Celtic Fire

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They were more “ifs” than he would have liked, but in the grand scheme of things he was closer now than he had ever been, and that was something.

The flashlight’s beam caught the glint of something impossibly bright lying on the desiccated remains and his heart raced as everything he’d ever dreamed of became so much more real. It was there. He’d found it. He hadn’t expected it to have retained its luster after all this time, but there was nothing else it could be. There just wasn’t. Not buried with him. It had to be...had to be...

He’d read the letter a thousand times even though it was supposed to be secret, and in it he’d learned the truth about the bones of Gerald of Wales and what they had been buried with. There were countless legends of powerful weapons, great swords, shields, armor, mantles, cups imbued with magic—as many stories as there were weapons to be talked of. Gerald, the letter claimed, had been interred with a weapon of great power, both to keep him safe in the afterlife and to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.

As with all treasure hunts there were hundreds of dots that needed to be connected, but this was it, the final dot. With the artifact in his hand he would finally know if it truly possessed the properties legend promised.

And if it did...

He slid his left hand into the narrow slit held open by the jack, and eased his arm all the way inside up to the shoulder, imagining the weight of the slab coming down on top of him. His fingers scrabbled against bone and tiny skittering creatures that crawled over the remains, until he found a hand closed around metal.

He intended to ease it free of the bony grasp, but it refused to move, almost as if the dead man was still intent on keeping the weapon safe as he had done for so long.

He took a tighter grip on the weapon, and even as he tried to pull, the inside of the tomb filled with bright blinding light. In panic he tried to wrench it free, but his panic caused the jack to twist and the stone slab to slip. He would have lost his arm but for the fact he hadn’t removed the block of wood. Even so, it was trapped, and try though he might, he couldn’t pull it or the weapon clear.

He shifted his position, wanting to work the fingers of his free hand under the edge of the stone to ease the pressure on his shoulder, but all he succeeded in doing was contorting his body and dislodging the wood in the process.

He couldn’t keep the scream from his lips as the only thing stopping the grave from slamming shut was a corner of the wooden block and his skin and bone.

“Are you all right over there?” came a voice. The damned curate.

He knew any amount of serious struggling risked sending the wood and jack tumbling into the tomb, then there’d be nothing to save his arm. He needed help if he was going to get out of this. “Please,” he said. “Help me.”

The curate came hurrying toward him, then understanding the heinous crime being perpetrated on his sanctified ground, crouched down beside the grave robber to help him. He asked no questions. He didn’t need to. He took hold of the edge of the slab and strained with all his might, slowly shifting it first an inch, then another, gradually releasing the pressure on his trapped arm. The sudden rush of blood through his system and alleviation of pain filled the grave robber with a wave of euphoria.

He drew his arm out of the tomb, bringing the sword out with it.

Its blade still cast a glorious radiance all of its own.

It wasn’t enough to prove it was the weapon he sought—Giraldus Cambrensis’s legendary sword—but he had joined together all of the dots, and they had led him to this marked tomb....

The curate lowered the slab, pulling his fingers free at the last moment as the wooden block and metal jack tumbled into the grave.

“What is that thing?” the curate asked, unable to take his eyes from the shining blade as he sank to the ground. The grave robber could see the rising tide of panic there behind the man’s eyes as he struggled to hold it in check. He gasped for breath, but it was impossible to tell if it was the exertion or the fear that caused it. “What were you doing?”

The grave robber scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing ache in his arm.

He tried to flex his fingers as though that was all it would take to restore the circulation. It would take more than that.

He held the sword out in front of him, marveling at the flames dancing along its edge and the pale yellow glow it cast on the prostrate clergyman.

He hadn’t wanted this to happen; he’d never intended for anyone to know he’d been there, that the grave had been disturbed, or more importantly that something had been taken from it. But he’d met the curate for a third time. He had no choice. There was no time for regret, even if this morning the curate had proven his kindness by offering a vagrant a cup of tea.

It only took one swing of the burning blade, then it was all over.

Chapter 10 (#ulink_4d6aadf2-7c3b-5e8b-bfca-3b04f4100eee)

Annja hit the sack early.

The jet lag had finally gotten to her.

