of the staff.
“I greet you, my brothers, my sisters, my children—my warriors of the grail!”
The people leaped to their feet, roaring one name over and over: “Myrrdian! Myrrdian!”
The gaunt man standing inside the stone circle was old, his long, thin face a parchment of tiny furrows. The long hair that spilled from beneath the edges of a dark gray helmet was the color of aged ivory. The incurving jaw guards of the helmet framed the slash of his mouth. The forepart swept down his forehead like a widow’s peak made of silver. Right above the peak, a sphere of metal bulged outward like a blind third eye.
Despite his white hair and seamed face, Myrrdian’s eyes were a compelling, opalescent golden color. A faint interlocking pattern of scales ringed his brow ridges, extending over and meeting at the bridge of his nose.
He wore an ankle-length cloak of midnight-blue caught at the throat by a golden-jeweled torque. The illumination from the full Moon struck dancing highlights on the shiny metal strands that wove a pattern of arcane symbols throughout the fabric of the cloak. Beneath it he wore a scarlet tunic and a vest of light chain mail.
An unpolished yellow crystal topped Myrrdian’s gnarled staff, seeming to have grown out of a setting of fibrous roots.
Although he looked about seventy, he radiated the aura of a past age and time, but the cheering, the chanting of his name continued.
A smile creased the man’s thin lips. “For years I suffered in the dark places, in the land of Skatha, the kingdom of shadows. But while there, I found the lost secrets of the Tuatha de Danaan. I claimed those secrets, and with them we shall begin a new era for our people. Lest anyone still doubt my words—”
Turning toward the raised center of the stone slab, he tapped it with the crystal tip of his staff. “Behold.”
A finger of incandescence fluttered up from the surface of the stone. The crowd felt rather than heard a pulsing vibration against their eardrums, as of the distant beating of great wings. Then the entire slab erupted in a blinding explosion of white light.
The people cried out, clapping their hands over their eyes. When they lowered them, blinking, they saw Myrrdian still standing there, but atop the slab lay a collection of weaponry—pistols, carbines, even boxes of ammunition.
“With these tools,” Myrrdian announced, “we shall build a new world for ourselves, but be mindful of their true purpose. Else what I have given can be taken away—as can your lives.”
He swept the staff in a semicircle over the guns, and a creature flickered into view. The animal dimly resembled a hound, like a monstrous cross between a mastiff and wolfhound, but the bristles along its spine ridge topped Myrrdian’s waist.
The heavily muscled neck drooped with the weight of its massive, shovel-jawed head. Muzzle slavering, its long fangs glistened cruelly in a flickering firelight. The two round eyes held a red gleam. It growled, a sound like distant thunder.
The people shrank away in murmuring fear, many of them crossing themselves frantically.
“The hound of Cullan will sniff out any betrayers,” Myrrdian said flatly. “And will gnaw on the marrow of their souls for eternity.”
He waved the staff again and the phantom hound vanished, as if it had been no more substantial than a shadow cast by the flames. Facing the people, he drew in his breath and declared, “But I have not returned to threaten my own kind. I have come to lead you, as was prophesied long, long ago, when our people were still young.”
Myrrdian’s voice grew louder, stronger, more passionate. “There will be much bloodshed as we reclaim our old lands, but when it is over and the Celtic people are once again united, I shall give new life to all those who have fallen in service to me. The wounded, the sick and even the dead will be renewed. Once we regain the grail, there will be no more infirmities of age or sickness or death!”
The kneeling people gaped up at him in utter adoration, their eyes shining in the moonlight, mouths open and wet as if with hunger and thirst.
“Soon I will prove my words,” Myrrdian went on. “No one need doubt me or fear me.”
A cheer burst from the crowd, and with it came the beating of drums and skirling of pipes in a deafening uproar. They danced in triumph.
Myrrdian gestured with his staff, and by degrees the babble died away. “Where is my sword carrier…where is my darling Rhianna?”
The black-robed woman stepped forward her head bowed, still clasping the hilt of the weapon. “I am here, my lord.”
“Rhianna, my child,” he murmured in a rustling voice, “you have done well. You will receive many blessings from me.” He took three steps to the edge of the slab and reached out and caressed her cheek. “Special blessings.”
Rhianna smiled but still did not look at him directly. “Thank you, Lord Myrrdian.”
He gestured with his staff at the weapons on the stone slab. “My children, my warriors, all of you who are in my service—take what you need.”
Then there was bedlam as the crowd, shouting and cheering, rushed forward. A blond-haired woman stepped forward and curtseyed clumsily before Myrrdian. Past her prime and running to fat, she had hastily loosened her skirt and cinched the black sash tighter around her waist before speaking.
In a theatrical voice she called forth, “My lord, we are all at your service. We all wrought the manifestation ritual.”
Myrrdian gazed at the woman for a long moment before responding. “Is that so, Eleyne? I will reward you in the manner most befitting you.”
The woman smiled and curtseyed again. “Thank you, my lord.”
Myrrdian returned the smile, but it seemed stitched-on. “I grow fatigued. Take me to a place of rest.”
Bowing deeply, Rhianna allowed Myrrdian to take her arm and step down from the slab. She handed the sword to the man in armor and walked on without a second glance.
Hefting the weapon, the man in armor stepped up beside Eleyne. “Bloody hell, I didn’t really think it would work!” he whispered.
“Nor I!” she replied, surprise quavering in her voice. After a moment, she added smugly, “We are far more powerful than we thought. The ancient ways are still strong here, Conohbar.”
He stared at her incredulously. “You don’t believe he’s actually who he says he is—”
She shook her head. “Of course not. He’s a trickster.”
“Even so,” Conohbar said softly, “I think we should be very careful around him.”
They fell into step with the others, walking across the moonlit moor. The drums struck up a slow and solemn beat as the procession marched away from the stone circle.
Eyes flashing with resentment, Eleyne hissed, “That little slut Rhianna…she might as well be naked. I hope she catches the croup.”
Conohbar thought Eleyen had spoken in the faintest of whispers, but he saw Myrrdian’s shoulders stiffen. Ducking his head, he kept his gaze fixed on the cowpath
