The Canticle of Ordrass: The Wheel of the Year - Samhain

Before the priestess could finish the first line of the drawing-down, a great tremor shook the temple. Candles rocked and fell, rolling across the flagstone floor. The villagers leapt to their feet.

  “To me,” Aelwynne called, and the villagers moved toward the altar. The village’s few children were shuffled into the nave. The priestess lined the adults along behind the altar to defend them. Just as she began to direct the postulants, the temple rocked once more, and Kestyrn called out.

  “Nooo!” he screamed and leapt from the doorway, charging across the terrace and out of sight down the stairs. Torchael glanced back at Aelwynne and darted silently after his apprentice.

  ***

  Outside, the Archanians advanced.

  Kestyrn had drawn his bow and dashed to the south. Torchael took a moment on the high terrace to take stock.

  Donaro the priest clearly had no fear. He had little sense to accompany it, the ranger thought.

  He had begun a war.

  The temple’s stone gateway had crumbled from some magic, holy or otherwise. Just beyond stood a swirling vortex of sky-blue light from which poured a line of mercenaries, heavily armored and hustling. Ambra guided them to form groups just outside the gate.

  Through the rubble came Donaro, his helmet and shield glowing faintly and his morning star wreathed in fire. Beside him, Nicoletta walked with Lilianna, a dagger at the priestess’s throat.

  Stopping halfway to the well and the great oak that embraced it, the priest nodded to his inquisitor.

  With a guttural shout, Nicoletta drove a knee into her captive, who dropped to the ground. The dagger never wavered as the Archanian warrior-woman crouched behind Lilianna.

  The priestess dared not struggle, though fury beat against her sorrow like dry wind on the sea.

  Kestyrn reached the cover of the yew tree and took aim. Releasing his arrow with a sharp exhalation, it flew true toward the priest’s eye.

  But before it crossed the forty yards to its target, he slammed his heavy shield into the ground and a great shock ripped through the world. The arrow went tumbling away and a shimmering sphere of blue energies surrounded Donaro and the women beside him.

  ***

  “Hold!” Torchael called. His apprentice lowered the second arrow. It was all but impossible to see Donaro and Nicoletta clearly. A light mist had begun to fall, only diffusing the glows of portal, weapon, and ward.

  He vaulted the stone rail and came down on wet grass with the grace of a woodland cat. His bow remained slung.

  “You have made a grave error,” he called to the Archanians.

  “No, ranger, the mistake is yours. Simply hand her over, and we go away. Now.” Though Donaro’s voice was loud and deep, it carried the hint of a waver. Torchael knew that battle could not be avoided.

  He made an effort nonetheless.

  “It is Samhain,” he said, stopping a few yards from the glimmering ward. “That means little enough to you, I know, but it means the world to us. It means it’s too late.”

  “So be it,” Donaro said. “Advance!” he called over his shoulder.

  Ambra, who remained outside the temple grounds, repeated the order, and three groups of soldiers stomped forward, clambering over the fallen gate.

  “Stop there, or die” Torchael said. The little army continued its progress, and the ranger raised his right hand. It hung there over his head for a moment before descending. As it did, five men, secreted on the tower for hours, rose. Though all retired, all aged and worn, each man remained strong and sharp.

  Five arrows rained down from the high position and the first group of mercenaries scattered, three men lying dead in the wet grass behind Donaro’s ward. One screamed as he ran, an arrow imbedded in his gut.

  Kestyrn stepped from behind the tree and put a shaft of his own into the man, piercing his heart. The soldier spun in place, cursing the boy with his dying eyes, before he fell.

  The other units fell back, and though Donaro called them cowards from his place of security, Ambra did not spur them back in.

  ***

  Within the temple, where the villagers were being armed with weapons from the armory and knives from the kitchen, Davia broke into tears and collapsed before the altar, her bow clattering to the floor.

  “Ordra, please!” She cried out. “Please don’t let this happen. I beg you! End the bloodshed, the battle.”

  She rose, bent over the altar, and buried her head in her arms. “Please,” she sobbed. “No more death.”

