Brynden
They rode hard up the Kingsroad after that… interesting time at the Twins. The Green Man had been silent after their time there, quiet and almost bitter. He had come close to asking why, but then had remembered what the older man had said about Walder Frey's father being ashamed of him.
The memories must have been thick for the man who had once been Ser Duncan the Tall. There were tales of his travels with the young Aegon V, of how they had criss-crossed much of the Seven Kingdoms when the King had been nothing more than a young Prince who was far down in the succession.
He looked at the road ahead and then found his thoughts skittering around Brienne of Tarth. She was down to earth, did not babble and she could fight. Gods, could she fight. They'd been attacked by one group of bandits a week before and it had been brutally one-sided. The Evenstar of Tarth had done a superb job with his daughter. He repressed a sigh. He had finally found a woman who intrigued him and who he could imagine being at his side. But he was older than her. A lot older. The Gods seemed to like piling irony on his head.
Well. Enough of that. The road stretched ahead and they were now in the Neck. The Green Man had sent a rider to make contact with the Reeds, who were somewhere to their North-West with their mysterious stronghold of Greywater Watch. He didn't like to think of a stronghold that floated.
Then he paused and sniffed at the air. Something was… different. Not wrong, but different. He looked at Brienne, who was also sniffing at the air, and then at the Green Man – who was no longer to one side. All the Green Men had stopped their horses dead in the tracks and were staring North.
He tugged on the reins and came to a halt himself, before swapping a baffled look with Brienne, who shrugged at him.
After a long moment the Green Man seemed to shake himself a little and then looked around. "Well," he said eventually, "Rickon Stark's mission has finally been completed, as was foretold. Or perhaps it might be better to say, as it was hoped."
This made so sense. "Rickon Stark? The only living man of that name is my great-nephew, who is just a small boy."
A smile came and went on the face of the Green Man. "Your pardon, Ser Brynden. The Rickon Stark I was referring to was born centuries ago." He seemed to take note of the confusion on their faces. "It's a long story, but one that I will tell you when we stop at mid-day. For the mean time let me just say that a great blow has been struck in our favour. That said, the enemy will know it and I do not know how he will react. We need to ride harder."
As they rode at a faster pace along the road he found himself thinking very hard and very quickly about the Stark family tree. A Rickon Stark who had been born centuries ago? What did that mean? Who were they talking about?
Tyrion
His mind felt… fuzzy. Gods, he was tired and when he was tired then he had trouble thinking clearly. The fuzziness just took over, making it hard to consider all the things that he needed to think about.
He ran his hands over his face. Well, things could be worse. Jaime could be dead. After a moment he pulled a slight face. Physically and mentally Jaime was still alive. In terms of his spirit however, something was gone from his brother's eyes, some spark or fire.
He'd watched the previous day as Maester Luwin had first cleaned and then sewn closed the wound on Jaime's cheek, which had been a deep one.
"I'm afraid that the scar will be with you for the rest of your life, Ser Jaime," the old Maester had confessed. "Even with fine thread and small stitches." Jaime had not said a word – he just nodded in response when he could.
And since then Jaime had just continued to withdraw into himself. Tyrion knew why – he had not just been beaten, he had been humiliated. Many of the Lannister guards were still talking about it – the judgement of the Gods, some called it, without really saying which gods. In a way it was helpful – his worst nightmare had been some loyalist idiot trying to free Jaime and Cersei by inciting the others to do something stupid. Fortunately, that did not look as if it was going to happen, especially with Uncle Gerion ruling over them with a rod of iron – or more like the voice of a Lord.
As for Cersei – no, he had no concerns over her. She'd always influenced Jaime, she'd always been a creature of hate and whim. She had been stripped of what she wanted most – power. She was no longer Queen, and some might say that that alone was punishment enough. He was undecided, but then her fate was not in his hands. No-one knew what was going to happen to her.
