The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted
Chapter 36 - Head vs Heart

I stood frozen, just starring at the carnage. Eventually I looked over at Galahad. He was on his knees, bawling uncontrollably into his hands. I walked over to where Marc stood staring down at the pile of ash that had been Gliton minutes before.

“Knife,” I said to him.

He flinched like he was startled before turning to look at me.

“Huh?” he asked. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. He still had the knife in his hand and blood was slowly dripping into a small pool at his feet.

“Give me my knife,” I enunciated every word very clearly.

“Oh, yeah sure,” he said, handing it to me handle first. His speech was slow and a bit slurred.

As I turned to leave, he said, “It’s not his fault you know.”

I looked at Galahad and then back at Marc. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

Don’t say it. Please.

“She forced him, Kenzie,” Marc said. His eyes were moist and pleading. “That was her thing. She could control men, make them do whatever she wanted.”

Dammit.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, even though I did.

“Don’t you get it Kenz?” Marc asked. “He was Camelot’s best knight. He was the only one pure enough to quest for the Grail. She made him.”

“And you as well, I suppose,” I snapped.

He looked away as if I’d slapped him, before nodding slightly.

You will not cry now.

I turned towards Galahad and bit my lip until I tasted blood. The local men in their homemade clothes had formed a loose ring around us, but getting their story was way down on my list of things to do. Luckily, they seemed more interested in Lucìa than me anyway.

I walked towards Galahad, who was in the process of getting himself under control as I approached. He looked up at me as my shadow fell over his face.

“All those tears for her?” I asked bluntly.

“No lass,” he answered. “When I have the strength to stand, I plan to spit on her ashes. Mine are tears of a thousand years of guilt.”

“Guilt for my parents?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. “You killed my father on the day you first attacked me,” I said. “And someone, probably you, killed my mother while she was pregnant with me.”

He rubbed sweat from his face with his bloody hand, leaving a red streak on his forehead. “You speak of the man that killed Thiton at the airport?” I nodded, assuming that was the name of the lion witch. “I didn’t know that he was your father,” he said finally.

I was gripping the knife so tightly that I was cutting off the circulation my fingers. I loosened my grip and felt them begin to tingle with fresh blood.

I can see the pulse throbbing in his thick neck. It would only take a flick of my wrist to open up an artery and end him.

He continued, “For my actions that day I am truly sorry. Your father was a fine warrior to have killed a witch in single combat, and he died bravely. You should be proud of him.”

I reared back and punched him as hard as I could in the face. His head moved a little, and when he looked up at me his eyes were filled with sorrow, not anger. His jaw felt like rock and my knuckles ached from the impact, but I refused to let it show. We just stared at each other.

He’ll let me kill him, and no one else is going to stop me. And I want to... so badly.

But I knew that option had passed. I screamed as a fresh tear rolled down his cheek. His eyes stayed locked on mine.

I took a few deep breaths and loosened the grip on my knife. “You can go,” I said to him.

I thought he’d be relieved, but he looked more disappointed than anything else.

“Go where?” he asked. He stood up, using a stone rail for support. “I have no home, no friends or family.” He took a deep breath and added, “I could help you, lass. I know the witches. I know how they think... where they live.”

“Not on your life, “I scoffed.

“Kenz,” Jordan said, “maybe he could help us.” My friend had gotten to his feet as well, but he was shaky and looked pale.

“Where do you think you’re going bro?” I asked as I walked over to him. “You can barely stand. Give me your arm.”

Jordan shook his head, “I’m fine,” he said, but he didn’t pull away when I put his good arm around my shoulder for support.

“He killed my dad Jordan,” I said to him quietly. “You want me to trust him now?”

“Trust? No,” he admitted. “But what if he was just a tool of the witches? Was he really at fault?”

“That’s why he’s not dead,” I said evenly. “That’s the best I can do today.”

“What about me, Kenzie?” Marc asked. “Can you forgive me?” I didn’t reply, but I think he saw the answer plastered on my face. I wasn’t trying to hide my feelings.

Suddenly I had a thought, and I turned back to Galahad.

“Is Merlin alive,” I asked.

“He was,” he answered. “He was injured at the airport, and the Queen of the Northgales took him captive. Whether or not she kept him alive, I cannot say.”

“Then prove your worth,” I said. I looked at Marc and added, “The both of you. Find Merlin and bring him home. Then we can talk about forgiveness.”

***

“I don’t like the idea of those two just walking away,” Devon, the Abbot of the Loyal Order of the Sword said, referring to Marc and Galahad. Devon’s was tall, middle aged, with a bit of a hook nose and more hair on his face than was left on his thinning head.

After the battle, the men of the Order brought us down one level to the lower terrace with all the living quarters. Shortly after, Marc and Galahad left via a secret passage to avoid the authorities, who were expected at any moment. I hadn’t said goodbye to either of them.

“They’re on a redemption quest,” Lucía said. She sat at the head of the table in a high-backed wooden chair that sort of looked like a throne, and her sword lay naked across the table. As she spoke, the mug of brown ale in her hand swung haphazardly in the air. “They were under a witch’s spell when they betrayed us.”