She’d ordered something from room service having learned from bitter experience that while she could have slept through the apocalypse she couldn’t sleep through the midnight munchies. She unpacked the few things she needed for the night, her room still light with the hazy glow of the evening sun, and drew the curtains. They didn’t quite meet in the middle, leaving a crack of white light in the darkness that she’d just have to live with.

Given the sleepy nature of the village beyond the glass there was nothing else that would keep her awake. Even though it wasn’t quite six she was absolutely exhausted. There was no point fighting it, and honestly, it was a fight worth losing, Annja thought as she climbed under the covers and closed her eyes.

When she woke, the crack in the middle of the curtains was still white—or white again; it was impossible to tell. Her first thought was that she’d been woken by something because her head was still foggy and lethargic and her entire body ached. The clock beside the bed said six. That didn’t help; she’d either slept about six minutes or twelve hours...but judging by the fact her mouth was sandpaper raw and her eyelids scraped against dry eyes as she blinked, twelve hours felt more likely. She needed a drink, and despite her room service feast, she realized she was starving.

Breakfast came and went. By the time she’d finished, Annja felt decidedly more awake. Jet lag be damned, at least for a few hours until it caught up with her again and sleep came crashing down around her. That was the usual chain of events when she came off a long flight. It would take two or three days to get used to being on the other side of the world. All she could do was roll with it, which meant getting out of the hotel and taking a look at the museum, assuming it reopened today. Not that it would be open for a few hours yet.

But that didn’t mean she was going to sit around twiddling her thumbs; that wasn’t Annja Creed’s style.

She hit the books first, going through all of her papers that covered the village and surrounding countryside, highlighting things of potential interest, then cross-referenced them with the brochures the pub landlord had given her. The lobby carried the same range of brochures. There were enough things to keep her occupied for a few days at least without giving her time to develop itchy feet.

She thought about checking in with Doug, but a quick calculation was enough to know that even a workaholic like him would still be fast asleep.

She thought about reading a novel, but of the dozen they had on the wire carousel in what passed for the hotel’s guest shop only one of them caught her eye. The story featured a young aspirant seeking to prove himself by finding the unholy grail. She bought the book, then took a seat in the lobby and started to read. Annja had read three-quarters of the book, drunk three cups of coffee and was on first-name terms with the girl manning the lobby area by the time the museum opened for the day.

The museum was quiet. She couldn’t tell if it was closed or not as she walked up the road toward it.

Annja pushed the door tentatively, not expecting it to open.

It did. A small bell rang above the door, announcing what was almost certainly the first visitor this morning. She expected the staff to pounce, only too eager to explain the exhibits in an effort to stave off boredom. She’d visited enough of these places over the years to know there were two poles they veered between; there were those where the staff were just a little too keen, and others where surly staff viewed visitors as an intrusion sent to ruin their shift. There didn’t seem to be anything in between.

She saw a youngish girl behind the desk in the main room, probably a volunteer from the nearest university looking to add some summer credits. Behind her there was a display of books with faded jackets, and souvenir racks filled with postcards and faux-Roman trinkets. She smiled and the girl said, “Hello,” but that was all.

Another woman polished the glass of the new display case, Annja realized as she circulated around the room.

She came up beside the woman and said, “What happened?” looking down at the obvious emptiness where something had been on display up until yesterday.

“Oh, hello,” the woman said, almost dropping her duster in surprise. She seemed to recognize Annja. “Sorry we couldn’t let you in yesterday. We had a little trouble, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Anything that keeps us closed for a day is serious for us. We might not charge an entrance fee, but the money we take in for books and stuff makes all the difference in the world when it comes to what we are able to do. School parties, all of that, it keeps us afloat. That someone stole from us hurts because we’re all part of the same small community, but it’s these other losses that really hurt.”

Annja looked into the case and saw that there was a stash of small coins nestling in a terra-cotta pot. “What did they take?”

“Well, between you and me, that’s the strange thing. They left all these coins—not that they’re worth much, really—and took a grindstone.”

“A grindstone?”

The woman shrugged as if to say, Who knows? “I know. What on earth would a thief want with an old Roman grindstone? It’s essentially worthless outside the educational value, even to a collector. Next to the grindstone those coins are worth a king’s ransom.”

“Kids? Maybe the whole thing was about breaking in rather than taking any particular relic?”

“Maybe. The ridiculous thing is we were about to put it in storage, anyway. We’ve got limited space and much more interesting exhibits to take its place, but that’s life.”