Jaime on the other hand would be sent to the Wall and the Night's Watch as soon as news came through of the truth about the wildfire. He was sure that Jaime had told the truth though – it wasn't the kind of thing that his dear but unimaginative brother would ever make up. No, a raven would come with confirmation – and then Jaime would ride for the Wall. Never to return.
His mind swooped like a drunk swallow for an instant and he clenched his fists for a moment and did his best to concentrate. Damn it, he was tired. Not enough sleep, too much to think about, too much to worry over.
In the past when he'd worked himself into this kind of state then the answer tended to be to retire to a high-end brothel, the kind with silk sheets and very clean girls and then book a room, a wine rack and a couple of very nubile female companions. That option was closed now, as Ned Stark would look at such behaviour with extreme disfavour.
Damn it.
No.
He sighed wearily and then looked at the report that he had been writing for Father. It was… extensive. He just hoped that Father would read it and not throw it away with a snarl and a growled question as to just what had he done to prevent the catastrophe that had just hit House Lannister.
Gods, Father was going to be furious when he arrived. This was the kind of scandal that not even Father could stamp out. The ravens were flying, with their tale of incest and treason and bastard children… and dishonour on a monumental scale. Worse – people would do the one thing that Father really hated. They would laugh at House Lannister. Make fun of them. Perhaps, oh the horror, make up a mocking song about the Queen who loved her brother so much that…
A chuckle left his lips and he shook his head a little. Woolgathering. No, this would never do. He had too much to do, although a nap might help. His head felt heavy, along with his eyelids. Gods, no, there was too much to think about. All the things that had happened over the past month, the Wall, the Nightfort, the battles, the Others, the Wights, the prophecies, the rides, the bruises…
Sleep was overcoming him and he really wanted to sleep now. Just a nap. Just something to stop the thoughts from swirling about, like pieces in a puzzle, but he didn't know what the shape of it was…
And then he came bolt upright in his chair, as awake as it was possible to get. "Robb Stark is the Boy who died and fell through time!" He didn't shout the words, but he said them forcibly, before looking around his room slightly wildly. Then he frowned. "Damn it, I should have worked that out weeks ago."
Sam
This place was an absolute paradise. Books. A sea of books. Books as far as the eye could see. Stacks of them, shelves of them, all over the place, on the tables, on the floor in some places, as people studied at their desks.
And they weren't dusty. Which still surprised him, but then there was a small army of acolytes who seemed to be always brushing things out of the doors.
He peered at the pile of books around him, ignored the gurgle of his stomach yet again and plunged back into the hunt. He was close, he hoped. Maybe today he would find what he was looking for?
The books were all about the earliest carvings and other paintings found in the Seven Kingdoms, especially the Reach. They were not the ones that he'd thought he'd need at the beginning of his time at the Citadel. The first books he'd read had been about Garth Greenhand, but he was such a murky creature, surrounded by legend and myth.
He had soon concentrated on everything that the Citadel had about the earliest history of the Reach – and the physical evidence that remained of it. And that had meant the carvings. The runes of the First Men, the cave paintings by the Children of the Forest, the first records, everything.
Of course a lot of it made no sense whatsoever. Many Maesters had written many books with their interpretations of how some of the runes could be read and few of them agreed on anything, so he'd looked at the original runes himself.
The problem was that runes were not the best way to express certain concepts, some of which were ones that could not be expressed in modern terms, and he suspected that there was just no way to properly translate those. Which worried him.
For instance there were the runes that told of some kind of burial of something that might not have been entirely dead. Whatever that was about, it seemed important. Then there were the runes about a hand of the… dog? But the ones that really interested him was the very oldest carvings. They had been found in a cave near Highgarden and they told of some kind of pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest.
He peered at the book that had the best drawings of the runes and frowned. They were old, very old. And very… peculiar. The dialect, the language… Perhaps it was the original language of the Children?
