The Black Chalice

Thirty-Five

Alymere gave Marchante his head. The sheer power of the great warhorse was incredible; he felt every corded muscle bunch, tense and release beneath him. There was both grace and majesty in the beast's body. Hooves drummed on hard ground so quickly they seemed to become a single incessant sound. The wind whipped at his face and tugged through his hair. For the first time in weeks he felt alive. It was elemental, raw.

He spurred Marchante on. The animal's mane streamed back like the snakes of a gorgon's hair, and still Alymere dug his heels in.

There was a chapel within the grounds of the manor house, but it had been years since a priest resided there; Sir Lowick had served as spiritual leader for his tenants in the priest's absence. The nearest church lay a little over thirty miles due south as the crow flies, where a single holy man tended to the souls of many of the smaller settlements within walking distance. There was nothing to say that Alymere would find him at the church — he was known to walk hundreds of miles a month to share the word of God with farmers and labourers, and others who otherwise would have lived beyond the reach of the Lord. The church stood as a fulcrum of faith in the area; there were four monasteries, one each to the north, south, east and west of it, but each was more than a day's ride. Although, with Medcaut burned, there were only three now, Alymere realised.

The terrain was far from flat, though, so despite the road being good, the journey to the church and back would take well over six hours, even if he ran the horse into the ground — and assuming he could find the holy man in the first place, never mind make his case vehemently enough to convince him to drop everything and ride out with him there and then.

It would be well after sundown before he returned. He could only pray his uncle would last that long.

Alymere gripped the reins tight in his hands and rode with his head down low, close to the horse's neck, urging him on faster and faster, as he raced towards the road.

A dart of black and white in the sky above him caught his eye, and he looked up to see the crow with its streak of white feathers. It flew straight and true, skimming low across the treetops. The fact that the last time he had ridden this stretch of the Stanegate Road, the Maiden Way, another animal had changed his life forever, did not escape him. The bird's flight appeared to mirror the road below, so for miles into the forest, Alymere let himself be led on by the crow.

And the deeper the road took him into the forest, the more aware he became of the Devil's Bible pressing up against his stomach.

The White Crow and the Devil's Tree…

The Black Chalice…

You are my champion.

Do this one thing for me…

Do not fail me, or all of this will be lost.

Promise me now, make this the one promise you keep.

The damned book pulsed against his skin, breathing. Alive. All of these words, snatches of phrases and portents pounded through his mind, matching the relentless drumming of Marchante's hooves on the road and the pulsing of the Devil's book against his chest.

Or the Devil take your soul…

Up ahead of him, the Stanegate Road divided around a lightning-struck tree the locals called Hangman's Oak, because of the way one of the branches had been split away from the trunk by the lightning strike to form a gallows arm. Some called it the Devil's Tree.

Alymere slowed Marchante, pulling up on the warhorse's reins until he slowed to a canter.

The crow perched on the furthermost tip of the gallows arm, the white feathers clearly visible as it stared at him intently, but it was not the bird that caused him to stop, but rather the crook-backed figure of an old woman resting in its shadow.

She raised her head and a long gnarled finger, which she levelled at him. He saw something then, in her eyes, that frightened him bone deep. She moved forward two shuffling steps. The shadows cast by Hangman's Oak on her pallid skin came alive beneath that slight movement, stretching and writhing as they were pulled out of shape. He didn't care about the shadows; they could not hurt him.

"What do you want from me, witch?" he called, hating the way his new voice sounded in his own ears still. It was as though a stranger spoke through his mouth. But why should it be any different when a stranger wore his face?

"Alymere, Destroyer of Kingdoms. Alymere, Killer of Kings. Alymere, Champion of the Wretched. Alymere, Saviour of the Sick. Alymere, son of Albion? Which is it? Which do you choose, now and forever; who shall you be?" He had heard these names once before, when Blodyweth, the Crow Maiden, first greeted him. To hear them again now, so close to where he had stumbled upon the Summervale, caused him to doubt more than just his ears. The woman before him was no maiden. It was impossible to imagine her as ever having been young, and harder still to imagine her having been beautiful. But then beauty was a transient thing. He touched his own ruined cheek. Who was he to judge now?

The old woman pointed first to the right of the Devil's Tree, "The path of the righteous," she said. And then to the left, "Or the sinister path? Which is it to be? For the day of Alymere the Undecided is at an end. Life is not a single continuous thing," she said, mirroring his own thoughts of days before. Could she somehow tap into his mind? "It is made up of lots of smaller lives. Your old life is at an end, Champion. You are born again. So tell me, who are you?"

The church lay to the left, the nearest settlement to the right. It was possible the priest was to be found at the end of either road, or nowhere at all.

"Who am I?" he asked, as though the old hag might offer answers. He drew himself up in the saddle. "I am my father's son," he said simply. A smile split half of his face.

The crone cackled at that. "That you are," she said. "That you are. I was there at your birth, young warrior, and I will be there at your death," she told him. "And that is the one truth you will utter in all those days in between."

"What is that supposed to mean, woman?"

"There are many lies around you, warrior. Even the face you present to the world is not your own. Some lies are yours, many are not, but that does not change the fact that they are woven around you like the cloak you wear. So, I ask again, who are you, warrior?"

Beneath his clothes he felt the words of the book crawl across his skin, bleeding into him. In his mind he heard the echoes of the same phrases over and over again:

The Black Chalice…

You are my champion.

Do this one thing for me…

Or the Devil take your soul…

"I am Alymere. No more and no less than that. You can speak your riddles, they mean nothing to me. I am not your plaything. Now move out of my way. I will ride you down if I must." He did not wait for her to scurry out of his path. He spurred Marchante forward. The warhorse reared onto its powerful hind legs and kicked at the air. When they came down the horse set off running.

Alymere took the left hand path as the crone had always known he would.