C.E. South of Mount Snowdon

  It was beyond reassuring to watch the soft glow of the Chalice illuminate the water within as he handed it to the little girl. Gofiben forced himself to smile despite the exhaustion weighing down on him and avoided looking at the others who were gathered around. They were many, and the number was growing each day as people traveled to the village. While the worst of Badb’s plague had faded away, people had been quick to bring those weakened by it here.

  They’d finally moved down to the village just past the confluence of the rivers after the Chalice had allowed them to heal what remained of the population. It was unsettling to be around people again, to not be so isolated; though it had been necessary when they first arrived. Yet the looks he received each time he used his magic to awaken the Chalice were all unnerving. There were whispers spreading amongst the healed, and he dreaded just what kind of stories might get back to Merlin and Morgana.

  Shaking his head, Gofiben took a drink of water from the water skin on his belt. He didn’t smile at the next person he came to, but then the older man didn’t look like he particularly wanted a smile. Instead, he took the Chalice from his hands with a suspicious look and drank it down with a few gulps. Almost instantly his pale cheeks began to turn a healthy pink color and his breathing evened out. Gofiben turned to Bran who refilled the Chalice from a jug of water and they moved to the next person.

  They were near the end of the day’s group who had come up the river when Bran stumbled slightly. Twisting around, Gofiben was able to catch the jug of water and set it on the ground with one hand and take hold of Bran’s arm with the other. A little boy was left holding the Chalice with a surprised look for a moment as Gofiben got Bran settled on the ground leaning up against the fence. He then turned and retrieved the Chalice, holding it close as he turned back to Bran who was panting a little and looked dazed.

  “What is it?” Gofiben asked. He knelt down and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “More of those visions?”

  “Yes, but this one was different,” Bran began to explain, licking his lips with a thoughtful and worried expression. He looked at the Chalice in Gofiben’s hand and reached out to touch it gently. “I saw the Chalice with those strangers I keep seeing.”

  “You sure?” Gofiben questioned. He straightening up in surprise. “My Chalice?”

  “I’m sure it was,” Bran assured him, pointing to the small triskelion on it. “One of them, a man a bit younger than us, had a bad leg.” He shook his head and groaned in frustration. “Fisher: I didn’t understand most of it, but he was the fisher.”

  Gofiben was suddenly all too aware of the curious eyes on them. He sighed in relief when Galath placed himself protectively between the crowd and the two mages, allowing them a moment to catch their breaths.

  “We both need a rest,” Gofiben told Bran gently.

  “But there are still people waiting-”

  “There will be people waiting later too,” Gofiben reminded him with a sad chuckle. “We’ve only been at this for what… seven days and somehow it seems everyone in the whole mountain range has shown up.”

  “Can you really blame them?” Bran chuckled as he stood up and the two shrank back into the roundhouse they’d been given after first healing the villagers. “Suddenly there’s this cup that heals all their wounds.”

  Groaning at Bran’s words, Gofiben stretched his arms and sighed as his muscles protested, but then eased. He half collapsed on his bed and threw an arm over his eyes causing Bran to chuckle. There was a peaceful quiet save the muffled sound of voices outside and the soft noises that Bran made as he sat down. Gofiben exhaled softly, allowing himself to slip towards a restful state, though he did not allow himself the luxury of a nap.

  Finally, he forced his eyes open and brought the Chalice, still held in his left hand, up so he could see it. The glow of magic had faded, but he could still see a slight shimmer on the surface. There was a warmth in the metal that he was inclined to attribute to Emrys’ fire. His fingers brushed over the metal and he could see the tiny sparks of magic below the surface following his fingers. He knew that it wasn’t as potent as Cathanáil: even now that sword
amazed him, but in a way, he liked the Chalice more. A person had to want to help another when they used the Chalice. Hopefully, that meant that it would never be turned against them like Cathanáil had.

  Suddenly the noise outside exploded. There were shouts and worried murmurs that made him sit up sharply. He glanced towards Bran and confirmed that he wasn’t just hearing things. They both jumped up and Bran strode towards the doorway with a grim look. Setting down the Iron Chalice in the small basket by his bed, Gofiben followed Bran outside and looked around. A pillar of smoke was rising from a hillside just up the valley, and there was already the smell of burning vegetation on the wind. People in the village were pointing towards it with low murmurs of worry.