Annja couldn’t understand why anyone looking for the thrill would steal something as heavy as a grindstone. It didn’t make sense when there were so many other more portable—and resalable—things close to hand, including the slew of coins in the same case, the collection of pins and brooches in the case beside it, even the “cool factor” of the old sword in the display case in the center of the room. It really didn’t compute at all, even if it was about the thrill. Maybe it was a dare? Break-in and escape with one of the heaviest treasures to prove their manliness or something? And yet one of the memorial stones or the stone sarcophagus would have been more difficult to remove....

There were plenty of items of interest—some large, some small—but what Annja loved about places like this was that each and every one of them had a story to tell. It was even more special when one considered they’d all been found locally, either in the town or nearby in Usk. Together they offered a fascinating insight into the people who’d lived and died in this area. She could almost hear the ghosts of the Roman legion marching down the street toward the amphitheater, a few good men so far from their own homeland. That was why she loved what she did.

The sound of her cell phone broke the silence of the room.

Both members of staff turned toward her, both smiling as she shrugged sorry.

The screen displayed Garin’s name. She hit the refuse button to end the call before it began. He could leave a message and she’d return his call—assuming it was anything worth returning—when she was done.

No sooner had the phone fallen silent than he called again.

She killed it on the first ring only for him to call back again.

“Someone really wants to talk to you,” the woman said.

Annja answered. “Persistent, aren’t you?” she whispered, heading back outside. “Twice in two days? Should I be worried or flattered?”

“You should be moving. Fast.”

“Should I now? Why might that be? Thinking of paying a visit, after all?”

“It’s Roux. He needs us.”

That changed things.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got to get to a place called St. Davids yesterday. I’m picking the old man up. We’ll be there by lunchtime.” His voice sounded strange and there was a noise in the background she knew should have been familiar.

“What’s going on?” She still found it slightly ironic that a man who was more than five hundred years old could call anyone else an old man.

“No idea, but something has really upset him. And you know what he’s like. He doesn’t upset easy. See you soon.” The call ended, leaving Annja with a growing sense of unease. Garin was right; Roux wasn’t rattled easily, so if something had got to him it had to be serious. It was equally unnerving that he’d used Garin as a messenger boy. What kind of trouble was Roux in?

Chapter 11 (#ulink_bd17bef0-d952-59ba-a16f-35aaecf906c8)

Annja was on the road again.

So much for being on holiday.

But weirdly, though, the thought of saying no never occurred to her; that was just the way it was. Garin said Roux was in trouble, what else was she going to do? She owed the pair of them more than she’d ever admit, technically everything her life had become. That the older man had recovered every shard of Joan of Arc’s shattered sword was down to Roux, and that she’d ever walked away from la Bête du Gévaudan was down to Garin’s timely arrival. The man sure knew how to make an entrance.

The manager of the hotel hadn’t batted an eye when she asked to extend her stay a week and paid for the room up front. Although he had cocked a curious eyebrow at her bags, she’d explained how she was making an unplanned detour and expected to be back in a day or two tops.

The landscape changed as she traveled. Mile by mile it became more mountainous and increasingly spectacular. She caught the occasional glimpse of the huge white turbines of wind farms as the road curved and coiled toward the urban sprawls of Newport, Cardiff and Bridgend before she reached the industrial landscape of Port Talbot. There she was greeted by a huge gout of flame blazing brightly from one of the chimneys of the steelworks. It was a different world.

Eventually the motorway came to an end and the road narrowed considerably. The cars around her slowed without any warning signs, their drivers used to the slower pace of life and the end of the motorway regardless of the speed limit. She followed the road from village to village rather than town to town; houses were dotted across the hillsides, a few huddled together in small clusters. She had to pull over to the side of the road more than once to double-check the map to be sure she was still on the right road as every few miles it became less and less convincing. The landscape, though, was breathtaking and more than made up for the permanent feeling of being lost. Lots of signposts she saw were in duel languages—English and Welsh—though the Welsh seemed to lack a lot of vowels. At last she skirted the fringes of Haverfordwest and picked up another winding road that would take her to St. Davids.

Her cell phone rang again: Garin.

She pulled over to the side of the road to take the call.

“If you take the second exit at the next island you’ll see a small private airfield on your right. If you pull in you can give us a ride.”

“That really is creepy, you know.”