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She stared at him. “When you E-mailed me, I looked up the case in Charleston. Cultist activity was taking place. ”
She inhaled on a long ragged breath. “And you think that. . . that they weren’t just cultists, that they were
. . . real. ”
“Your fiancé was killed, right?”
She nodded. “She?this Nari?might relate to his death?” she asked.
“First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll go in and look at all the police files again,” Sean said.
“Jordan, it’s important that you tell us anything you can,” Lucian said. “We need to know what we’re up against,” Lucian said.
“I know that a man was horribly killed by a group of cultists. I didn’t work with Steven; I listened to him after a day’s work. I don’t have names, or faces. I’m a book critic?he was the cop,” Jordan said.
“Please, try to think of anything. You’ve got to understand. We can all be destroyed ourselves,” Lucian told Jordan. “In the past, when our kind have stepped beyond the limits that might bring about mass destruction, we’ve found a way to imprison them, be it in a form of containment, or through physically wounding. Now, as we’ve told you, things have changed. There are two sides out there. And we’re on yours. ”
She started to stand, then blinked. The whiskey, the time change, and sheer exhaustion had gotten to her.
Before she knew it, she was sliding back to the sofa. She tried to stand again and speak, but the effort needed seemed too great.
She didn’t black out.
She simply faded away . . .
CHAPTER 19
The time to heal took place on a tiny island in the Irish Sea called the Isle of the Dead.
Both the Scots and the Norse, still debating ownership of many of the islands scattered south of the Hebrides?and often deciding the matter by arms? kept clear of the little island.
Unless, of course, they had business with the inhabitants there.
It was not so difficult in those days for the common people to accept the ‘different. ’ Many worshiped in church by day, and left offerings to Mother Earth by night, baked bread for the “little people,” and accepted that there was surely a god, one God, but creatures as well, not thoroughly known by man.
There were enough of those “different” who were known in life; the midget, the giant, the blind man who could create incredible work in gold, the hermit in the Highlands who had lived well past a century. There were berserkers who could bring down twenty men who were double their own size, and holy men who could touch a man, and cure his ills and woes.
The folk on the Isle of the Dead were different, to be avoided . . . unless they were needed.
Sometimes, it was the spurned who came there? dwarfs who had lost favor with the noblemen they had entertained, wiccans, cursed in their homelands for supposedly bringing about famine, disease, or death.
There were others there as well?those considered to be touched by the full moon, who ran in the darkness, who howled in the night. Each country claimed that some creature of their legend and lore existed upon the Isle of the Dead, from the Irish selkies, banshees, and wee people to the pixies of the Scots, the fallen gods and mischief-makers of the Norse, and even the lamia of the Middle East.
Shape-shifters, ghosts, and demons, all were said to live on the Isle of the Dead. Among them as well were the simple farmers and tradesmen, those who did not fear their neighbors, for in their service they were safe from the savage attacks that came with the fierce struggles between Danes and Norse and the tribes ruling their various sectors of the British Isles.
Life, and death, were easy in those days, for wars and feuds were constant, and bloodshed was a way of existence. Men of all ilk chose their sides, and barbarism was the rule of war.
When there were no battles, there were herds of shaggy cows and sheep to tend, their populations always kept at a maximum by the natural inhabitants of the isle.
There were years in which Ragnor healed, and years in which he learned, for one of the greatest oddities of this damned habitat was the number of holy men who came seeking help in quests for vengeance as well as for peace. Ragnor discovered early on that Lucian had his own demons to destroy, and that he intended to keep a sharp control on the world in which they existed. In his first years among the damned, he was often attended by a strange and beautiful young woman who continually appeared and disappeared, a cursed creature, but unlike themselves, damned to a life in which she must continually return to the sea.
She was Lucian’s wife, from what had become a distant time and world to them. She never explained herself, or asked for explanations in return.
In time even the scars from the multitude of sword slashes that had covered his body disappeared, and it was soon after that complete healing that Ragnor awoke with the dusk to a strange feeling of unrest.
Rising, he realized that he had dreamed of Nari, coming to him, whispering that she was afraid, that she needed him. She had cried, tears of shame and horror and fear. She had begged his forgiveness.
