Trials of the Hunt

Chapter 41

Gannon removed his dinner jacket and tie, shoes and accessories, and sat on the ground in front of the door.

"Did this happen with Padraig?"

Dillion inhaled and exhaled. "Padraig faced exactly one night of trials and abandoned them altogether. The Hall never got a chance to commune with him like this."

"How long ago was that?"

"Years ago. He's been pretending for a long time, Gannon. You haven't taken anything from him. You just made it easy for him to drop this burden he held for years."

Gannon didn't feel quite so bad about it now.

He closed his eyes, relaxed his mind. Rid himself of Tallis, the queen, tomorrow's luncheon, even his trials. He did as Sloane taught him. He listened to the Hall. With his eyes closed, he breathed in and out, measured and slow. Methodically releasing all the burdens of his life and replacing them with the Horned God's will, His Hall of Justice, and his own newfound responsibilities.

With each breath he took in the dank, musty scent of millions of years of hunters and huntsmen, their quarry and their will - the will to please the Horned God, to set the wheels of Justice to right. His breathing became slack, his shoulders relaxed and his head bowed. The Hall quieted and Dillion stepped around him, between his sitting body and the door. He circled him and felt the power of the Hall surrounding his brother. It was unmistakable, soothing and powerful. Gannon would be safe here.

His body glowed slightly as the column of the Hall's protection rose from the ground around him to the high ceiling. Gannon opened his eyes, raised his head, and looked at the great door in front of him. There was nothing to hear, but plenty for him to see.

The ancient wood moved in the hulking frame, swirled and spiraled, billowed and twisted with high pitched creaking and groaning, as if it had come alive. The lanterns which lined the hall dimmed and the flames flickered. Dillion turned his back and walked slowly to the entrance. This wasn't for him to see, to experience. It wasn't for anyone but the Lord Warrior. He would stand guard at the entrance to ensure no one else was privy to this most important message from the Hall to his Lord Warrior, as he would for a lifetime to come.

Gannon could see no faces, hear no words from the moving wooden relief. A great and ancient fire lit the night and warmed the lands. The brethren gathered and spoke around the fire and the light burned bright without aid. Many times a darkness would approach the fire and the warmed warriors would take up arms and repel it.

Soon those people, those warriors of the fire grew complacent in their victories. They became fat and weak, lazy in the warmth of the ancient fire. Darkened faces rose from among them, unseen and unchallenged. They convinced the warriors of their allegiance and slowly set to extinguishing the ancient fire. A warrior of new blood, one with few ties to the old warriors of fire, would stand against the approaching darkness and threatened its new hold on the ancient fire. He rose against the complacency of the warriors of the fire, made them see the error of their ways and threatened the dark forces from within.

He set about stoking the fires of old until the hidden darkness rose against him, destroying the few ties that bound him to his pledges. This young warrior who had saved the ancient fire, who had reignited the passion within the warriors of fire, had his inner light nearly snuffed out by one of his own. He was a husk of a being, and his work was not yet done. He remained alone before the fire, a shell of his former self. The warriors of the fire at his back, but lacking purpose.

Would he lament the great betrayal behind him or traverse the sea of sorrow that lay before him? The fire in the large oak door extinguished entirely. The relief stopped moving, leaving only the young warrior with but a sliver of light inside his near hollow carved body.