The Chapel Perilous (3 page)

My hand trailed up to my neck and I speculated on how much protection the chain mail would offer against a hand like that. Probably very little.

I wondered if the Druid on the altar had been killed the same way. It was probably safe to investigate since the owner of the giant hand was obviously not in the chapel at present.

Stepping back inside, I noticed most of the candles around the altar had been snuffed out, presumably by the wind circulating through. The only illumination now came from the pillar of wan light cast by the open door, largely occluded by my own shadow, and a single candle in front of the altar. I was halfway to the altar when the strangeness of it upset me. If the wind had snuffed the candles, the one that was still burning would have been the first one to blow out. So what had put them out . . . ?

Movement drew my eye to the lower right corner of the altar. A huge disembodied black hand and forearm crawled toward the final candle using its fingers. The hand was an unnatural carbon black, scarred and pitted like volcanic rock. It pinched out the candle with its thumb and forefinger, and then I lost it in my own shadow.

It had no trouble finding me, however, as I backstepped. It scrabbled inhumanly fast across the floor and gripped my leg, not to halt my progress but rather to climb up one finger at a time. I hurriedly swiped at it with my left hand to knock it off, but it must have been waiting for just such a reaction, for it somehow caught my fingers, spasmed, and flipped itself onto my forearm, now much closer to my throat. It knew which direction that lay, for it immediately began to inch its way up my arm with ropelike finger movements.

My panicked brain suggested that I cut off my own arm with Fragarach to prevent the hand’s advance. Its enchanted blade would slice through armor as easily as skin. But after my logic had its say in the next fraction of a second, I thought of something else. “
Freagroidh tú!
” I said, pointing my sword at the hand and activating the primary enchantment, which would force the target to tell the truth. But I didn’t want to talk to the hand; I wanted the secondary effect, which prevented the target from moving more than a few inches from the point of the sword while under interrogation. Move the point, and you effectively move the target. I directed the point at the floor in front of me, and the hand was yanked magically from my arm and placed under firm control a comfortable distance away. I watched it writhe and struggle to break free of the spell for a few seconds while I caught my breath and tried to slow down my heartbeat. It was too repulsive to bear for long, however, and I began to saw off the digits, starting with the thumb. Once disconnected from the palm, they ceased moving.
The arm still tried to attack me with all five fingers missing, so I stabbed it through the back of the hand and it finally slumped inert on the floor.

Before I could sigh in relief, the Druid on the altar stirred and sat up, vacant eyes swiveling to face me. His feet slapped the cold stone as he advanced, sword raised. His movements lacked grace and his jaw hung slack.

It was evidence—if the hand hadn’t provided enough—that I was dealing with a true necromancer, and I’m not ashamed to say I turned and ran out of there, calling for Apple Jack to meet me at the gate. The other Druid was on his feet outside and managed to trip me as I passed. Mud and turf rippled all around; the dead were rising from their graves. A heavy hand closed around my leg; I swung Fragarach behind me and the grip fell away. I scrambled for purchase in the mud and tore down the path toward the gate as fists erupted from the graves nearby.

Yes, well, you might find me more willing to listen from now on.

I had to decapitate one of the raised dead at the gate, but otherwise I had fled in time to avoid the crush of them. I looked back from the saddle as Apple Jack galloped away and saw that the milling creatures did not leave the fenced area around the graveyard. I blinked rain out of my eyes and when I refocused, the chapel was gone. It was as if it had never been there. I didn’t know how I’d convince anyone it ever existed, for what would I say—“My horse saw it too”?

The rain stopped soon after I left the chapel. The waterlogged landscape abruptly turned into a dried-up wasteland of red rock and pale straw skeletons of plants. Trees like scarecrows scratched at a cloudless blue sky. I looked behind me and saw only more of the same; the verdant forested path had vanished like the chapel.

Which was the illusion? My kit was still damp and Apple Jack was thoroughly wet, so I chose to believe the desert was a lie.