He pulled a slight face. He had always had a fondness for the tales that surrounded the Children of the Forest. They had been here first – long before the First Men. They had carved the faces on the Heart Trees. And… they might have smashed the Arm of Dorne. How, well that was a mystery, and a very interesting one at that, but magic had to be involved. And now they were gone.
Oh, there were legends about them. A sighting here, little more than a rumour, surely, a whisper there. There were those persistent mutterings about the North and even the Isle of Faces, but no confirmed sightings, not for centuries. And that made him sad. They had been a part of the land for thousands of years and now they were gone. He'd always hoped that perhaps, somewhere, in a deep part of the forests of the Reach, there might be a small group clinging on. Somewhere.
He'd once made the mistake of mentioning that hope to Father. It had earned him a clip about the back of the head and a snarl not to be such a fool.
There had been no such blows after the Call. Or the discovery of Otherbane. The look on Father's face when that hidden door had opened with a creak and a groan that had made him wish for some oil... and the moment that they had opened that chest to see the spear... Well, that made up for so many things. So very many things.
A door opened to one side and he looked over to see as Archmaester Ebrose walked in. "Lord Samwell," he said, somewhat distractedly, before walking over to look at the books that Sam was reading. "Ah. Interesting. How goes your research?"
"I might have an idea about these runes, Archmaester," he said carefully. "What if they are in the language of the Children of the Forest?"
The older man stared at him for a long moment and then sat down with a grunt and a grimace. "Perestan had the same thought. Sadly we do not have any idea of what that language was."
He pulled a slight face of his own. "I'm not so sure. These cave paintings... there's these runes on them. But some are older than the First Men, so they have to be by the Children of the Forest. In which case the First Men might have learnt runes from them, see? In which case there might be runes that we can't read because we don't know the language.
"But, then there's these runes that were carved in that cave near the Isle of Faces, that Archmaester Peronistan wrote about centuries ago. They had two sets of runes, one under the other. And we know that they refer to the Pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest. Now, I have heard that there's another set of twin carvings in the Hightower. If I am right, if the second set of runes is in the language of the Children of the Forest, then that might be enough to give us the beginnings of a start to work out the language that they spoke."
Ebrose peered at him and then at the books and then at the ceiling and then back at the books and finally back at him again. "Interesting," he said eventually. "Tell Perestan at once about this idea of yours." Then he paused. "It's a shame that you're the heir to Horn Hill, my boy, you have a very scholarly mind indeed. You'd make a fine Maester."
If Father had been there he would have been horrified by those words, but to Sam they were high praise indeed and he nodded with a touch of embarrassment. "Where is Archmaester Perestan?"
Ebrose's brows came down into a scowl. "Like so many others, he's puzzling over that message of Luwin's from Winterfell."
Sam's eyebrows went up. "What message?"
The old Archmaester looked at him again as a pair of bony fingers tapped the table. "How strong was the Call at Horn Hill?"
He remembered the moment that... that voice had boomed in his air and had near made him widdle himself. "Very strong," he muttered hoarsely, and something of what he felt must have shown on his face, because Ebrose nodded.
"How do you think it was sent?"
That was a good point and he had to admit that he didn't know, so he shrugged. "I don't know Archmaester."
"According to Luwin, the Maester at Winterfell and who has sent in a long and detailed letter about events there, it was sent via an artefact in Winterfell. Two to be precise. A stone called the Hearthstone and a bowl that has no name, just a rune. Those two simple things sent out the Call that made everyone who heard it look to the North. It has to be magic."
There was a certain twist to his mouth at that last word, one that made him curious – and cautious. "Is there a problem with it being magic?"