He rose and came to the wooden structure much like a longhouse where Lucian slept and entertained their guests. There, he found that an exhausted warrior, the remnants of a steel chain about his neck, had come to the isle, telling a tale about a terrible battle that had taken place in the south of England.
“The Normans arrived upon the coast of England. Our Saxon king was ready to meet them, and England should not have fallen, but in the terrible clash that took place, King Harold was killed. The Norman lord makes his way north. Comets ride the sky, and the people think that the world is coming to an end,” the man told them. He was dirty and unkempt, his hair long in the Saxon manner, a scraggly beard covering his face.
“If the Saxon king has been killed, and a Norman will take the throne of England, bringing with him his own nobility, the world as they know it will come to an end,” Ragnor said.
The man turned to him, startled. He then lowered his head. “Aye, the world as we have known it is indeed over, and the freedoms we have known are gone with it. But that is not why I have come. ” He looked back at Lucian. “As the Norman army moves north, there is death and destruction. ”
“That is the way of it, when one people conquer another,” Lucian said. He lifted a hand. “We were not a part of this war, and were not asked to be. ”
“It isn’t war that brings me here, though the death and devastation are pitiable and tragic. Wars are fought and won and lost. And in this battle, there were those who believed that Harold himself thought that God stood against him, and so a new reign will come to England. But much of the Norman horde was made up of mercenary troops. And it is doubtful that even the great Norman lord knew from where they all came. He came to seize the throne; men such as he seldom count the cost. ”
“Why are you here, if you see that this battle has been fought?and lost?” Lucian demanded.
“I don’t fear death,” the man said. “My name is Edgar, and I was a thane of the low country, taken, as you see?” he paused, indicating the steel collar around his throat, “?in battle, to become a serf, a slave to their feudal system. I escaped my captors when they ceased to guard us so vigilantly. Death itself is nothing. Not when a man’s soul falls to God’s hands. But in the wake of the Norman army . . . there came a terrible sickness. So many of the invaders were left behind to hold the countryside, to subdue the people in the towns and villages surrounding the battle. And then . . . peasants, farmers, artists, warriors, the injured, and the innocent, all began to fall prey to this illness . . . it is like a plague. A plague of demons!” Edgar continued, red-rimmed eyes wild. He was worn, exhausted, and probably starving, but he spoke with conviction and a dignity that belied his shabby appearance. He had a straight posture, dark hair and eyes, and the courage to speak his mind. “God knows if any of the poor souls will be left alive in the south when I return. I told you
, I managed my escape because the Norman invaders are afraid themselves; they stay behind walls in confinement, fearing only for themselves. It is a strange evil, seizing victims voraciously. Evil, in a sweep of shadows. They come by the day’s end; the victims don’t even sicken, they fall dead by morning. And there are hauntings where they return to their loved ones, and by morning, the sister, the brother, the mother has fallen dead as well, and the sickness goes on and on. ”
“Perhaps it is black death,” Lucian said, watching the man. “A man touches his wife, and her illness is his. A mother tends to her dying child, and loses her life as well. ” Edgar shook his head. “Not that kind of a plague? unless the plague can take on human form, and laugh as the priests pray over the dead and dying. ”
“There is no plague, Lucian; we both know it,” Ragnor said, striding up to the man. “The evil you speak of takes human form, you say. And you have seen this. Shadows, forming into solid shapes. Men? or women?”
“A woman came upon me as I helped a priest tend to a dying man before St. Mary’s, near the battlefield at Hastings. She stood beside me, draped in black, as if she were a mourner. But then she laughed, and told me that the Normans had opened the door to the damned. And?” The man suddenly broke off.
“And?” Ragnor said.
“The man whom I prayed over, dying even as I spoke the words, walked the next day. Walked with her when the dusk was falling, and stepped among the others on the field before the church . . . dying as well. ”
“Why do you come to us?” Lucian asked.
“Because it is rumored that you are shape-shifters as well,” Edgar replied after a moment.
“And you’re not afraid of us?” Ragnor inquired.
“Yes, I am. ”
“But you come anyway?” Lucian queried. “When your country lies in devastation?”
“Wars are won, and wars are lost, but the souls of men are eternal. Aye, I’m afraid. I was afraid on the battlefield. But not as I am now. They say that others have come here. That you can be as brutal as any conquering army . . . but when you are done, there is the order of life and death, and even the fallen can pray for salvation. ”