Sanctuary (Dominion) (25 page)

Compared to the taxing, five day journey we'd just finished, our trek to the Irish camp was short. We arrived just as dawn began to break and the sky turned dark purple and grey. Dozens and dozens of tents were strewn across a low, flat hill overlooking a bay to the south, and a steady stream of Irishmen crawled out of them, stretched in pre-dawn light, and watched us approach curiously. Around a hundred horses stood packed together in a makeshift pen on the far side of the camp, along with a dozen or so cows. Chickens, pigs and sheep were penned nearby, too, and some men were already out tending to them. I couldn’t get an exact count of Irishmen, but it was nowhere near the thousand I’d been told. Maybe two hundred. Still a dangerous number.

Across the water stood a small mountain called Holyhead, a name I would learn later, and I could see the remains of another Roman fort sitting on the edge of a high bluff, overlooking the bay from the south end. I wondered why they hadn't just occupied the fort instead of sitting out here in the open, but those questions left me as we reached the camp’s edge. A group of Irishmen approached us to take the horses, but two men in the back, who wore black robes that draped over their shoulders, arrived to take Ewen to another part of the camp. He looked at me as they led him away, his eyes pleading, but I had no way to help him. All I could do was look back in shared misery.

The Irishmen escorted me toward a large, white, grotesquely adorned tent sitting near the opposite edge of the camp, closer to the bay. Skulls, bones and other animal parts hung from the tethering ropes holding the tent to the ground, and large brown symbols were painted on the white cloth. Although familiar to me, the meaning of those symbols stayed frustratingly just out of reach of my memory. An older woman sat outside, next to a large, boiling, cast-iron stew pot. She wore a muddy blue robe and leather shoes, and her thick hair was a mix of brown and grey, pulled back into a messy, tangled bun. She kept her head down, but I could see a large burn scar on the left side of her face. She wasn't tied to anything, or chained, so she wasn’t a prisoner, but she also didn’t seem content with her situation. When she saw us approach, her eyes widened, especially at the sight of Avaline, and I sensed a protective glint in her stare.

The interior of the tent was smoky, and smelled of something pungent and thick that I couldn't identify. Various animal skins hung from the wall, boar, hare, tufts of bear fur, as well as pieces of bone and teeth. Small chunks of limestone, onyx, rubies and borax were piled in one corner, and a stack of small pots and jars lined one of the walls. A clay hearth sat near the middle, next to the support pole.

Once inside, the two of us had our ankles tied to the center post to keep us from escaping. Lorcan watched everything, and then tested the rope to make sure we couldn't pull free.

"Now both of you are pets," he said, and sent his black-robed men outside, leaving the three of us alone. "My pets. You will stay with me, and see real power, man of God." His hands squeezed his walking stick as he talked, bulging the thin muscles in his forearm. "Unless your Christian God can somehow free you. Can he do that, priest of God? Can he make the rope disappear, like the water did for your Moses? Or will he leave you here to rot?"

"I'm not a priest, sire" I said, keeping my voice low and meek. "I'm only a man who has studied the teachings of Christ. Nothing more."

"Christ?” He pounded his stick into the ground. “His power doesn’t belong here. This is the land of the old gods. Those who created the earth and the trees and the mountains, and gave them to the giants to tend to. And when the giants tired of their burden, they gave it to man. We care for this land, priest, given to us by the old gods, and when they finally return, those who betrayed their trust will burn.” He leaned in closer, and I felt his fetid breath on my face. “Burn.”

I lowered my head. I could suffer his threats, but I didn’t want to give him any reason to hurt me, or the woman. He took off his headdress and set it carefully on the floor, then crouched next to his jars, opened three of them and sniffed their contents. He reached into one and pulled out a pinch of some black powder, and he threw it at the hearth. Then he stood and stared at me, as if examining the best cuts to make on a pig for slaughter.

"What is your magic?"

I glanced up at him, and shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your magic!” He raised his staff, threatening to strike me down. “Tell me!”

“I-I don't understand.”

"You think you can hide it?" he wobbled over and leaned close again. "You have magic, don't you? You used it on her. And on him, the man you came with. Show me what it is."

"There's no magic,” I said. “It was only God's glory. His will. That's all."

Rage twisted Lorcan’s face, and his mouth tightened.

“God’s will?” Lorcan closed his eyes, as if in pain. “You think He gives you your magic? You spend all day and night crying and praying and wailing to a god who gives you nothing in return except for more reasons to pray. Your God has no magic to give you! Not like mine.”

“I don’t understand. Truly-” He cut me off with a snap of his fingers and suddenly a fire sprang to life in the hearth. I jumped, startled by its appearance.

“Did your God make that fire, or did I?”

He stepped closer, daring me to speak, but fear kept me silent.

“You can’t even say it, can you? You can’t admit the power out there, power given to me by the old gods, the true gods of Britain. The gods who will wage war with your kind to keep their home.”

“Sire, I assure you I have no quarrel with you.”

“Say it!” he yelled, and I scooted back. Even Avaline twitched at the fury in his words. “Tell me who created the fire!” He waved his hand up and down in the air, like the rise and fall of waves on the sea, and I watched the fire roar to life and dim nearly to nothing in response. I’d never seen anything like it, and I stared in revulsion. This was a man in league with the devil. There was no other explanation. I closed my eyes and prayed, but I barely had a chance to begin before I felt Lorcan’s hand smack across my face.

“You do not get to pray! Your false God will not help you here. This place is strong in the power of the old gods. Too strong for your kind.” He slapped me again.

“I only wanted to help,” I said. “That’s all. I just wanted to understand.”

“You will understand. You will know what it feels like to suffer at my hands, as my kind have suffered at yours. For nothing!” He leaned closer. “And when that’s done, you will tell me how your magic works. You will tell me how you made her quiet.”