  “Davia,” came a stern voice. The girl looked up to see Mairi staring down at her. “You’re a priestess of the Church of Morgaine. Pick up your bow.”

  “No!” the Archanian screamed. “I want none of this.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and turned from the altar and the people of Matharden. Leaving her bow where it fell, she walked along the southern aisle and out of the temple.

  “Davia, no!” Iseabheal called out. She went to follow her sister, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  Turning, she saw the Crone-Sister looking up at her. None of the postulants had seen her perilously descend the steep stairs, nor walk to the dais.

  ***

  Davia crossed the terrace calmly, even taking a breath to gaze upon the statues overlooking the strife. No matter the fault, she was the heart of this madness, and she knew only she could end it. She only wished she knew a better way.

  With a sigh, she turned to descend the stairs.

  Kestyrn saw her then, and hustled toward her. He saw his master watching from behind the oak, but could not make out his shadowed expression.

  Donaro shouted, “Now!” and the men who had been cowering behind his spherical ward surged around it, charging forward.

  “Run,” he called to Davia, but she did not seem to hear him. She continued her steady advance, head down, hands clasped before her as if in supplication. Another group of soldiers was advancing now, too. This one was half the size of the other groups at only six men, but these bore nimble-looking crossbows. They hustled forward to the vacated cover behind the ward.

  He fired a couple of shots on the run before reaching the girl, hurling his bow to his mentor. Davia was not strong enough to resist as he grabbed her up and ran with her to join Torchael.

  “What in Nine Truths are you doing?” he all but screamed.

  Still, she remained silent.

  Torchael spoke instead. “Calmly now, Kestyrn. Davia, you cannot go to them. I have orders to prevent it at all costs.”

  Finally, she replied. “All costs? All costs! I will tell you the cost. You will die. Everyone will die.”

  “You have little choice but to see it paid, Davia. Look,” Torchael pointed over her shoulder.

  Turning, she saw her sister postulants coming out of the temple, helping the bent old Crone-Sister along between them.

  “No,” she mumbled. “Why?”

  “You shall see. Go to them.” She looked to the ranger in confusion, then to the apprentice, who suddenly stood taller.

  “Go,” Kestyrn Grieve said, stepping into her. “Go, and have faith in gods and people alike,” he said before kissing her. It was gentle, like the brief flutter of a butterfly against her lips. Seemingly reentering her fugue, she turned without a word and joined her sisters as they approached.

  “Behind us, lass,” Magda said breathlessly. Mairi handed Davia’s bow over as she stepped past and fell into position.

  The group came around the oak to stand before the well, less than twenty yards from the ward.

  ***

  “You are Donaro DuCorvanna, are you not?” Magda called, her voice louder than the girls thought possible.

  “I am,” the priest returned. He stood proudly, bathed in magical light with a captive beside him and a still-expanding group of soldiers behind. Ambra now stood just behind the gate’s rubble, watching the encounter carefully.

  “You are a priest of the Fifth Circle of Light.”

  Donaro nodded, his brow creasing b
eneath his helm.

  “Then you have been poorly chosen. This mission upon which you visit our temple is a fool’s errand at best.”

  “Mayhap, hag, but I will see it done nonetheless. Stand aside.”

  “You have called upon your god in our holy place,” she said, ignoring his demand. “I see he has granted at least something of your prayers.”

  “He has never failed me.”

  “Nor have ours failed us, Donaro. Nonetheless, something must give way.”

  “It must,” he spat. “And it shall. I will ask once more. Will you step aside and give us the girl?”

  “No,” said the Crone.

  Nicoletta, her patience wearing thin, drew the dagger a quarter of an inch across the Maiden-Sister’s throat. Blood sprang forth in a tiny arc, then slowed to a trickle almost at once.

  “No,” Magda repeated. Behind her, Iseabheal and Mairi stood close to the trembling Davia.

  “Enough!” Donaro shouted. “Enough stalling and posturing. Take her!”

  As the men of the Crimson Band mercenary company surged forward with a chorus of war cries, crossbow bolts and arrows flew. One bolt hit Mairi in the leg; she cried out, but did not fall. Instead, she returned fire. She might have as many as three shots before they were crushed beneath the weight of Archanian fists.

