James Axler - Grailstone Gambit

“With these tools,” Myrrdian announced, “we shall build a new world for ourselves, but be mindful of their true purpose. Else what I have given can be taken away—as can your lives.”

He swept the staff in a semicircle over the guns, and a creature flickered into view. The animal dimly resembled a hound, like a monstrous cross between a mastiff and wolfhound, but the bristles along its spine ridge topped Myrrdian’s waist.

The heavily muscled neck drooped with the weight of its massive, shovel-jawed head. Muzzle slavering, its long fangs glistened cruelly in a flickering firelight. The two round eyes held a red gleam. It growled, a sound like distant thunder.

The people shrank away in murmuring fear, many of them crossing themselves frantically.

“The hound of Cullan will sniff out any betrayers,” Myrrdian said flatly. “And will gnaw on the marrow of their souls for eternity.”

He waved the staff again and the phantom hound vanished, as if it had been no more substantial than a shadow cast by the flames. Facing the people, he drew in his breath and declared, “But I have not returned to threaten my own kind. I have come to lead you, as was prophesied long, long ago, when our people were still young.”

Myrrdian’s voice grew louder, stronger, more passionate. “There will be much bloodshed as we reclaim our old lands, but when it is over and the Celtic people are once again united, I shall give new life to all those who have fallen in service to me. The wounded, the sick and even the dead will be renewed. Once we regain the grail, there will be no more infirmities of age or sickness or death!”

The kneeling people gaped up at him in utter adoration, their eyes shining in the moonlight, mouths open and wet as if with hunger and thirst.

“Soon I will prove my words,” Myrrdian went on. “No one need doubt me or fear me.”

A cheer burst from the crowd, and with it came the beating of drums and skirling of pipes in a deafening uproar. They danced in triumph.

Myrrdian gestured with his staff, and by degrees the babble died away. “Where is my sword carrier…where is my darling Rhianna?”

The black-robed woman stepped forward her head bowed, still clasping the hilt of the weapon. “I am here, my lord.”

“Rhianna, my child,” he murmured in a rustling voice, “you have done well. You will receive many blessings from me.” He took three steps to the edge of the slab and reached out and caressed her cheek. “Special blessings.”

Rhianna smiled but still did not look at him directly. “Thank you, Lord Myrrdian.”

He gestured with his staff at the weapons on the stone slab. “My children, my warriors, all of you who are in my service—take what you need.”

Then there was bedlam as the crowd, shouting and cheering, rushed forward. A blond-haired woman stepped forward and curtseyed clumsily before Myrrdian. Past her prime and running to fat, she had hastily loosened her skirt and cinched the black sash tighter around her waist before speaking.

In a theatrical voice she called forth, “My lord, we are all at your service. We all wrought the manifestation ritual.”

Myrrdian gazed at the woman for a long moment before responding. “Is that so, Eleyne? I will reward you in the manner most befitting you.”

The woman smiled and curtseyed again. “Thank you, my lord.”

Myrrdian returned the smile, but it seemed stitched-on. “I grow fatigued. Take me to a place of rest.”

Bowing deeply, Rhianna allowed Myrrdian to take her arm and step down from the slab. She handed the sword to the man in armor and walked on without a second glance.

Hefting the weapon, the man in armor stepped up beside Eleyne. “Bloody hell, I didn’t really think it would work!” he whispered.

“Nor I!” she replied, surprise quavering in her voice. After a moment, she added smugly, “We are far more powerful than we thought. The ancient ways are still strong here, Conohbar.”

He stared at her incredulously. “You don’t believe he’s actually who he says he is—”

She shook her head. “Of course not. He’s a trickster.”

“Even so,” Conohbar said softly, “I think we should be very careful around him.”

They fell into step with the others, walking across the moonlit moor. The drums struck up a slow and solemn beat as the procession marched away from the stone circle.

Eyes flashing with resentment, Eleyne hissed, “That little slut Rhianna…she might as well be naked. I hope she catches the croup.”

Conohbar thought Eleyen had spoken in the faintest of whispers, but he saw Myrrdian’s shoulders stiffen. Ducking his head, he kept his gaze fixed on the cowpath at his feet and remained silent for another hundred yards.

When he dared to glance up again, the group was strung out along the field. Rhianna and Lord Myrrdian were far out of earshot.

“All I’m saying is, you don’t know what you’re dealing with here,” Conohbar whispered. “Or who. I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

Eleyne’s lips quirked in an arch smile. “Jealous, Conohbar? I thought you’d gotten over that.”

The armored man didn’t answer her. He had seen the light of triumph in her eyes at the thought of being the cause of his worry. He bit back the response that it had been a while since any man in the group had cared to have her, including himself. Eleyne might have been pretty twenty years before, but now she was fat and dumpy with thick ankles and a triple chin.

They reached a footpath just as the Moon was setting. The path skirted a thick wood and curved down between embanking hedges. The retinue crossed an expanse of meadow blanketed by heather and bracken and entered an area where cultivated fields intersected with marshland.

Rhianna led Myrrdian into a small village full of thatch-roofed cottages. Cattle and horses stirred restlessly as the group made its way past. Only a few of the houses had lights showing through the shuttered windows, the cook fires banked for the night.

The village spread out across a shallow valley for at least an eighth of a mile. The cottages were scattered in no particular order from one end of the vale to the next. The areas between the buildings were cluttered with small, fenced gardens, two-wheeled carts and hobbled ponies. The group quickly dispersed under the stars as Rhianna led Myrrdian to a timber-walled great house up a side lane.

It was a fortified place, surrounded by a stockade of sharpened logs. Several of the group seemed inclined to linger, but Eleyne shooed them away with brushing motions. She and Conohbar pulled the heavy plank door closed behind them.

The interior of the council lodge was cavernous, with an earthen floor strewed with flattened reeds, straw and sand. A high-backed chair with armrests carved in the form of dragons occupied a raised dais against the far wall. Beside it was large sideboard laden with cold meats and white bread.

A fire reeking of fish oil sputtered in a massive hearth. The flames cast a flickering radiance over masses of piled and jumbled objects spread out on a pair of heavy trestle tables.

Myrrdian rushed to the nearest table and pawed through the collection of silvery wheels, golden buckles, helmets, metal rods and artifacts that were completely unidentifiable to the people in the council hall. All they knew was that they were relics of the Tuatha de Danaan, of an ancient time that should have been long dead, but in this part of the world, the past still breathed.

Eleyne strolled to the hearth and stood with her hands behind her back, watching as items fell from the table and clattered to the floor.

“Where is it?” Myrrdian hissed. “Where?”

Rhianna, standing near the door, paused as she slid one arm into the sleeve of voluminous robe. Her eyes reflected confusion. “My lord?”