  The villagers turned to look at them, expectation written on all of their faces, and it was all Gofiben could do not to sigh. Nonetheless, he glanced towards his brother who was frowning at the hillside while Bran merely shrugged. Holding back a weary sigh, Gofiben began to walk towards it, keeping an eye on the wind and the thickening smoke with Bran at his side and his brother rushing to get in front of him.

  It didn’t take long for them to reach the burning area, and Gofiben took it in with a frown. Smoke was billowing forth, darkening the sky, and he could see the flames high in the trees. He stopped and looked down towards the river below, wondering how much water he could bring up with his magic. It wasn’t something he’d done before, but Merlin and Morgana had assured him such feats were possible.

  “Can you stop it?” Galath called over his shoulder, shifting and turning to face them.

  “Maybe,” Bran answered, licking his lips and turning towards the river. Bran closed his eyes in concentration and his magic began to spark around his arms and hands. “Let me give this a try.”

  They had no warning; only the sharp sound of a crashing tree and a familiar laugh echoing down the hill. The wave of dark red magic knocked them all off their feet and Galath groaned in pain as his axe tumbled out of his hand. Groaning himself, Gofiben looked at his brother and froze for a moment in panic at the sight of red blood trickling from a cut on his head. A slightly bloody sharp rock was right next to him and added to Gofiben’s panic. He crawled over to his brother and sighed in relief when he confirmed that Galath’s breathing was steady. Gofiben grabbed his brother’s axe and jumped to his feet.

  Badb stepped out of the flames; her gleaming black eyes moving between the two mages for a moment before settling on him. Her eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth at him. Higher on the hill the flames burst into the sky forming pillars of fire and thickening smoke, darkening the hillside.

  “Where is the sword?” Badb demanded hotly, her dark red magic flaring around her dangerously. “Where is it!?” Gofiben couldn’t keep his confusion from showing on his face at her question. His eyes searched her, but she didn’t have Cathanáil, and he felt his heart beating a little faster. “You don’t know,” Badb realized with a snarl as she turned her head and unleashed a blast of dark red magic across the hillside. “Where are your keepers? Where is my sword!?”

  Her words sent a hot bolt of anger through him, snapping Gofiben out of the confusion and unease. There was a surge of relief at her question about his ‘keepers’: he knew she meant Merlin and Morgana. Had they recovered Cathanáil from her? Where were they then? Magic was sparking around his hand before he’d even fully processed calling it forth.

  Badb laughed; it was a high pitched sound that vibrated through him. His bones ached and a feeling of absolute dread was seeping into him. Fire exploded all around them, raining down from the swarm of dark magic billowing around Badb. For a moment Gofiben feared that his heart had stopped, but then felt the spark of magic in his chest singing. It spurred him to action as he conjured a ball of his own magic, focusing on keeping it from becoming fire, and blasted it towards Badb.

  It did little good but was enough to distract her. With that terrible cry of hers that reminded him too much of a crow, she spun back to face him. Her face twisted into a sneer and he lifted his brother’s axe. Looking back towards Galath, he almost collapsed in relief when he spotted Bran dragging his brother further down the hill.

  His moment of distraction gave Badb a chance to send a stream of dark red magic flickering through the air. It struck his chest. Screaming, Gofiben’s knees shuddered as he felt her power attempting to burrow into his chest. Bringing up his hand, Gofiben felt his own exhausted magic push violently against the attacking presence. The orange glow overpowered the dark red, but he was left shaking badly. He barely had the chance to look up and dodge another blast.

  Badb was smirking: her face was excited and smug as her magic danced around her fingers. Rage flashed through him. She was enjoying this. She didn’t see Bran or him as a real threat. Merlin and Morgana had apparently gotten Cathanáil away from her, but they hadn’t destroyed her, so what could he and Bran do? Gofiben didn’t even try to control the anger. Instead, he let himself drown in it, feeling his connection to his magic flash with energy as his emotions overcame his exhaustion from a day of healing.