  Davia watched in horror as Nicoletta shifted her weight and sliced into Lilianna’s throat. The Maiden-Sister herself sat motionless on her knees, eyes and features calm. She mouthed four words at her charge.

  “There is no sin.”

  Lightning fast, Davia saw it. With the speed of the stag, she nocked an arrow and let fly. Hope and Love, she thought as the string thrummed.

  The arrow struck Nicoletta with enough force to lift her off her feet. She flew back the length of a man, arms flailing, dagger tumbling through the air.

  As Donaro charged the gathered priestesses with a tide of mercenaries, Kestyrn and Torchael stepped out from behind the oak and fired. Five more arrows joined theirs moments later, each puncturing the priest’s ornate breastplate. He roared in fury, and aimed the morning star at Torchael like a wand. Its fire leapt across the distance between them and set the older ranger ablaze.

  Davia saw this, and the surge of men descending on her, and Lilianna struggling to rise with blood escaping around the hand clenched at her throat.

  “NO MORE!” she screamed in a voice like thunder. She stepped forward and fired another arrow into Donaro, which took him to his knees. As he fell, she changed targets, firing faster than she had known was possible.

  The mercenary reserves charged over the pile of rubble, many bearing crossbows. A handful of villagers stepped onto the temple terrace and leant their arrows at Aelwynne’s direction.

  Davia continued her advance, firing once more into the mass of troops before casting the bow aside to draw her ceremonial dagger. As she came against the line of troops, she was suddenly glad of three things.

  The first was the armor that protected her from several blows which might have elsewise ended her. Second was Kestyrn, who appeared at her side with his gleaming blade. The last was a whispering voice–she thought it might be Lilianna’s–that repeated with every stroke of her dagger, “there is no sin.”

  She moved through the line with grace as the ranger prevented others from closing in on her. There, with a mass of men behind her, stood Nicoletta the Inquisitor. Between them, Lilianna sagged to the ground.

  “Now!” Nicoletta called, and the reserves broke from their walk into an all-out run. The inquisitor herself dashed ahead of them, dagger raised to finish what she had begun.

  Davia marched onward. “I said NO MORE!”

  She hurled her dagger and Nicoletta dove aside. The inquisitor had not been Davia’s target at all, and the blade spun through the night air, over Nicoletta and the troops behind her. It went spinning through the Archanian portal, which snapped shut with a roaring noise like a breaking wave inside one’s head.

  By the time she reached Lilianna, the wave of troops had all but broken to raining Marienna arrows.

  “Goddess, let it be thy will,” she said, pulling her mentor’s hands away from the wound, a gaping cut halfway across her throat. She repeated the simple prayer over and again, ever faster, placing her own hands over the wound. The fount of blood ebbed as a faint green light began in her chest and spread down her arms.

  Not stopping her prayer, she looked about. Nicoletta was nowhere to be seen. Mercenaries lay strewn across the churchyard, but one figure had risen to fight again.

  Donaro, with no less than eight arrows piercing his splendid armor, had somehow reached the Crone. Archers in the temple had no line of fire, with the great oak between them and the target. Kestyrn fought for his life against no fewer than six mercenaries. Only Iseabheal and Mairi stood between the Priest of Kruss and the Crone-Sister.

  They dropped their bows as one and drew the holy daggers from their hips, but the priest slammed into Iseabheal with his shield even as his morning star struck Mairi down. The nimble islander rolled with the blow, avoiding the spikes, but was knocked senseless.

  Donaro cast his shield aside and lifted the weapon with both hands.

  “Who is holy here, bitch?” he howled. The spiked disk came down, crushing the Crone’s skull. Donaro lifted her tiny body in his left hand and cast it into the well.

  As he turned, Davia rose.

  “Who is holy here?” he asked again, this time a triumphant roar.

  “We are all holy,” Davia answered.

  All fell to stillness about them. Kestyrn backed slowly from the disengaged mercenaries, who likewise fell back. He moved toward his master, who lay smoldering nearby.

