The Chapel Perilous Read online

  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.

  “Right,” I said, pulling out Fragarach. There wasn’t time to analyze the situation with a room full of armed nobles and guards who would shortly be after my head. I made sure the Fisher King lost his first, since he wasn’t using it anyway. It was telling that he hadn’t moved, even though his most trusted counselor had been whacked in the face—twice—in close proximity. I swung

  Fragarach through his neck and it tumbled onto the table; there was no blood. The shadowy spells around him dissipated.

  Domech jerked as if I’d hit him again and the screaming began. I checked my rear to see if anyone approached from that quarter and found the nobles cowering in a satisfactory manner. The lesser folk and the maids tore at their hair in terror as they fled the hall. There were guards running my way, however, and I was quite clearly the bad guy from their point of view.

  “No!” Domech cried, his eyes fixed on the head of the Fisher King. “He was chained to the land!”

  No wonder the land had died out so quickly; Domech had bound it to a dead man. With the Fisher King gone, the land would be able to recover on its own—so long as the Pict didn’t do it again.

  Domech had more than earned the death sentence according to Druidic law; he’d been draining the life out of an elemental while cloaking his activities beneath a fog. There wasn’t a Druid alive who wouldn’t slay him for what he’d done, and I felt honored to get to him first. Unfortunately, he ducked under the swing of my sword and trapped my arm across my body before I could take a backswing. Magic swirled amongst the silver bars in his face and blood dripped from his ruined nose. His right hand grabbed me between the legs and then he lifted me bodily over his head, throwing me over the table into the clear space of the hall.

  “Kill him!” he demanded, and pointed at me in case the guards hadn’t figured out I was a public nuisance.

  A slim wee man like him shouldn’t have been able to pick me up and toss me. He was using the earth’s energy in the same way a Druid would to boost his strength. Except he’d stolen all that energy, leeching it through the Fisher King.

  The minions in leather boots weren’t any trouble. Fishing out the silver cross, I used some of the stored magic in it to bind the leather on the insides of their calves together and they collapsed to the stone floor. Some landed less gracefully than others.

  I couldn’t do the same to Domech; he had fashioned some kind of ward against my bindings. He couldn’t affect me directly with his magic either, since necromancers are incapable of affecting the living except through the dead. I used some of the juice to increase my speed and strength instead and charged him.

  For all the power he had leeched, Domech was still at a disadvantage and he knew it. He wasn’t armed or armored and there weren’t any dead people in the hall he could use for his own ends. He did, however, have some big fucking chairs he could throw at me. I leapt over the first one but the second knocked me down. He was on top of me before I could regain my feet, his left hand pinning my sword arm to the floor while his right tried to grasp my throat. I prevented that by sweeping my left arm out, dropping the cross, and then I locked onto his neck—a rather skinny one—and began to squeeze with all I had. He could have grabbed me in turn, but instead he clawed at my arm and tried to break my grip. His damned nails ripped at my forearm and he bruised me, but he wasn’t enough of a fighter to know anything about pressure points or how to break bones.

  “That black hand of yours got two Druids this way in the chapel,” I said through clenched teeth. “You know the one I mean, Domech? The wheel keeps turning, doesn’t it?”

  He couldn’t answer me. I crushed his trachea and his hands fell slack as the strength left him. I rolled him off me and saw that there was still plenty of magic centered on his head. As a necromancer, he might have rigged his own resurrection, so I removed the Pict’s head and tossed it into the hearth to burn. I didn’t need my magical sight anymore, so I dispelled it.

  More guards streamed into the hall, including the captain, alerted by the panicked dinner guests. The lads on the floor couldn’t decide whether to plea for help or to urge their friends to get me. It was time to make my exit, so I picked up the silver cross and hurried to the nobles’ table. Dogs had leapt on the tables to chow down since the humans had left all that perfectly good food there to cool. One of them was feeding directly from Dagda’s cauldron and couldn’t believe his good fortune. He snapped at my arm when I tried to take the cauldron but discovered that his teeth didn’t fare well against chain mail.

  “Go on, you’re full,” I said, and he allowed me to take the cauldron without any more fuss. I upended it to turn off the infinite refill and then camouflaged it, my kit, and myself with the remainder of the magic stored in my cross. I sheathed Fragarach as the dismayed shouts of the guards echoed in the hall. Carrying the cross in my left hand and the cauldron—or the Grail—in my right, I did my best to hurry past them with a minimum of noise. It’s tough to sneak around in armor, but they were helping me out by loudly asking each other where I went.

  Once out in the unpaved courtyard where I had access to the earth, it was a simple matter to maintain my camouflage and slip past the guards at the gate. I retrieved Apple Jack from the stable where I’d left him and set off across the wasteland toward Gloucester. Weather patterns returned to normal and the elemental was showing the first signs of recovery with the necromancer truly dead. You’d never know today that the area around Swansea had been a desert for a few months.

  I didn’t see the Chapel Perilous, as it came to be known, on my way back. Most of the lads had cleared out of the Silver Stallion by the time of my second visit and I was able to get a room. There were only three people there, in fact—myself, the innkeeper, and one other—and it was with them that I shared the story of what happened, the quest for the m
agic graal. From there the story was told and retold through the centuries until poets like Chretien de Troyes finally started to write them down.

  Ogma was waiting for me on the trail to Gloucester the next morning. I returned Dagda’s cauldron to him and he thanked me. I told him about Domech and what he’d done, the dead Druids at the chapel, and he was grateful that I had dispatched the Pict as well.

  “What would you have of me?” Ogma said. “I owe you some favor for what you’ve done.”

  “I’d like to stay out of Aenghus Óg’s sight for a while, if you can manage it.”

  He gave me a hunk of cold iron and told me to wear it as a talisman. “It won’t completely shield you from divination but it will make it more difficult to pinpoint your location. And I’ve recently linked a new part of the world to Tír na nÓg. Feel like learning a new language?”

  I told him I did. After bidding farewell to Apple Jack, Ogma shifted me east of the Elbe River, where the Slavic people were emerging as a distinct culture. And that was how I, as Gawain, came to be immortalized in legend.

  Granuaile dropped her eyes to the fire after I finished and said, “Wow.”

  Oberon said.

  Thanks, buddy.

  My apprentice looked up from the fire. “Are necromancers common?”

  “Quite rare, actually, outside of video games. Domech was one of the worst, but I was able to surprise him. If he’d had time to run the fight his way, I don’t think I would have made it.”

  “That’s where you got the idea for your cold iron amulet,

  isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that gave me the idea. The silver cross gave me the idea for the charms, and Apple Jack is the reason I have a talking hound today.” I scratched Oberon behind the ears. “Ogma did me quite a favor by sending me on that trip.”