The Thirteen Hallows (32 page)

T
hey had waited so long for this.

The legends of their own kind spoke to them of a time when they had walked in the World of Men and feasted off the delicacy known as flesh. There were stories too of those who had escaped through other hidden or temporary doors, bridges, and portals.

But now the time of waiting was over.

Six of the burning locks that sealed the door between the planes of existence had been turned.

Odors, rich and meat and salt and full of possibilities and opportunities, flooded through the tiny cracks, driving those nearest the opening into a frenzy.

Standing before the iron-studded wooden door, Owen gripped the Broken Sword in both hands and squared his shoulders.

“What’s the plan?” Sarah whispered.

“There is no plan,” Owen said. He reached forward and touched the end of the Broken Sword against the door. The metal studs hissed and bubbled, and then the wood dissolved into fine dust.

As Sarah followed Owen through the opening, she could have sworn that his skin shimmered with metallic highlights.

The tiny room was an abattoir.

A dark naked man crouched in the center of the room, straddling a butchered body. Much of the face was missing, the teeth marks on the chin and edges of the jaw, where flesh remained, looked like human bites. The Dark Man’s face, neck, and chest were covered in thick blood.

Vyvienne’s torso had been opened from throat to crotch, the skin pulled back to reveal the curve of ribs and internal organs. The remaining Hallows were lying on the woman’s body, thick with gore.

Ahriman Saurin twisted his head to look at the pair in the doorway. His savage smile was appalling, fresh with the meaty blood from Vyvienne’s carcass.

“Good of you to bring me the sword,” he hissed, and plunged the Hallow—a tiny intricate carving of the Chariot of Morgan—into the gaping wound in the body below him, bathing it in blood and fluids. When he lifted it out, he crumpled it in his hands to a shapeless mass.

Owen and Sarah both heard the click and snap of a lock, and then the butchered body shifted upward slightly. They saw now that she had been laid across a metal manhole that was black with blood. The metal doorway jerked, straining upward, and a gnarled black tongue slithered in the opening, lapping at the blood.

“Too late,” Ahriman Saurin hissed.

Owen felt the sword move, twist of its own accord, and suddenly he was moving forward, the weapon gripped in both hands, keeping the sword low and to the left, bringing it up—

Ahriman jerked up the closest Hallow and shook it out. Owen caught a glimpse of fur, a stag’s head complete with antlers, in the instant before the sword struck it, sparks in the air. “Behold the Mantle of Arthur!” The Dark Man straightened and spun the cloak about his shoulders, settling the antlered hood onto his head. Saurin’s left hand shot out and caught the sword blade in an explosion of green white fire.

Owen tried to pull it back, but it was caught fast.

The hammering beneath the round metal cover was deafening, demanding.

“My subjects hunger,” Ahriman whispered. He tugged at the sword, and Owen felt it slide from his grasp. “The sword is the most powerful of all the keys. If I open its lock, I won’t need to use the others.” He tugged at the sword again, almost wrenching it from Owen’s hands. “You should be honored: The beasts will feast on you first.”

“No…” Owen tried to pull back.

“Yes.” Ahriman jerked him forward.

He was going to lose the sword, Sarah realized. And once the Dark Man had the sword, then the world would end….

And from the darkness, Sarah flung herself at Owen, hitting him high on the shoulders, pushing him forward, and driving him
into
Ahriman’s arms. Owen was still clutching the sword, and the sudden blow sent it slamming forward, the metal blade scoring down Ahriman’s hands, the broken point of the weapon plunging into his chest, sliding off his ribs as it simultaneously ruptured his lungs and heart.

Ahriman looked at the sword, and then his eyes widened as the sword began to glow and burn, and Owen stepped forward and turned the blade full circle before jerking it free. Cold white light blossomed in Ahriman’s eyes. His mouth widened and he tried to speak but could form no words. His chest heaved and then he vomited white fire.

