Crimson Fire (30 page)

“We ask only for shelter for the night,” Havgan replied.

The Abbot hesitated. “Perhaps, lord, you would be more comfortable in town. I am sure that the Eorl—”

“You do have guest quarters, I trust?”

“We do. But tonight the Hunt rides,” the Abbot said bluntly. “This night we spend in the church. All of us. Praying to Lytir to protect us. Everyone must be there.”

Havgan nodded. “I understand, Lord Abbot. Sledda and my servants shall be there. But I have business on the mountain.”

“That is not permitted, Lord Havgan. I must insist.” “You cannot prevent me.”

The Abbot said nothing for a long time, then bowed his head. “It is the will of Lytir, then. I will pray for you.”

T
HE CHURCH WAS
crowded. Monks and novices lined the front benches, all of them on their knees. Hundreds of candles had been lit, chasing the shadows into the corners and up to the high ceiling. The stone altar was covered with a banner of white and gold, marked with the runes of Lytir. Four white candles burned in golden holders at each corner of the large stone. Whispered prayers caught in the still air and echoed off the walls.

“Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen . . .”

“Eternal Lord . . .” “Lytir, protect us . . .”

Havgan and Sledda had taken places in the middle of the sanctuary. Sledda was on his knees, his pale head bowed. Hav- gan sat upright, gazing at the gleaming banners.

Gwydion and Rhiannon sat at the rear of the church, with no one around them. Gwydion leaned forward and whispered to Rhiannon, “It’s dark out. The Deore Necht celebration must begin soon.”

“And?” she asked, her brows raised.

“I wish to see it. Guard me while I Wind-Ride.” “What about Havgan?”

“He’s far too preoccupied to sense much of anything. And if he does, he will chalk it up to the Hunt.”

“What do you hope to learn?”

Gwydion shook his head. “I don’t know. But I have a feel- ing I should see it just the same.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll call you if someone comes by and looks too closely. Kneel down so it looks like you’re praying.”

Gwydion sank to his knees and bowed his head. After a moment he could feel a part of him separating from his physi- cal body. That part of him rose and hovered for a moment, looking down at those gathered in the church. He saw his own body, limp and unobtrusively braced by Rhiannon, who knelt beside him.

He
fl
ew out of the monastery and over the mountain, looking

for a spark of light to guide him to the Heiden. The star-strewn sky was clear. The full moon rode the night, its silvery beams turning the tall pine trees spread below into inky shadows.

There, to his left. A pinpoint of
fl
ame. He spiraled down

closer and closer to the clearing, at last coming to rest at the very edge. He hovered, looking down at the crowd of people gathered there.

A stone altar was decorated with candles of gold and white. A gold banner with a rune of white and a white banner with a rune of gold were spread across the stone. He looked closely at the runes. They were for Fro and Freya, the Lord and Lady. These were brother and sister, the Ercar, the peaceful gods, the children of Narve, the Lord of Death, and Erce, the gentle Goddess of Peace.

A drinking horn of silver rested on the left of the altar. On the right was a bowl of gold. In the front a long knife glinted. Tiny bells strung on a peace of leather rested at the back. The trees that surrounded the clearing were hung with long ribbons of white and gold. Torches were placed in a ring around the clearing.

Gwydion studied the crowd and thought he recognized many of the people he had seen coming from the church that morning. A rough count showed there to be over a hundred people gathered here. Up front, near the altar, he saw the Eorl of Lindisfarne, surrounded by ten of his warriors. Gwydion wondered if Penda knew and thought he probably did.

The crowd, which was whispering softly, fell silent at the sound of clear, tinkling bells. A woman dressed in a robe of pure white was standing behind the altar, shaking the bells. This was the Godia, the priestess for this secret group. A man in a hooded robe of black stood next to her. He was called was the Hod, the Sacri
fi
cer. In his hands he held a falcon, tied to his wrist with leather thongs. The falcon hissed and spread his wings, but was tethered too tightly to
fl
y.

The Godia said formally, “The Dis are with us, the gods have come. Wuotan and Donar; Fal and Fro and Logi; Dag and Mani; Saxnot and Tiw.”

The crowd responded, “Hail to the Dis.”

“The Disir are with us, the goddesses have come. Nerthus and Freya; Holda and Nehalennia; Sunna and Sif; Natt and the Wyrd.”