  Davia scooped her bow from the grass.

  “Would you kill me now, girl? For taking your hag from you?”

  “No, Priest. I say ‘no more’ with a wounded heart. An Archanian heart. I do not understand you. I do not understand your god. But I grasp this much; though my spirit soars at the thought of your death, I will not kill you. The greater punishment is that you go from here knowing that today, it was the will of a goddess you served.”

  “Why, you little whore!” Donaro screamed. Severely wounded, the priest found the strength to stumble toward her, raising his still-blazing weapon. Kestyrn went to draw an arrow, but his quiver was empty. He dashed toward them, knowing he could never hope to intercept the priest.

  But he stopped stock-still when the blow came.

  It arced through the night like a meteor, but Davia simply slapped it away with the back of her hand. The morning star fell to the ground, its fire flickering to naught.

  “Then I will end you bare-handed,” the priest swore.

  He reached for her throat but she took hold of his sinewy armored wrists and held them. No matter the force or fury he applied, he could not break her stony grip.

  He struggled for long minutes, cursing and spitting, but Davia’s strength–Aranda’s will–held firm. Finally, exhausted and astonished, he relented.

  She released him at once. When he reached to retrieve his weapon, he found Lilianna’s foot upon it.

  “The lady said ‘no more.’ This is our holy ground you have defiled. Your arms will remain with us.”

  Donaro’s skin darkened even further, and his hands clenched into trembling fists. “How dare y–”

  “Donaro!” came the voice of Ambra from beyond the fallen gate. “Enough. We are finished here.”

  The Priest of Kruss spit at Lilianna’s feet.

  “For now,” he said. With a wave to his remaining men, Donaro stalked to the paladin’s side. He glared at her for a heavy moment before asking, “Nicoletta?”

  “I know not. Probably halfway to Venefica by now.”

  The priest grunted. “So be it.”

  He called the withdrawal.

  ***

  Tuomas turned and dashed through the woods beside the path, abandoning his hiding place. He didn’t want the Archanians
to beat him to the inn. As he went, he wondered about Ambra, the warrior with no taste for battle.

  But he was fortunate. The enemy did not come to his inn that night. He gathered his basket after watching them march south out of Matharden.

  When he returned to the temple, the five priestesses encircled the well. Led by Aelwynne the new Crone-Sister, they chanted a guttural prayer that lifted Magda’s sodden body into the air and laid her softly upon the ground with tendrils of vine. Kestyrn sat nearby with the badly-singed Torchael. Though the worst of his wounds had been healed, he would need much rest. The retiree welcomed the idea of pleasant company for a change.

  The villagers prepared a litter, and loaded the ranger onto it. Kestyrn retrieved their ghost gifts from the temple and helped to lift the ranger.

  A quiet line was formed. The villagers and rangers filed past the well in two columns as the new Maiden-Sisters blessed them, their gifts, and their ancestors with holy water and heavy hearts.

  So prepared, the people of Matharden passed out from the crumbled gate and into the forest. Some crossed the bridge to the other side, passing on through the village to their ancestral burial mounds. Others sought their family’s plots nearer the temple. Some few had no dead to visit here, and so simply went to a favorite place in the forest.

  The litter-bearers left Kestyrn and Torchael near their base camp at a cave, just deep enough to harbor glow-moss. The rangers passed the evening discussing the battle and those they had lost.

  ***

  With the last of the flock departed, Aelwynne the Crone-Sister led her charges into the caves below the temple, bearing Magda with them.

  She was wrapped in fine linen and sprinkled with blessed herbs. A silver symbol of the church was placed upon her breast, and she was laid to rest in an alcove.

  By the time Davia and her sisters were done with their year of service, nothing would remain of her but bones. These would be placed in a blessed niche among those who had gone before in the Necropolis of Morgaine.

  Finally, well-nigh the witching hour, the priestesses left the temple themselves, to consult their gods and ancestors.

  Exhausted, Davia barely attained her destination: the white bridge. At its apex, she sat with her legs dangling over the side. She could not quite see the water below–the sky remained clouded–but she heard it.