Grailstone Gambit

Grailstone Gambit

Outlanders®

James Axler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Special thanks to Mark Ellis for his contribution to the Outlanders concept, developed for Gold Eagle.

Prologue

Cornwall, the Penwith Peninsula

To the measured thunder of drums and the skirl of pipes, the warriors of the grail danced among the Merry Maidens.

The glow of the full Moon struck gray highlights on the stones that stood in a circle on the moor. The dark megaliths loomed like weathered sentinels, standing guard over the passing aeons. Centuries of erosion had carved deep fissures and furrows across their surfaces.

Many times in the dim past, the six-and seven-foot-tall stones had watched humans dance within their embrace, performing their ceremonies to bring rain or increase fertility. This night, the gathering was no common dance ritual.

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.”

“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?”

“The harp!” Myrrdian snapped. “I don’t need this other ruck to unlock and activate the grail, but I do need the harp! Where the hell is it?”

“Rhianna never found it, my lord,” Eleyne stated matter-of-factly. “You should have never charged such a silly chit of a girl with a task so important.”

Moving with amazing speed for a man of his years, Myrrdian whirled to face her, his cloak swirling about him. “It was a simple task—I told you where it could be found!”

He gestured to the collection of relics with a contemptuous sweep of his staff. “You found this garbage, did you not?”

Rhianna opened her mouth, groping for something to say, but Eleyne said boldly, “The girl did not find it…but I did.”

Eleyne brought her hands out from behind her back. Resting between them was an object about two feet long. It resembled a lopsided wedge made of iridescent gold. The leading edge was elongated, like the neck of a glass bottle that had been heated, rendered semimolten and stretched. A set of double-banked strings ran its entire length.

Myrrdian smiled, showing the edges of his teeth. “Clever, clever girl, teasing your master. Give it to me.”

He reached for the harp, but Eleyne stepped back toward the hearth. “Not so fast, my lord.”

Conohbar’s eyes widened, his face draining of blood. “Eleyne—no!”

“I know what I’m doing.” She smiled at Myrrdian defiantly. “I found this when your favored harlot could not. I was the one who crept through the vaults laid down by the Priory of Awen. I risked much for you and now I demand a reward.”

“You risk death now,” Myrrdian intoned. “A very painful one.”

“I think not.” Eleyne laughed mockingly and thrust the harp over the fire, holding it over the flames. “Shall we put it to the test?”

Myrrdian stepped toward her, and she moved as if to toss it into the hearth. He came to a halt. “Flames cannot harm it, you stupid bitch,” he growled. “It was crafted by the Danaan.”

“Make up your mind, my lord,” Eleyne challenged. “My arm is getting tired.”

“What do you want?” Myrrdian demanded in a whisper.

“When you find the Grailstone, the Cauldron of Rebirth, I want to be one of the first to benefit from its restorative powers. I want to be young and beautiful again.”

An expression of surprise crossed his face. “That’s all?”

She nodded. “That is all I ask.”

He chuckled, a sound like dry bones rattling in a tin cup. “My dear, you didn’t need to go these lengths. I would have offered the cauldron to you in return for your many services to me.”

The mocking smile on Eleyne’s face became a relieved simper. “Oh, my lord…I should have known. You are kind and caring. Forgive me.”

Myrrdian extended his left hand. “The harp, if you please.”

She moved toward him, handed him the object and curtseyed. “Forgive me,” she said again. “And when I have regained my youth and beauty, I will give you much pleasure.”

He grinned and said softly, “You will give me much pleasure now, you treacherous bitch.”

She gaped up at him, first in shock, then in uncomprehending fear. The forepart of his helmet swirled, then it formed a cone and stretched out a pseudopod, tipped by the sphere. Like an eyelid, the metal peeled backward, revealing a round gem that pulsed with a cold white light. A shimmering blue nimbus sprang up around it. Between one heartbeat and another, the radiance turned a deep, deep red.