“Yes, of course m ’lady, “Devon replied. “May I refill your mug? More cheese perhaps?”

“Easy on the cheese bro,” I said.

Her cheeks went pink. “I’m not hungry Devon, but a refill would be great.”

Three monks tripped over each other for the honor of the refill.

“So is Lucía like your queen or something?” Jordan asked a bit loudly, and with a slight slur.

The monks looked at each other for a moment like they weren’t exactly sure of the answer.

Finally, Devon spoke up, “Lady Lucía is the end of our calling in a sense. I’m honestly not sure what happens after today.”

“This sounds like a story,” Jordan said, “and I like my stories best with a fresh drink in hand.”

Devon looked to Lucía for advice. Jordan had already had two Tylenol and a few brandies for the pain. She shrugged.

“Coffee might be better,” I suggested.

“Irish coffee?” Jordan asked. I shook my head. “What about some of that ale?” I shrugged this time, and a young monk went to the sideboard for a mug and filled it to the top.

When he placed the mug on the table in front of Jordan, he said, “It was very brave of you to step in front of that sword for your friend.”

“Thanks,” Jordan said, and then he did a double take. The monk checked off many boxes: tall, slim, square jaw, nice hair. Plus, he was looking at Jordan in a certain way. “I’m sorry, but I’m suddenly not feeling well. Perhaps this nice young man can bring me somewhere that I can lie down.”

“I’ve got an extra cot in my cell,” handsome monk said a bit too quickly.

Jordan was already standing with his beer.

“Yes, of course Tomás,” Devon said. “Make sure he’s comfortable and get him whatever he requires.”

“Shouldn’t you leave your beer behind bro?” I asked, purely for entertainment value.

He crinkled his nose. “No, it’s medicinal.” He looked at his new friend and added, “Tomás is it? May I use you as a crutch?”

Jordan left the room with one arm around Tomás’s shoulder, a beer in his other hand and a smile on his face.

“You say you have a story, Devon?” Lucía asked. “I assume it explains how you know my heritage and why you’re such well-armed monks.”

“We started out as normal monks at the base of this cliff,” Devon replied, “beginning with our founder Saint Gregory the Great. It wasn’t until the sword arrived in the 8th century that our destiny changed from simple men of God to protectors of the holy sword.”

“Now, when you say appeared...” I started.

Gerard, who’d sewn up Jordan’s wound earlier, answered, “Our history states that in the spring of 778 AD, the brothers heard a terrible commotion coming from the sky, and moments later, felt the ground shake below their feet.”

Gerard’s English was good, but his French accent was so thick, that I found myself really having to concentrate to follow what he was saying. Plus, the bushy mustache was distracting.

“When the brothers went out to see what had happened, they eventually found the sword stuck in the side of the cliff,” Gerard continued. “Naturally, some of the more daring brothers climbed up and tried to remove the sword – without success, I needn’t add. A week later, a scouting party from the emperor’s ranks discovered the sword. We spoke with the men and explained the sword could not be removed – though they wouldn’t take our brothers word for it. The scouts returned with more men and climbing implements a week later and had no more luck removing Durendal than my ancient brothers had.”

“The men left and almost a month passed before one Saturday afternoon, when a caravan consisting of dozens of mounted knights, a platoon of foot soldiers, royal carriages and a massive supply train of mule-led wagons arrived at the old Abbey. As the brothers stood and stared, men began to unload the wagons and set up camp along the banks of the river. This of course came as a great shock to the brothers, and initially they feared that they were about to be displaced from their tranquil home.”

“However, their fear was quickly replaced by shock as a tall, regal man dressed in finery and wearing a crown of gold and jewels, was led by a group of heavily armed men to the front of the Abbey where my distant brothers stood gawking. In that day, every man in France knew the face of the Charles the Great, and the site of the King of the Franks at their humble abbey made the brothers quickly forget their trepidation.”

“You ever, um,” Lucia started carefully, “hear about anything like this, Kenz?”

I gave her a wary look and shook my head. My memory was far too limited to even be labeled as spotty.

“The King made a generous offer,” Gerard then paused and smiled. “At least it was presented as an offer, though the men and equipment on site suggested that the decision was already made. Regardless, the King offered to build a Cathedral on the mountain in exchange for the monk’s vigilance in keeping the sword safe.

“Couldn’t stone masons have just chipped the sword out of the wall?” Lucìa asked.

“I suppose they could have,” Devon replied. “I think this was more of a way to hide the sword in plan site, rather than sticking it in a vault somewhere. The King said it was possible that someone might draw the sword from the stone one day, and that we should make no move to stop them. But anyone trying to steal the sword by other means… well, my brothers were told they must stop grave robbers at all costs.”

Just as they had done today when they rounded up Galahad’s men. They were currently tied up in a room nearby, awaiting the police to arrive and arrest them for terrorism.

“I was surprised to see that it had rusted, and even more surprised when the rust fell off,” Lucía said.