*****

Lorcan's version of suffering meant I had to endure all manner of beatings. Lorcan was a small man, with a thin, frail body, and he was just as strong as he looked. He slapped me and hit me more times than I could count that morning, while trying to goad me into either renouncing my beliefs or admitting that I used magic. But I never feared his physical violence, at least not until he started using his walking stick to smack me about the head and shoulders. When that failed to achieve his desired result, he pulled out a small knife he kept in his rope belt, which he used mostly to threaten me. He would jab me with the dull blade, just enough to hurt without breaking the skin, or drag the blade along my face. It was enough to frighten me, and my unease seemed to affect Avaline as well, who cried out several times. After a haranguing from Lorcan, she cowered onto the floor and held her head in her arms, although every so often I noticed her reach for me.

Eventually, he tired of beating me and tried to use his magic to get what he wanted. He brought two of his servants inside, and instructed them to cut my hair and my fingernails. One held me down while the other pulled my hair back into a short ponytail, which he proceeded to chop off. He put the hair in a large wooden bowl, then gripped my hands and used a knife to saw off the edges of my fingernails, leaving most of my fingers bloody in the process. The nails were also thrown in the bowl, which Lorcan kept protectively near the hearth. He told me that the hair and nails would give him power over me, in case I tried to run away or harm him. He claimed he could control my soul with these items.

He sent the men away again, then grabbed a copper tin and pulled out a handful of some black mixture of mud and what I could only assume from the smell was dung. He smeared it on my face and neck, and the stench caught in my throat, making me gag while Lorcan laughed at me.

"You will not tell me your secrets, so you must be blinded to them yourself. The salve blocks you from God's vision. He can't see you now, and that's why you choke. I will free you from servitude to Him."

In hindsight, it was ridiculous, but he believed it fervently, and at the time I couldn’t help but fear he might be right. I begged for help, causing Lorcan to yank my hair until I stopped. He hobbled over and grabbed a piece of kindling from his fire, and with a wave of his hand flames crackled at the end.

"The fire is cleansing." He circled it around my head and tiny dots of flame appeared in front of my eyes, hanging in the air briefly before dissipating. "I'm burning the taint from your soul, priest. It covers you like filth, but the flames will reveal your true self.” He kept the torch close, and sparks popped all around me. I cowered, protecting my face and head with my arms. “You will feel the heavy burden of the Christian lies lift from your shoulders, and you will know freedom." I fell, burying my face in the ground. My leg pulled on the rope, testing it, because I wanted to run away from this madman. "And your God will do nothing to stop it, because He knows the deception His Christians live under."

“Please…” I tried to make myself as small as possible but his menace still found me.

“Quiet,” he said, in a voice both soothing and sinister. “It will be easier that way.”

The tent flap flew open, mercifully halting Lorcan’s rant, and both of us turned to see an Irishman stride regally into the tent. He was a tall, well-built man, adorned in jewelry and furs, and he had long, blond hair that hung freely over his shoulders, and a short, neatly-trimmed beard. His deep set blue eyes were surrounded by lines and wrinkles in his tanned face, which made him seem older than he really was, but his build was that of a man who had seen, and survived, many battles. Lorcan sighed at the interruption, almost imperceptibly, before bowing his head slightly to the visitor.

"Don't you ever tire of your tent smelling like shit?" the man said.

"As I've told you many times, my lord, the material I keep has its uses, no matter how offensive it may be."

He grunted in disgust, then looked at me. "Making your guests comfortable?" he asked.

Lorcan frowned. "You know where I found them?"

"I was told."

"He claims to be a priest, but he lies,” Lorcan eyed me accusingly. “He has power in him, power he refuses to show me."

I dared to glance up at the man as he watched me and in that instant our eyes met I saw contempt, but also curiosity. He frowned at me and then turned to Avaline.

"That's her?"

"Yes, lord," Lorcan answered. "I was able to bring her back."

"Does this mean no more delays? Winter is almost here, and we aren't equipped to wait it out."

"It does, my lord. Now I can take her to the dungeon and we can perform our work there. Everything will proceed much faster, and I know how eager you are to see your army ready."

He nodded. “What about him?"

"He is nothing but a liar. He tried to hide her in a church, and claimed that God protects them, but I sniffed them out. My power is far greater than his, my lord. And I will prove it."

“Why is he even alive?”

Lorcan sneered at me. “He has a power over the woman that I must understand first. One that he refuses to explain. Once I know what it is, I can split his belly and feed his entrails to the ravens.”

"If you say so,” the man seemed uninterested in Lorcan’s diatribes. “Has Ruark seen him, yet?"

“No, my lord. He doesn’t know. Shall I send a messenger to his camp?”

“No. He’ll find out later.”

“Of course, my lord. A wise decision, as always.”

The man looked at my face and winced. "Are you done with your rituals?"

Lorcan hesitated. "For now."

"Then leave us a moment."

Lorcan’s eyes widened in surprise. "My lord, I must warn you against his trickery. And hers. She-"

"I'm not a child,” he scowled at the sorcerer. “I can speak to the priest without your help."

Lorcan seemed dubious, but he bowed his head and retreated from the tent, probably waiting right outside the entrance. The newcomer, who Lorcan called sire, continued to stare at me in disgust, like I was a rotted piece of meat. Finally, he grabbed a wadded up piece of cloth nearby and walked over to a basin of water. He dropped it in the water, rung it out, then tossed it to me.

“Clean yourself,” he said. I eagerly did as he instructed, ignoring the jabs of pain from my raw fingertips.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shook my head. “No, sire.”

"I am Cullach. I lead this tribe of warriors. You were found on our island, hiding in a church with a woman that Lorcan claims is his. Can you explain yourself?”