Eleyne opened her mouth to scream but no sound came forth. A blood-colored spear of energy jetted from the orb and shot between the woman’s jaws. For an instant, her body swayed. Then her hair burst into flame and her flesh bubbled like wax, falling away as semi-liquid sludge, splattering the floor. Her skull burst open with a sound like a handclap. Her headless body toppled backward. The smell of roasting flesh hung thickly in the air.

Myrrdian spun to face Conohbar. The sphere no longer glowed red, but rather with a steady blue-white radiance. “Get rid of that cow’s carcass!”

Conohbar, sweating and terrified, only nodded.

Myrrdian turned toward Rhianna. “Bring me food and drink.”

With the harp tucked under one arm, he stamped toward the rear of the council hall and the chair.

Rhianna and Conohbar exchanged stricken, terrified looks.

“What now?” the girl whispered hoarsely. “How could she have been so stupid?”

Conohbar bent over Eleyne’s smoldering corpse. “I’ll attend to this while you distract him. I’ve got to figure out a way to send word to the priory without alerting him.”

Rhianna nodded grimly. “Sister Fand must know that what she feared the most has come to pass…he has returned.”

Chapter 1

Manhattan Island, the Upper West Side

The wind sweeping over the roof of the office building carried a chill autumnal bite. Lying flat on a cornice overlooking the walls of the narrow concrete canyon, Kane tugged up the collar of his jacket, but he didn’t shiver. He was more concerned about the effect the sudden temperature change might have on the trigger spring of the OICW rifle cradled in his arms.

The stiff breeze gusting up from the dark waters of the Hudson had to be considered for trajectory deflection. He would only have one chance to make the shot before he lost the element of surprise and drew the attention and the wrath of Baron Shuma’s followers.

Reaching up behind his right ear, Kane made an adjustment on the Commtact’s volume control. The little comm unit fit tightly against the mastoid bone, attached to implanted steel pintels. The unit slid through the flesh and made contact with tiny input ports. Its sensor circuitry incorporated an analog-to-digital voice encoder embedded in the bone.

Once the device made full cranial contact, the auditory canal picked up the transmissions. The dermal sensors transmitted the electronic signals directly through the skull casing. Even for people who went deaf, as long as they wore a Commtact, they would still have a form of hearing. However, if the volume was not properly adjusted, the radio signals caused vibrations in the skull bones that resulted in vicious headaches.

Lifting a compact set of night-vision binoculars to his face, Kane switched on the IR illuminator and squinted through the eyepieces. Viewed through the specially coated lenses that optimized the low light values, the street seemed to be illuminated by a lambent, ghostly haze. Where only gloom had been before, his vision was lit by various shifting shades of gray and green. He squinted against the light of the Sun in the west where it touched the facade of the building on the opposite side of the boulevard.

“Edwards?” he subvocalized.

“Sir?” came the immediate response. The man’s voice sounded tense.

“In position?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Move in as close to the street as you can. Get prepped when you hear them coming.”

Kane couldn’t see the shaved-headed ex-Magistrate, but Edwards had proved his competence many times since joining Cerberus nearly a year earlier.

Another voice filtered into his ear. “Commander?”

“Yes, Brady?”

“I can spot ’em fine, Commander.”

“Hell, I can spot them,” Kane snapped. “I want a perfect triangulation.”

“I’ve got the shot, if that’s what you’re worried about it.”

“It is, but you wait for my order.”

Kane thumbed the tiny stud on the Commtact, opening another channel. “Domi?”

“Yeah?” The girl’s sharp, high-pitched voice made him grimace.

“Any problems?”

“I’m ready to join the pack.”

“Acknowledged. In your rig, they won’t give you a second glance.”

“Hope not.” There was a pause. “Kane?”

“Here.”

Her tone a bit softer, Domi said, “Aim good. You be very careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” he retorted.

The transceiver accurately conveyed Domi’s snort of derision. “Hell, no. That’s why I mentioned it.”