Devin answered, “Since the secret was already out, we decided to tell visitors that this was the genuine sword, rather than try to deny it. People tend to believe in cover-ups, but are quick to doubt a boast, so naturally, we boasted. But it became obvious to my brothers after the first rainy season that Durendal was not going to rust. If the sword never rusted, people may have believed that it was Roland’s sword. Luckily, a member of the congregation had the idea of binding iron shavings to the outside of the sword. Within weeks, the exposed portions of the blade and handle were covered in rust.”

“I have a question for you miss,” Gerard asked. “Why did you try to remove the sword before Lucìa? As I understand it, Lucía and her brother are descendants of Lord Roland, while you are not.”

“We were hoping the sword was actually Excalibur,” I said.

Devin and Gerard looked at each other but didn’t actually say anything.

“And if it had been Excalibur, only you could have drawn it out?” Devin asked.

I looked at Lucía. She pursed her lips and shrugged.

I smiled and asked, “Do monks believe in reincarnation?”

Epilogue

We stayed the night with the monks and left the next morning for a safe house in the French province of Brittany. Our new place was a three-bedroom cottage next to the ruins of a castle on a lake near the small town of Kerret. There were a dozen acres of land between us and the next nearest neighbor. It was nice and secluded and quiet.

The property belonged to the monks for generations, though it was unclear who had been the original owner. The cottage was intended to be used by the property caretaker, but it had been vacant the last few years. The day we arrived was all about dusting, cobweb removal and fridge filling.

I woke up early on the second day, feeling the need to explore. I filled a water bottle and stuffed it in a backpack with a candy bar and a bag of chips. I heard Jordan snoring down the hall as I walked out the front door and into the chilly morning air. I pulled my hood over my head and set out on the gravel path that led to the local lake, lac du Drennec. I passed thick woods and rolling greed hills dotted with cows chewing happily. I successfully fought the urge to try and hug them.

When I reached the bank of the lake, I decided it was time for breakfast. I found a dry log to sit on and unpacked.

I wish I had coffee. I should have woken Jordan up to make me some. Ok, I can hear how that sounds. Maybe I’ll make breakfast for everyone when I get home. I can Google how that French press works.

A short patch of sand led up to the lake, and a wooden pier extended another thirty feet past that. A rowboat bobbed in the water, attached to the pier by a rope. The water was deep blue and seemed to stretch for miles. I felt a daydream coming on when a flash of light brought me back.

Way out in the water, something like metal glinted in the sun. Before I even realized what I was doing, I’d untied the old rowboat from the base of the pier. Without much conscious thought, I pushed off from the bank and began rowing towards open water. I couldn’t remember ever being in a rowboat before – not in this lifetime anyway – but it didn’t take long to figure out the mechanics involved: ores in the water; pull back; oars up and forward, repeat. In ten-minutes time I was a concerning distance from shore, sweating, and breathing hard. I slipped off my hoodie, pulled my water bottle from my backpack and took a long pull.

“What in the world am I doing out here,” I said aloud.

If I were a deep thinker that could be construed as an existential question about the direction of my life and my place in the universe as a whole, but in this case, it really just applies to sitting in a stolen boat in the middle of a lake.

Then I saw the reflection again, coming from the water twenty feet to my right. I stuck the oars back in the water and covered the distance in a couple strong pulls. After stowing the oars, I got to my hands and knees and peered over the edge of the boat. Something was poking out of the edge of the water, something shiny and silver. I gasped and pulled my head up quickly and fell back on my butt as the glimmering object suddenly began to rise from the water.

I felt the sensation of déjà vu as a shining steel sword rose out of the lake. Dozens of images filled my mind of a sword rising from various bodies of water. When the cross bar cleared the rippling water, I saw a pale and delicate white hand holding the hilt. Below the water, I saw a mass of red hair in a halo around the pale, freckled face of a beautiful young woman. She wore a white dress with an open neck and the long skirts of the dress flowed around her in a way that reminded me of the body of a jellyfish. I tried and failed to steady my hand as I reached forward and took the sword from her hand.

In that instant, scenes from countless lives flashed before my eyes. The memories flooded into my mind like waves crashing on a beach, each one leaving me feeling more overwhelmed and disoriented than the last. When I concentrated, I could pick out a specific memory and live it over again. A happy moment on a green hill in spring with Guinevere; a tense meeting in a room with Hitler, FDR, and Charles De Gaulle; riding a horse into battle with the French army chanting my name. After a while, I lost my sense of self altogether, as the lives merged into a hodgepodge of memories and emotions. The waves receded and I was drowning in the deep blue sea or remembrances.

I awoke sometime later. The sun was low on the horizon, and it was starting to get a little chilly. I could see the sunburn on my arms and feel it on my cheeks. My mouth was dry as a bone and I had a mild headache starting just behind my eyes. I sat up groggily and rubbed my eyes before realizing there was a woman sitting in the boat with me. I recognized her instantly. Nimue, the Lady of the Lake and Queen of the Outer Isles. A redheaded Celtic goddess come to life – tall, lean, fierce, and beautiful.

“Do you remember me?” the woman asked. Her voice was soft but strong, and her English had an Irish lilt to it.

I smiled and nodded. “I remember everything.”

It’s about damn time, lass.

Oh, hell no!

To be continued…

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