The sudden explosion of light threw Owen and Sarah back into the hall, out of the circular room, which now throbbed with the fire lancing from Ahriman’s body. He stood, arms outstretched, crucified by the light. Cold fire washed over the lead boxes, melting them, exposing the artifacts within. Flames spat and hissed, and then one by one the Hallows came to brief, incandescent life, flooding the room with rainbow colors.

For a moment, the two magics—dark and light—warred.

It lasted less than a heartbeat, and then the room was plunged into total darkness.

In the long silence that followed, the crack and snap of the settling foundations was deafening. Stones grated, earth rumbled, and then a shaft of light appeared in the blackened room, a solid beam, circling slowly over the ancient well, the gateway to the Otherworld.

Owen and Sarah crawled to the doorway and peered inside, blinking in the light. The bodies of Ahriman Saurin and Vyvienne had vanished; nothing remained to mark their presence. The Broken Sword, its blade now shining silver and complete, lay on the floor atop the Mantle of Arthur.

The ancient door in the floor had been fused into the stone, the keyholes sealed with white glass.

It took them a moment to realize that the tiny wizened creature lying slumped in the stone chair was Ambrose.

Sarah and Owen knelt before him and spread the remaining Hallows next to the Horn of Bran: the Mantle of Arthur, the Chessboard of Gwenddolau, the Knife of the Horse man, the Crimson Cloak of Feathers, and Dyrnwyn, the Sword That Is Broken.

“These were all we could save.” Owen brushed strands of hair off the old man’s forehead. His skin was so fragile and translucent that the bones and ridges of wasted muscle could be seen clearly beneath it.

Ambrose straightened with effort and touched each in turn with trembling fingers, seeing them for what they were, remembering what they had once been. “It is enough,” he whispered.

“We’ve won,” Sarah said encouragingly.

“For now.”

“What about the Hallows?” Owen asked. “What do we do with them?”

“You must travel to the New World to find new Keepers.”

“The New World?” Owen questioned.

“America,” the old man answered.

“Me?” he asked.

“No…” Ambrose’s lips curled back from his yellowed teeth in a parody of a smile. “You,” he said, looking at Sarah. “You are of the line of Joseph of Arimathea.” Brittle, dry fingers touched her flesh. “You are my descendant, Sarah, and you will take up my mantle.”

“I cannot.”

“I uttered the same words. You have no choice. Take the remaining Hallows and return them to their rightful owners. You will know them when you find them.”

“But I don’t know what to do!” she protested.

“There is only one rule: The Hallows must never be brought together. Everything else will come in time.” With his last breath, he added, “Go to America. It is your responsibility now.”

It took them several moments before they realized that Ambrose was dead.

The young couple with the oversize backpacks standing in the immigration line in LAX looked similar to most twenty-somethings coming home after a European tour. They could easily be mistaken for students returning, exhausted and grungy, from a European vacation.

Yet unlike the students from Stanford to their left whose suitcases were filled with first-edition poetry from the Cotswolds or the goth couple to their right whose bags were overloaded with tchotchkes like little black taxicabs and miniature statues of the Tower of London, this pair carried luggage that contained far more precious cargo. According to their passports they were recently married, Sarah and Owen Walker, returning from their honeymoon in England. The blue customs form listed the items they were bringing into the country: a horn, a red-feathered cloak, a dark leather cloak, a knife, a chessboard, and a sword.

All of the items were listed as “curios” and were “of no commercial value.”

In the Otherworld, behind a door of glass and wood and stone, the legion waited.

Patiently.

They had many allies in the New World, and the couple had none.

Colette would like to thank:

Deb Gallagher for building the foundation.

Marilee Zdenek for believing.

Jack Stehlin for encouraging.

Dippy, Hannah Hope, Moses, David, Zack, and Dylan for their constant support.

Michael and Colette would like to thank:

Tom Doherty, Bob Gleason, and Whitney Ross at Tor for their support and encouragement.

Steve Troha at Folio Literary Management for his enthusiasm.

Jill and Fred…for everything.

Barry Krost and Sarah Baczewski for everything else.

And, of course, Claudette Sutherland.