“Hail to the Disir.”

The Godia continued, “The A
fl
iae are with us, the power- ful ones have come. Hail to Narve, The One that Binds. Hail to Ostara, The Warrior Goddess. Hail to Erce, Gentle Mother. Hail to these, the A
fl
iae.”

“Hail to the A
fl
iae.”

“This is the night of Fro and Freya,” she continued. “Freya, bringer of fertility; Fro, bringer of dreams.”

“Blessed be the Lord and Lady,” the crowd said reverently. The Godia picked up the drinking horn. Her long, blond hair sparkled in the light of the torches. Her
fi
ne, blue eyes kindled. “Drink now, ye followers of the old ways. Drink now, ye hidden, ye faithful ones.” She took a sip and passed the horn to the Eorl. He drank brie
fl
y, then passed the horn to his war- riors. Slowly the horn made its way through the crowd until all

had drunk.

Then the Hod, his face still hidden by his black veil, lifted the falcon in his hands.

“All hail to Lady Freya, all hail to Lord Fro. To she who gives life, to he who gives dreams. Accept our sacri
fi
ce.”

T
HE
H
OD GRASPED
the falcon with both hands and snapped its neck. He then took the knife from the altar and cut the bird’s throat, catching the blood in a bowl. Taking up a bun- dle of leaves, he dipped them into the blood and sprinkled tiny drops of blood on each worshipper, making his way through the crowd. Last, he sprinkled the head of the Godia, and the blood made dark, sinuous lines in her long, blond hair. Finally, the Hod drank the remaining blood, then set the bowl down on the altar.

The Godia lifted her hands.

“A dream came to me at deep midnight.

When humankind kept to their beds— the dream of dreams! I shall declare it.”

The crowd hushed and drew closer to hear the dream given to her by Lord Fro.

“A golden boar with eyes of blood and tusks of ivory was vomited up by the sea. And the boar grew and grew until he was a giant. He crushed the Heiden under his hooves, slaugh- tering us until the land ran red with blood. There were many who eagerly helped him.”

The Eorl bowed his gray head, his
fi
sts clenched.

“Hatred for those Across the Water grew and grew in the golden boar’s breast, though he did not know why. Then came a raven from Across the Water, black as night with eyes of opal, a harp in his talons. He followed the golden boar, seeking a way to keep him from crossing the water. But the raven could not

stop the boar.” The Godia lifted her
fl
awless face to the night sky. Her blue eyes seemed to look right at Gwydion, though he knew it was not possible that she could see him.

The crowd was silent. Somewhere in the night, the wind began to rise. “And the boar came to the Hunt,” she contin- ued. The crowd gasped as the wind began to blow harder. “And the raven followed.” Far off, Gwydion thought he heard muf
fl
ed cries. The crowd shifted uneasily as the wind began to tug at them.

“The golden boar goes to meet the Hunt!” she cried, and then tore her robe to show an amulet of amber in the shape of a hammer. She plucked the necklace from around her throat and held it high. Just then Gwydion felt a tug, something urging him to return to his body. He resisted for a moment, wanting to hear more.

“He comes!” the Godia shouted over the keening of the wind. “He comes! Fly, raven! Fly to him now. The Hunt rides. And the Old Ones laugh!”

Thunder crashed upon the clearing, and the trees shook. Gwydion
fl
ed over the trees, through a night sky that had sud- denly
fi
lled with dark clouds. The face of the moon was shroud- ed as thunder rumbled.

He slammed back into his body. Rhiannon was shaking him. He opened his eyes. Thunder rolled over the church, and the monks began to pray louder.

“Havgan,” Gwydion gasped. “Where is he?” “Gone,” she hissed back. “Just this moment.”

Gwydion leapt to his feet. He grabbed her hand, and they slipped out of the church, thunder crashing in their ears. Up ahead they saw Havgan making his way out the monastery gate

and up the mountain.

Lightning
fl
ared, almost blinding them as they followed Havgan through the trees. If Havgan heard them over the wind and thunder, he gave no sign. He walked swiftly, almost running. Gwydion and Rhiannon followed as quickly as they could. Still it did not rain, but the wind howled like a mad thing and
fl
ash after
fl
ash of lightning split the sky.