It didn’t feel that way after a few more hours on the trail, however, once I’d completely dried out and started to bake. A necromancer who was also able to either control weather or my perceptions like this was indeed a formidable opponent. But every step I took confirmed that he was precisely the type of opponent Druids were tasked to take down. He was doing serious damage to the environment here, not by polluting or mining or anything conventional, but through magic.

The wasteland went on for days. It would have killed anyone who wasn’t traveling with a keg of water. I periodically bent down to the earth, asked it to part for me, and water welled up for Apple Jack and me to drink. Still, I tried to look thirsty when we rode into Sveinsey. The people there were getting their water from the River Tawe. The markets were unsurprisingly bare of fresh vegetables, though there were some wormy apples here and there. There was plenty of fish to be mongered, but as Dafydd had observed, it was a sailor’s diet. Except that somewhere in the fortress they had Dagda’s cauldron. The
graal
.

There was an upper limit to the number of people it could feed; at some point, there was only so much food that could be scooped from a magical container per day. But the Pict’s plan was becoming clear: With a nearly impassable desert surrounding Sveinsey and no land nearby to pillage, an army was going to have a tough time getting here, and laying siege would do them no good when he could feed his people in the keep indefinitely with Dagda’s cauldron.

The keep wasn’t complete yet, but it was taking shape, and the walls of the fortress looked like they had been shored up and thickened. It sat upon the river’s edge and there was no doubt a well inside that afforded them plenty of water.

Some judicious inquiries with a fishmonger here and an apothecary there revealed that the captain of the guard was looking for a few good knights to join the crew.

“You look like you can dish out a good fonging,” the apothecary said as he measured out some herbs that I would use for purposes beyond his ken. He squinted at me sideways. “The pay is good and so is the food, I hear. The Fisher King is generous to his subjects, even though he be plagued by some terrible pestilence.”

“The Fisher King?”

“Aye. Quite an upstanding chap as far as kings go. The bloody Pict on his elbow is a nightmare, but thank the tits of all the saints, he’s not in charge.”

“Where can I find the captain?”

“Inquire at the fortress first,” he said, “but check the pubs along the docks if you don’t find him there.”

I checked along the docks first, primarily to give myself cover; I wanted the captain to think I arrived by sea rather than braved the wasteland. After picking a suitable ship—it was a busy port—I searched for a stable to house Apple Jack. If I’d come across to Sveinsey on ship, it would be unlikely for me to arrive on horseback.

In Apple Jack’s assigned stall, I knelt down and touched the earth with my hand and made contact with the local elemental. It was understandably distraught at what had been happening in the area and relieved that a Druid had finally made it far enough to possibly address the problem. I asked for its help: I’d been thinking of how I could access magic for a longer period of time when cut off from the earth. Could it charge up a stone or gem, perhaps, with enough magical energy that I could still craft a few bindings?

//Not stone// it said. //Metal / Silver or gold / Stores magic best//

//Gratitude// I replied. //Query: Craft silver storage talisman for me?//

//Affirmative / Contact with skin required//

After some additional back and forth, a rough silver cross pushed up from the earth into my hand, imbued with enough magic for several spells. Social camouflage again: If I cast any magic, it would be seen as a miracle performed by the Christian god. All I had to do was whip out the cross and give praise for my deliverance. I stowed it in a belt pouch for easy access.

Four men-at-arms challenged me at the gate to the Sveinsey fortress—the soon-to-be castle. The captain was in attendance, a middle-aged veteran with more salt than pepper in his beard. He saw me as a threat at first since my armor was better than his, but once I humbly begged leave to join the guard, follow his lead, and serve his lord, he relaxed somewhat.

“Why are you here?” he said.

“I came in on the last ship from the Frankish lands.”

“Fine, but why sail to Sveinsey, boy?”

I never get tired of being called “boy” by men who are hundreds of years younger than I am.

“I heard about the Fisher King across the channel. Kind and generous and yet invincible.”

“You heard about the Fisher King across the channel? Come with me. I think he would be very interested to hear the details.”

He led me through the gates and into the fortress, past halls hanging with tapestries and maids keeping the stone swept.

“It’s near time for the evening meal,” the captain said. “I’m sure they can find a place for you at the table. Always enough food to go around, of course.”

