“Wait,” I said aloud, and Apple Jack stopped. “How did I not see that?”
"You mean that building surrounded by a graveyard?"
Yeah, that’s what I mean. It looks like a chapel. The cross on the roof was a bit of a giveaway. It wasn’t a cathedral or even a regular meeting house; it was a small gray stone-and-mortar job put together in such a way as to suggest that the mason had been in a hurry. Tombstones leaned left and right in the sodden earth and completely surrounded the chapel, giving the yard the likeness of stained and broken teeth. It was the most morbid house of worship I’d ever seen.
"I didn’t see it either. Maybe it was camouflaged? I have seen Druids do that before."
Oh, that’s true. That must be what happened. There must be another Druid around here somewhere, and that’s good.
"Nothing smells good though. I smell death."
How much? Is this just a vague uneasiness or do you actually smell rotting flesh through all the rain?
"I suppose it could be coming from the graveyard. But there’s something not right about it. Oh well, we’re just going past, right?"
No, I think we need to check it out.
"I think we need to live."
Come on, it’s just a chapel in the middle of a graveyard. Buried bones can’t hurt you. There’s probably someone friendly inside.
"What if that’s the lure? It’s not a place of refuge; it’s a spider’s web, Gawain! There’s a murderer inside who has a convenient graveyard to bury us in! Have you thought of that?"
Um. No.
"Well, you go say hi then, and I’ll stand out here and guard the supplies."
I dismounted and fed him an apple before casting camouflage on myself and my kit and drawing Fragarach from its scabbard.
A low fence that marked the boundary of the hallowed ground had a single open gate that led into the graveyard and pointed to a narrow path between the graves. Once I passed through it, I saw that the door to the chapel was ajar. Candles could be seen burning inside. I began to think maybe Apple Jack had the right idea when I saw that the door was ajar because somebody’s head on the floor wouldn’t let it close.
The head was still attached to a body, but it was a dead body with blue unblinking eyes staring at the door frame. It didn’t look like a member of the clergy; he was wearing a simple tunic of dyed blue cloth. I couldn’t tell anything more about him, including the cause of death, without getting closer and perhaps opening the door further to investigate.
But there might be someone waiting behind that door.
There could also be an archer waiting in ambush behind one of the gravestones. I dismissed that as unlikely almost as soon as I thought of it; ambushers rarely like to settle in for their long waits in the rain. Whoever killed this man was either long gone or still inside. I was betting the killer was still inside, or else he would have cleaned up the scene a bit.
The sound of falling rain prevented me from hearing anything else, but the same noise would disguise my approach. I crept closer until I was on the doorstep and could peer through the opening. I saw a bit more of the body. The right forearm and hand were draped over the man’s belly. They were covered with Druidic tattoos like mine.
I stepped back and considered. The floor of the chapel was stone and once I entered I would be cut off from the source of my magic. I was still centuries away from the creation of my bear charm, and our bodies can only store a little magic for a limited time, so I’d be able to walk in there with one spell and maintain it for no more than a couple of minutes before I’d be tapped out. The gamble would be choosing a spell. I tried to reason it out, because Druids are not easily killed but someone had clearly succeeded quite recently. If I went in camouflage, the killer would still see the door opening and might indeed be waiting for just such a signal. Speeding myself up would normally serve me well, but that advantage would be negated if I didn’t know from which direction the ambush would come and realized it too late. I opted for strength; if something zapped me or attacked after I entered, I would do my best to wrestle myself outside where I could tap into more of the earth’s magic. The dead Druid on the floor might have been trying to accomplish the same before he died. I resolved to keep close to the door if I could.
"You’ve found a dead body, haven’t you?" Apple Jack’s voice said in my head.
Yes.
"But you’re going in anyway."
Yes.
"I don’t understand why you’re in charge when you are incapable of making decisions in your own self-interest. “Oh, look!” you say. “A slain human! Instead of running away from this obviously perilous chapel, I think I’ll stick my neck in and see if it gets chopped off!”"
If I die, you have my permission to run away. Hush now and let me think.
Apple Jack had a point. There was no need for me to go in. Dagda’s cauldron wasn’t in there. But thanks to the bloody Romans and the spread of monotheism, there were precious few Druids left and I felt obligated to avenge this one if I could.
I paused for a full minute to listen. I heard nothing but the white noise of water on stone. I dissolved my camouflage and whispered a binding that would strengthen my muscles; I drew as much power as I could hold and then kicked the door open, charging in and looking behind it. No one there. I looked up; no one waited to drop on me from the rafters. I crouched and surveyed the rest of the chapel, cautiously sidestepping back toward the open door. It was a single chamber. There was an altar in the back of the chapel surrounded by candles, and a body rested on it: a second Druid, his tattoos clearly visible, and his arms folded over his torso and clutching a sword like a soldier.
“Hey, lad,” I called. “Wake up.” He didn’t move. His chest remained still, bereft of breath.
Dafydd’s claim that two Druids had left the Silver Stallion in recent weeks came back to me. Apparently they’d both met their end here. But how? I didn’t want to be Druid number three and I was operating on too little information. I backed out the door, grabbed the Druid lying there by his tunic, and dragged him outside with me for a proper investigation. The chapel was simply too creepy; someone had lit those candles recently, and I doubted the dead men were responsible.
I knelt beside the Druid in the rain. He had no visible head wounds—not even bruising. A purpling of the skin low on the right side of his throat, however, made me look for more; on the left side were four more marks. This Druid had been choked to death by a single large hand. Perhaps it had been gauntleted—but that hardly mattered. I’m sure the Druid hadn’t meekly accepted his strangulation. He must have fought back but it had done him no good. There was enormous strength behind those telltale bruises.
My hand trailed up to my neck and I speculated on how much protection the chain mail would offer against a hand like that. Probably very little.
I wondered if the Druid on the altar had been killed the same way. It was probably safe to investigate since the owner of the giant hand was obviously not in the chapel at present.
Stepping back inside, I noticed most of the candles around the altar had been snuffed out, presumably by the wind circulating through. The only illumination now came from the pillar of wan light cast by the open door, largely occluded by my own shadow, and a single candle in front of the altar. I was halfway to the altar when the strangeness of it upset me. If the wind had snuffed the candles, the one that was still burning would have been the first one to blow out. So what had put them out . . . ?