  He swung at her, pushing magic into his axe head. The wooden handle in his hands resisted the flow of his power for only a moment before the iron head began to glimmer with an orange haze. Badb dodged his wild swing with a laugh and brought up her hand with black fire licking around her fingers. Suddenly she stumbled with a look of shock on her face. Glancing down, Gofiben nearly cheered at the sight of small summer flowers curling up around her bare ankle. He slashed forward with his axe, but Badb shifted back and avoided the blow as her hand moved and sent a bolt of dark red magic hurtling towards Bran.

  Bran hit the ground with a sharp crack. Around them the fire was spreading from treetop to treetop in the wind, casting a horrible glow across the hill. On instinct, Gofiben moved towards Bran, reaching out a hand for him. Bright red blood was flowing from a wound on his friend’s head down onto the rocky soil. A groan escaped Bran and he began to move. Gofiben almost turned his back on Badb, but a sharp cry made him look back at her with wide eyes.

  Lashing out at him, Badb’s talons scraped across his chest. The thick layer of coarse cloth dulled the blow, but Gofiben could feel the sharp fire of his skin being sliced open. Badb pulled her hand away sharply and twirled it with a vicious little smile as dark red magic flared around her fingertips. Gofiben’s heart seized up in his chest as a terrible sense of certainty that he was about to die set in. The blast of magic hit his chest before he could move. A soft crunching sound echoed through his body, and he couldn’t manage anything more than a pained whimper.

  A nearby tree swayed in the wind only to suddenly bend down with its branches reaching for Badb. Around her, branches grew and groaned, twisting around her body. Screaming, Badb shifted her hands and began to burn away the offending plants. It was the opening Gofiben needed, and with a shout, he threw his entire weight into the swing. A blast of fire ripped through his side, and he caught the horrible smell of burning fabric, hair and flesh. His swing connected and the sharp blade of his axe flashed brilliantly as it collided with Badb’s head. Her body flickered black and turned smoky for a moment, but his axe glowed and remained in place. A pained cry was torn from Badb’s lips as his legs trembled, but he dared not let go of the weapon. Dark red magic flashed against his own as her magical body struggled to pull away and stay together.

  Gofiben struggled for air, feeling his side burst with pain, making it feel like he had been shoved into a fire pit. He grasped desperately at the magic he had left and pulled sharply on the soft gentle pulse of it beneath his feet. Badb clawed at him, her flickering, screaming face full of terror and shock, all traces of arrogance and malice gone. Then like a pillar of dark smoke Badb dissipated into the wind, her glowing, terrified eyes the last part of her to be seen.

  Collapsing to the ground, Gofiben barely felt his knees scream in protest over the absolute agony that the rest of his body was in. Everything hurt, and he could see his own blood beginning to pool on the ground. He tried su
mmoning his magic once again, but the connection felt weak and low like a dying flame. Gofiben chuckled at his poetic thought only to grimace at the pain the laugh had sent through his body. He coughed and felt blood pour into his mouth and begin to seep out from between his lips.

  Bran was still on the ground not far from him, but his attempt to move only sent a bolt of pain through him that made his vision go white. Breathing was hard enough as it was, but now he could only smell and taste smoke. Distantly he felt some concern for the fires around them and was almost amused by the notion of a smith dying in the smoke and flames. Someone called his name: Galath, not Bran. It was getting hard to focus; he felt light headed and exhausted.

  He wondered what Morgana and Merlin would think. They’d found him less than a year ago, but he’d created another object that might not rival Cathanáil, yet was wondrous in its own right, and he had killed an Old One. A feeling of guilt surged through him, along with a painful resignation as his brother dropped down beside him. Galath’s hands moved hesitantly while his brother’s horrified face peered down at him. There was dried blood all across the right side of his face; he was ghastly, but alive and moving. Tears were running down his cheeks and Gofiben reached up towards him. Galath took his hand as a pained sob escaped him, and Gofiben felt himself smile as he used the last of his strength to squeeze his brother’s hand in return.