REVELATION STOOD WITH his back to the door, his broad hands resting on the stone sill of the narrow window, his eyes scanning the forests below as he watched a hunting hawk circling beneath the bunching clouds.
“It has begun, my lord,” said the elderly messenger, bowing to the tall man in the monk’s robes of brown wool.
Revelation turned slowly, his smoke-gray eyes fastening on the man, who looked away, unable to bear the intensity of the gaze.
“Tell it all,” said Revelation, slumping in an ivory-inlaid chair before his oak desk and gazing absently at the parchment on which he had been working.
“May I sit, my lord?” the messenger asked softly, and Revelation looked up and smiled.
“My dear Cotta, of course you may. Forgive my melancholy. I had hoped to spend the remaining days of my life here in Tingis. The African weather suits me, the people are friendly, and with the exception of Berber raids, the country is restful. And I have almost completed my book … but then, such ventures will always take second place to living history.”
Cotta sank gratefully into a high-backed chair, his bald head gleaming with sweat, his dark eyes showing his fatigue. He had come straight from the ship, eager to unburden himself of the bad news he carried yet loath to load the weight on the man before him.
“There are many stories of how it began. All are contradictory or else extravagantly embroidered. But as you suspected, the Goths have a new leader of uncanny powers. His armies are certainly invincible, and he is cutting a bloody path through the northern kingdoms. The Sicambrians and the Norse have yet to find him opposing them, but their turn will come.”
Revelation nodded. “What of the sorcery?”
“The agents of the Bishop of Rome all testify that Wotan is a skilled nigromancer. He has sacrificed young girls, launching his new ships across their spread-eagled bodies. It is vile … all of it. And he claims to be a god!”
“How do the man’s powers manifest themselves?” asked the abbot.
“He is invincible in battle. No sword can touch him. But it is said he makes the dead walk—and more than walk. One survivor of the battle in Raetia swears that at the end of the day the dead Goths rose in the midst of the enemy, cutting and killing. Needless to add, the opposition crumbled. I have only the one man’s word for this tale, but I think he was speaking the truth.”
“And what is the talk among the Goths?”
“They say that Wotan plans a great invasion of Britannia, where the magic is strongest. Wotan says the home of the Old Gods is Britannia and the gateway to Valhalla is at Sorviodunum, near the Great Circle.”
“Indeed it is,” whispered Revelation.
“What, my lord abbot?” asked Cotta, his eyes widening.
“I am sorry, Cotta, I was thinking aloud. The Great Circle has always been considered a place of magic by the Druids—and others before them. And Wotan is right. It is a gateway of sorts, and he must not be allowed to pass through it.”
“I cannot think there is a single army to oppose him, except the Blood King, and our reports say he is sorely beset by rebellion and invasion in his own land. Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and even British tribes rise against him regularly. How would he fare against twenty thousand Gothic warriors led by a sorcerer who cannot be bested?”
Revelation smiled broadly, his woodsmoke eyes twinkling with sudden humor. “Uther can never be under-estimated, my friend. He, too, has never known defeat … and he carries the Sword of Power, Cunobelin’s blade.”
“But he is an old man now,” said Cotta. “Twenty-five years of warfare must have taken their toll. And the Great Betrayal …”
“I know the history,” Revelation snapped. “Pour us some wine while I think.”
The abbot watched as the older man filled two copper goblets with deep red wine, accepting one of them with a smile to offset the harshness of his last response.
“Is it true that Wotan’s messengers seek out maidens with special talents?”
“Yes. Spirit seers, healers, speakers in tongues … it is said he weds them all.”
“He kills them,” said Revelation. “It is where his power lies.”
The abbot rose and moved to the window, watching the sun sink in fire. Behind him Cotta lit four candles, then waited in silence for several minutes. At last he spoke. “Might I ask, my lord, why you are so concerned about events across the world? There have always been wars. It is the curse of man that he must kill his brothers, and some argue that God himself made this the punishment for Eden.”
Revelation turned from the glory of the sunset and went back to his chair.
“All life, Cotta, is balanced. Light and dark, weak and strong, good and evil. The harmony of nature. In perpetual darkness all plants would die. In perpetual sunlight they would wither and burn. The balance is everything. Wotan must be opposed lest he become a god—a dark and malicious god, a blood drinker, a soul stealer.”
“And you will oppose him, my lord?”
“I will oppose him.”
