Grailstone Gambit

The circle was full of excited people and more little groups straggled in across the moor. They were not dressed in the homespun linen usual for farmers or fisherfolk—the men wore leather and brass warrior’s harnesses, and the moonlight glittered from spearpoints and great broadswords. Peat and faggots had been laid in a shallow trench around the megaliths and they flamed with fish oil, so the ring leaped high with a border of flame.

The beat of the bodhrains, the Celtic drums, and the fierce screech of the pipes sped up the heartbeat and sent the blood coursing. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and home-brewed poteen.

As graceful as cats, the women danced to the wild music. Their skirts slit at the sides, and wearing silver ornaments on their pale limbs, they laughed as they circled the great stone slab in the center of the ring of standing stones. The slab crawled with symbols and glyphs, cup-shaped hollows surrounded by labyrinthine spirals. Radial lines stretched out in all directions.

The people knew the spiral patterns symbolized the maze of life and death, the departure from the womb and the return to it. The women clapped their hands and sang as they went through the wild, twisting convolutions of the dance that mimicked the designs cut into the stone.

A tall woman came forward, her carriage as erect and as straight as a tree. Her simple black robe clung to her supple figure. A scarlet sash girded her narrow waist. The fabric of the robe was so gauzy it concealed nothing, clinging to her breasts and buttocks and thighs like a layer of oil.

The woman’s long hair was as blue-black as a raven’s wing, intricately woven into round braids on either side of her head, with some strands spilling artlessly over her bosom. Fair skinned, her childlike face seemed all big eyes and full lips.

Her eyes were a black so deep, they were almost obsidian. Her hands were crossed over the hilt of a long, slender, golden sword. The point nearly dragged in the dirt. A man walked beside her. He wore a bronze helmet bearing the design of a goblet with a many-boughed tree growing out of it. The same image was worked into the boss of the round shield he carried on his left arm. In his right he gripped a six-foot-long lance.

He pushed the dancers aside, making a path for the tall woman. At the thick stone slab, she raised the sword and struck it three times with the edge. Bell-like chimes rose above the cacophony of music and song, shivering and vibrating through the air.

Abruptly the drummers ceased beating and the pipers lowered their instruments. Utter silence fell as if a gigantic jar had dropped over the stone circle. Everyone dropped to their knees, facing the slab. Nothing moved, only the wavering of shadows from the flames in the surrounding trench.

The silence lasted for nearly a minute. Then a blossom of light sprouted from the center of the stone slab. Threads of blue witchfire streaked along the grooves of the carvings, pulsing like the lifeblood through a circulatory system. In an instant, the entire inscribed surface of the stone blazed with a webwork of dancing light.

The kneeling crowd drew a single breath and then released it in one prolonged gasp of awe.

A bolt of energy erupted like a column of lightning. Instead of shooting straight up, it described a 360-degree parabolic fountain, emerging from and returning to the center of the stone, arcing back on itself in an ever-tightening spiral of energy.

The cascade of light spun like a diminishing cyclone, shedding sparks and thread-thin static discharges. As quickly as it appeared, the glowing light vanished, as if it had been sucked back into the stone. A tall figure stood there, leaning on a long wooden staff.

The kneeling assembly only stared, unmoving, as if transfixed by the light, eyes swimming with multicolored spots, shaken and stunned. The absolute silence was broken abruptly by a sharp crack as the figure rapped on the stone with the end of the staff.

“I greet you, my brothers, my sisters, my children—my warriors of the grail!”

The people leaped to their feet, roaring one name over and over: “Myrrdian! Myrrdian!”

The gaunt man standing inside the stone circle was old, his long, thin face a parchment of tiny furrows. The long hair that spilled from beneath the edges of a dark gray helmet was the color of aged ivory. The incurving jaw guards of the helmet framed the slash of his mouth. The forepart swept down his forehead like a widow’s peak made of silver. Right above the peak, a sphere of metal bulged outward like a blind third eye.

Despite his white hair and seamed face, Myrrdian’s eyes were a compelling, opalescent golden color. A faint interlocking pattern of scales ringed his brow ridges, extending over and meeting at the bridge of his nose.

He wore an ankle-length cloak of midnight-blue caught at the throat by a golden-jeweled torque. The illumination from the full Moon struck dancing highlights on the shiny metal strands that wove a pattern of arcane symbols throughout the fabric of the cloak. Beneath it he wore a scarlet tunic and a vest of light chain mail.

An unpolished yellow crystal topped Myrrdian’s gnarled staff, seeming to have grown out of a setting of fibrous roots.

Although he looked about seventy, he radiated the aura of a past age and time, but the cheering, the chanting of his name continued.

A smile creased the man’s thin lips. “For years I suffered in the dark places, in the land of Skatha, the kingdom of shadows. But while there, I found the lost secrets of the Tuatha de Danaan. I claimed those secrets, and with them we shall begin a new era for our people. Lest anyone still doubt my words—”

Turning toward the raised center of the stone slab, he tapped it with the crystal tip of his staff. “Behold.”

A finger of incandescence fluttered up from the surface of the stone. The crowd felt rather than heard a pulsing vibration against their eardrums, as of the distant beating of great wings. Then the entire slab erupted in a blinding explosion of white light.

The people cried out, clapping their hands over their eyes. When they lowered them, blinking, they saw Myrrdian still standing there, but atop the slab lay a collection of weaponry—pistols, carbines, even boxes of ammunition.

“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.”