The great hall was a festival of tapestries and seven-branched candelabras. Long tables with simple benches were placed end-to-end on one side; the other side was curiously bare, and everyone sat facing the blank space, which I began to suspect would be the scene of some entertainment forthwith.

The middle table was furnished with high-backed chairs rather than benches, and there sat a pale man with heavy-lidded eyes dressed in luxurious furs. A huge golden cross dangled about his neck and a simple golden circlet rested on his head. He seemed uninterested in the food before him. To his left sat a couple of noblemen, and to his right sat a man who could be none other than the Pict. The entire right half of his face was covered in tattoos that undoubtedly served a magical function, just as mine did. Perhaps thirty silver bars pierced his face on the same side; he must have heard about silver’s magical properties as well, so I could expect him to be fairly juiced. Still, I wasn’t terribly worried. No one had attempted to take away my sword yet, and that gave me confidence—that, and my own silver store of magic.

The Pict wore greasy dark hair down to his shoulders and his beard had been shoved through silver circlets so that it fell like a dark stalactite down to his sternum. It was to him, not the presumed Fisher King, that I was led. Dagda’s cauldron sat plainly before him; serving women were loading up plates as high as they could manage and walking them down the tables to serve guests. Since it was far more food than any one person could eat, a small pack of dogs waited behind them for the bonanza of leavings that would no doubt ensue. And yes, Oberon: there were sausages.

“Counselor,” the captain said, addressing the Pict by what must be his title. “This knight has come from the Frankish kingdom, where he says he has heard of the Fisher King.” The Pict looked up at me but the Fisher King did not stir at the mention of his name.

“Has he now?” The Pict’s voice was mellifluous and light; I had rather expected something reminiscent of sulfur and bone shards. “And you are?” he asked me.

“Sir Gawain, at your service,” I replied.

“Excellent. You can serve me by joining us for dinner. I would like to hear how you heard of the Fisher King in the land of the Franks.” He turned to the nobleman to his right. “Lord Gwynedd, might you do me the great courtesy of making room for this knight?” A shuffle of chairs, an additional one produced for me, and I was seated within choking distance of the Pict who’d stolen Dagda’s cauldron. Though I couldn’t be absolutely certain that he was also the necromancer that had turned Wales into bloody bollocks, he certainly looked the part. The captain excused himself to return to his post.

A serving maid placed a heaping plate in front of me and said, “Counselor, dinner is served.”

“Ah. Thank you. ’Tis your cue, my liege.” The Fisher King roused himself from his stupor and said grace before everyone began to eat. Everyone said amen and then the Fisher King slumped back in his chair.

“Is the king not well?” I asked.

“His appetite is a bit off right now,” the Pict said. “You may call me Domech,” he added.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Tell me how you came to hear of the Fisher King,” he said. I spun him a story of how I had heard of a land wasted but a castle in the middle of it saved by God because the Fisher King was
so faithful.

“I wanted to serve such a man, and so I came here to offer my sword.”

“A man of faith, are you?”

“Tremendous faith, sir. Let me show you this cross given to me by a lady I saved from the Saxons.” I took the silver cross from my pouch and brandished it over my plate. “If you say a small prayer each evening it protects you from the very demons of hell.” I spoke the words that would bind my vision to the magical spectrum. It was Old Irish, of course, and bloody Domech recognized it.

“That sounded like the speech of Druids,” he said, frowning at me. “Are you a Druid, Sir Gawain?”

At this point I’m sure he expected a denial. I actually expected to issue one. Instead my left arm whipped up and I smashed him in the face with my studded leather bracer. The back of his head hit the chair, stunning him, and I pushed mine back to give myself room and stood. The assembled diners gasped in shock and some angry exclamations wafted my way. I gave Domech another punch in the mouth to prevent him from speaking a spell and then checked out the Fisher King in my magical sight.

He wasn’t alive. That explained the loss of appetite. He had plenty of dark spells wrapped around him, however, some of them clearly bound with Domech, and other wisps of smoky malevolence that seemed to radiate in every direction until they disappeared at the walls. Domech was definitely a necromancer.