Celtic Fire. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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

      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 СКАЧАТЬ