The Black Chalice

Forty-Seven

He crawled through the rubble. It was all he could do to force himself to move. His blood streaked across the stones as he dragged himself forward. He couldn't control his legs; his left foot trailed uselessly behind him, dislodging the broken stones as he crawled toward the unearthed tomb. The rocks shifted beneath his weight, skittering away down the banked ruin that was all that remained of the high wall.

He could see into the hollow heart of the cairn and, laid bare despite the shadows, the coffin of the great laird.

Alymere's right foot slipped as he scrambled desperately down the other side. He collapsed onto his back, gasping, every muscle on fire. His entire stomach and chest felt as though it was being ripped open and peeled back on his ribcage.

In scaling the debris, Alymere's exertions had exposed the guardian's broken and twisted forearm. It lay there lifelessly amid the rest of the rubble.

Alymere watched it in horror, wildly fearful. His jaw hung open, each new breath a strain. He didn't have the strength to fight on; he barely had the strength left to drag himself to the tomb, and had no idea how he was going to open it. If the Chalice was not inside, he was a dead man, and even if it was the chances were he would never get it open to find out.

He dug his fingers into the dirt, using every ounce of strength left to him to pull himself forward, his eyes on the stone tomb. His vision swam in and out of focus. His blood trailed slickly across the dirt as he reached up, desperately trying to snag the top of the tomb and claw himself up against it.

He didn't know what he had expected; perhaps to find the Black Chalice laid on top of the stone tomb, but there was no sign of it.

Alymere left bloody hand prints on the stone face and a smear of blood across the granite chest, trying to force it from its resting place. He heaved his weight up against its side, weakly, trying to crack it open, but it didn't give so much as an inch. He levered his body around, trying to push his shoulder against the stone lid, but it wasn't moving. Not for him, not for the Devil, not for anything.

So close, but, as with everything in his life so far, he was destined to fall tantalisingly short.

He slumped back, content to die.

There is life still in us, is there not? There is breath still in our lungs. Blood still in our veins. Use it. Use the last of that life, and the rewards will be beyond imagining. Let me fill you, let me lend you my strength to sustain you. We are one. We are Alymere. Now rise!

Alymere pulled himself up, needing the tomb to support his weight, and took one step away from it on trembling legs. He saw the silver edge of the axeman's double-headed blade through the rubble and stumbled unsteadily towards it.

He sank to his knees, pulled at the stones burying the axe and threw them aside, dragged it out of the rubble, and hauled himself up once more to lurch back toward the stone tomb. With every step he found a little more strength returning to his limbs, a little more vitality, though whether it was the strength the Devil had promised him, or somehow came from the weapon, he neither knew nor cared. He revelled in the new-found strength surging through his veins.

Behind him, the stones stirred, but Alymere only had eyes for the tomb.

Grimacing, he raised the weapon overhead. He felt a brief, wild urge to bring the huge axe smashing down into the centre of the tomb's granite lid, but stopped himself, knowing it was a futile gesture — there was a marked difference between the soft pale rocks of the cross and the flawless granite slab that marked the laird's final resting place. Instead, he worked the edge of the axe's blade between the lid and the base, and used the shaft to lever it free. And as long as he kept his hands on the axe, strength continued to flood into him.

The grating of stone on stone, as the lid started to slide, masked the sounds of the guardian clawing its way out of its grave.

With one last colossal heave, the tomb opened far enough for him to see inside. The laird's old bones had been preserved, along with some scraps of decayed leather, but nothing else. There, clasped in the bony fingers, was a silver goblet, yellow-black with tarnish, a single chalcedony stone set in its side. The gem was a bloodstone, flecked with red.

He reached into the coffin to pry the Chalice from the dead man's grasp.

He lifted the fingers one at a time with a peculiar reverence, but the bones powdered beneath his touch. As they crumbled, the sudden cacophony of stones shifting and falling behind him caused Alymere to turn; for one panicked moment he thought the entire cairn was coming down on top of him, but then he saw the axeman stubbornly clawing itself out of the rubble.

Nothing would stop it. Not being buried, not being struck down. It just kept coming. Alymere had visions of the silent warrior chasing him all the way to Camelot.

Alymere reached for the axe, and then stopped himself. The warrior was a grail guardian. He would never defeat it with axe or sword. The only way to win, he realised, was to claim the grail.

Even as the massive warrior hauled himself silently out of the rubble, Alymere tore the Black Chalice from the dead man's clutches and lifted it out of the tomb.

Yes, the Devil whispered in his mind. Yes, yes, yes… This is our destiny… Lift the cup to your lips and drink of me. Finish what you began. Seal yourself to me. Drink… sup of my blood.

Alymere raised the cup to his lips, but there was only dust and the bitter tang of the tarnished metal on his tongue. There was no blood, no water.

Press the stone against one of your cuts… Drip your blood into the Chalice… Your blood is our blood… Our blood is my blood… Raise it to your lips and drink… Drink of me. Drink to me. Drink.

Behind him, the guardian rose to its feet and kicked its way clear of the rubble. Alymere hesitated.

Do it. Now. Drink. Seal our pact. Be mine. Forever. And I will be yours.

He pressed the lip of the tarnished silver cup — as black as its name suggested — against his stomach, collecting blood from the wound, and raised it to his lips.

Inside his head the Devil howled in triumph.

And Alymere fell.