“But you have no army. You are not a king or a warlord.”
“You do not know what I am, old friend. Come, refill the goblets, and we will see what the graal shows.”
Revelation moved to an oak chest and poured water from a clay jug into a shallow silver bowl, carrying it carefully to the desk. He waited until the ripples had died and then lifted a golden stone above the water, slowly circling it. The candle flames guttered and died without a hint of breeze, and Cotta found himself leaning forward, staring into the velvet-dark water of the bowl.
The first image that appeared was that of a young boy, red-haired and wild-eyed, thrusting at the air with a wooden sword. Nearby sat an older warrior, a leather cup strapped over the stump where his right hand should have been. Revelation watched them closely, then passed his hand over the surface. Now the watchers could see blue sky and a young girl in a pale green dress sitting beside a lake.
“Those are the mountains of Raetia,” whispered Cotta. The girl was slowly plaiting her dark hair into a single braid.
“She is blind,” said Revelation. “See how her eyes face the sun unblinking.”
Suddenly the girl’s face turned toward them. “Good morning,” she said, the words forming without sound in both men’s minds.
“Who are you?” asked Revelation softly.
“How strange,” she replied. “Your voice whispers like the morning breeze and seems so far away.”
“I am far away, child. Who are you?”
“I am Anduine.”
“And where do you live?”
“In Cisastra with my father, Ongist. And you?”
“I am Revelation.”
“Are you a friend?”
“I am indeed.”
“I thought so. Who is that with you?”
“How do you know there is someone with me?”
“It is a gift I have, Master Revelation. Who is he?”
“He is Cotta, a monk of the White Christ. You will meet him soon; he also is a friend.”
“This I knew. I can feel his kindness.”
Once more Revelation moved his hand across the water. Now he saw a young man with long, raven-dark hair leading a fine herd of Sicambrian horses in the vales beyond Londinium. The man was handsome, with a finely boned face framed by a strong, clean-shaven jaw. Revelation studied the rider intently.
This time the water shimmered of its own accord, a dark storm cloud hurling silent spears of jagged lightning streaming across a night sky. From within the cloud came a flying creature with leather wings and a long wedge-shaped head. On its back sat a yellow-bearded warrior; his hand rose, and lightning flashed toward the watchers. Revelation’s arm shot forward just as the water parted; white light speared up into his hand, and the stench of burning flesh filled the room. The water steamed and bubbled, vanishing in a cloud of vapor. The silver bowl sagged and flowed down onto the table, a hissing black and silver stream that caused the wood to blaze. Cotta recoiled as he saw Revelation’s blackened hand. The abbot lifted the golden stone and touched it to the seared flesh. It healed instantly, but even the magic could not take away the memory of the pain, and Revelation sagged back into his chair, his heart pounding and cold sweat on his face. He took a deep breath and stared at the smoldering wood. The flames died, the smoke disappearing as around them the candles flared into life.
“He knows of me, Cotta. But because he attacked me, I learned of him. He is not quite ready to plunge the world into darkness; he needs one more sacrifice.”
“For what?” whispered the old man.
“In the language of this world? He seeks to open the gates of hell.”
“Can he be stopped?”
Revelation shrugged. “We will see, my friend. You must take ship for Raetia and find Anduine. From there take her to Britannia, to Noviomagus. I will meet you in three months. Once there you will find an inn in the southern quarter, called, I believe, the Sign of the Bull. Come every day at noon and wait one hour. I shall join you when I can.”
“The blind girl is the sacrifice?”
“And what of the red-haired boy and the rider?”
“As yet I do not know. Friends or enemies … only time will tell. The boy looked familiar, but I cannot place him. He was wearing Saxon garb, and I have never journeyed among the Saxons. As for the rider, I know him; his name is Ursus, and he is of the House of Merovee. He has a brother, I think, and he yearns to be rich.”
“And the man on the dragon?” Cotta asked softly.
“The enemy from beyond the Mist.”
“And is he truly Wotan, the gray god?”
Revelation sipped his wine. “Wotan? He has had many names. To some he was Odin the One-Eyed, to others Loki. In the east they called him Purgamesh, or Molech, or even Baal. Yes, Cotta, he is divine—immortal if you will. And where he walks, chaos follows.”
“You speak as if you knew him.”
“I know him. I fought him once before.”
“What happened?”
“I killed him, Cotta,” answered the abbot.