The trees began to thin as they neared the top of the moun- tain. Gwydion grabbed Rhiannon’s arm and held her back at the edge of the forest. Havgan stood now almost at the peak. Wind whipped his cloak, but he stood
fi
rm and lifted his tawny head, staring at the sky as something moved across it.

The Wild Hunt had come.

The dogs were white with blood-red eyes. They tore across the sky on the wings of lightning, baying hungry cries. Behind them rode a dark, hooded shape on a pale horse. The shape held a spear in his hand, and each time he raised the spear, lightning
fl
ickered across the sky. Next to him rode another
fi
gure in the shape of a woman with a gown of green. Seaweed hung from her tawny hair. A girdle of pearls encircled her slim waist. Her eyes were many-colored—now sea green, now the blue of a calm lake, now the gray of angry waves. She raised a horn to her lips and blew, and as she did, thunder rumbled. The wind had the smell of the sea as it tore across the sky and swooped down the mountain. Behind these two
fi
gures, skeletal horses with
fi
ery eyes fanned out across the sky. Hooded riders with hands of white bone screamed of despair and madness.

The Hunt swooped, and the dogs scrambled down the mountain peak. They crouched and growled, crawling on their bellies close to where Havgan stood. The hooded
fi
gure on his

gray horse swooped down and landed in front of Havgan, who did not
fl
inch. The women’s horse landed next, while the skel- etal horses and their riders remained in the sky.

The cloaked
fi
gure threw back his hood. His hair and beard were long and gray. A scar twisted up one cheek, disap- pearing into an empty eye socket. The other eye was
fi
lled with lightning. “Mortal,” the
fi
gure said, his voice like the rushing wind. “I claim you for my own!”

“Wuotan One-Eye!” Havgan shouted, “you cannot. I be- long to the One God!”

Wuotan, the God of Magic, laughed and thunder pealed. “The One God is not enough to protect you, mortal. Not here!” “I am Havgan, son of Hengist. I have been called by Lytir

himself. And you may not touch me.”

Wuotan laughed again. Thunder rolled. “Son of Hengist?

Think you so? Then you know nothing. Nothing.”

The hounds bayed, and the skeletons laughed their mad laughter. “Nothing,” they chanted and the wind hissed. “Noth- ing.”

Then Holda, the Goddess of Water, spoke, and her voice was like that of the waves that crash on the shore. “You were warned, Havgan, son of—” then she laughed and lightning
fl
ashed. “Well, no matter that now. You were warned by the wyrd-galdra. But you have not taken heed. I am Holda, who claims your past. And this is Wuotan, the Hanged Man, who made you what you are. You were warned. And still you do not turn from your path.”

“I come . . . I come now to bargain.”

The hounds bayed again. And Wuotan, with his eye of lightning said, “You have nothing to give us that we want.”

“I offer you a chance to hunt,” Havgan replied. “We hunt now,” Holda said coldly.

“A chance to hunt in a new land. To hunt the witches of Kymru.”

Rhiannon gasped and clutched Gwydion’s arm. “Oh, Gw- ydion,” she said in his ear. “What if they accept?”

“Then may the Protectors help us,” Gwydion breathed.

Wuotan laughed, and the skeletons laughed with him. “Hunt the Kymri? What care we for them? We do not hate them.”

“I offer you—”

Holda cut in, “We know what you offer us. We know you as you do not. Go to those Across the Sea, Havgan. Your destiny awaits you there. And so do I. You cannot run from me.”

“I am protected by Lytir. You cannot hurt me.”

Wuotan laughed again. “You are wrong, mortal. But that is no matter. You are wrong about so many things. We know you. Go to meet your fate. The Hunt remains here. We have no quarrel with those Across the Sea.” Wuotan turned his horse.

“Wait!” Havgan shouted. “Wait!”

“Wait?” Wuotan laughed again, and thunder rolled. “There is another Hunt Across the Sea that waits for you. Go to them!” Wuotan’s pale horse shot back up into the sky. The dogs followed, their white bodies glistening. The skeletal horses

neighed
fi
ercely, and their riders howled.

“We shall meet again, Havgan,” Holda said, then raised her horn to her lips. Her eyes turned a startling shade of am- ber, her hair to honey-blond. Lightning shot down and played across the jagged peak of the mountain. “Until then!” And she was gone, shooting up into the stormy sky.