Ebrose let out a sigh that seemed to come from so far deep inside him that it might have originated in his boots. "Magic... a strange ephemeral word. It intrigues and irritates in equal measure." He waved a hand in the air. "Lord Samwell, the Citadel was created to keep the light of knowledge alive in these and other, darker, times. We are lanternbearers of knowledge. And it's hard to carry a lantern for magic, because it's unpredictable, unstable, hard to describe let alone to quantify... It ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes according to no discernable rules that anyone has yet been able to ascertain. It is, in short, annoying. Many here in the Citadel ignore it. But this Call – and the gate under the Hightower – cannot be ignored."
Somehow an even deeper sigh emerged from the Archmaester. "Marwyn wants to write a letter to Lord Stark, demanding that this pair of artefacts that sent out the Call be brought to the Citadel and studied, to be returned at some other, unstated, time. As he is Marwyn, and is a rude, uncouth, intemperate man, the other Archmaesters will do everything short of sitting on him to stop him from writing such a letter, as he would do little more than annoy the Warden of the North."
Sam thought about Marwyn, and his tongue, and paled a little. "Yes, that wouldn't be a good idea."
There was a scuffling noise and then a head peered around the door. "Ebrose! There you are. Perestan's looking for you!"
Ebrose stood with a grunt. "Well, that's a co-incidence. We're looking for him. Young Lord Samwell here has a theory that Perestan needs to hear."
The other Maester waved his hands in the air. "It'll have to wait! Lord Tyrell is in the city – Lord Mace Tyrell – and there is some kind of trouble at the Hightower!"
Willas
They started down the Roseroad again before dawn, in that eerie half-light that gave them just enough to see the path ahead to Oldtown. They'd stayed in yet another small holdfast, the guests of a rather stunned minor lord who had been torn between fretting at the lack of hospitality that he had been forced to offer and being happy that they had chosen his hold to stay that night.
They were a small party, just ten guards, along with Garlan and Loras. His youngest brother had been worrying him of late, due to his attitude, but Loras seemed to have picked up on his increasing urgency as they rode down that road.
There was a reason for that. With every mile that passed his unease increased. He had the feeling that something was terribly, terribly, wrong in the world somewhere and as the Sun rose in the sky as the closer they got to Oldtown the more that feeling increased.
As the walls of Oldtown appeared on the horizon, and the shapes of the Hightower and the Citadel beyond, he took a deep breath and hoped that the ravens that he had sent ahead had gotten there. He had sent some very specific instructions to the authorities of the city.
To his relief as they approached the Roseroad gate a group of horsemen rode out to meet them, some in the livery of the Hightower. To his relief he recognised the man who led them. "Uncle!"
Ser Gunthor Hightower smiled and nodded at him. "Willas – or should I say Lord Willas? It's good to see you nephew. All of you."
He smiled and was about to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue when his uncle said words that made his heart sink: "Your Lord father is in the City. He arrived some hours ago."
Damn. Father had made good time. He sighed and sagged in the saddle a little. "Where is he, Uncle Gunthor?"
"In the Starry Sept," was the grim reply. "Willas, your Grandfather is very angry about this. Thank the Gods you're here. We've heard how you have been taking the reins of the Reach from your father. He has no right meddling in this matter."
"And yet he is here," Willas said through gritted teeth.
"Father is the Lord Paramount of the Reach, Willas," Loras muttered. He was still more than a little sullen about Willas's decision to break with Father's ambitious – and to Willas ludicrous – plans. "It is his right."
"No, nephew," barked Uncle Gunthor, "Not in this case. The gate below the Hightower is the responsibility of the Hightowers. It is our duty to guard it."
Willas thought about the fact that it would have been a good idea to tell a few people about that duty, but bit his tongue. Then he paused. "Uncle, did the Gardener Kings know about it?"
"Of course." Then Uncle Gunthor wilted a little. "But the Tyrells did not. Damn it."
It could not be helped. "I must see Grandfather at once. I have to beat Father to the Hightower. If he is already at the Starry Sept then there is no time to lose."
Uncle Gunthor nodded. "Follow me!" He heeled his horse around and then galloped for the gate, with Willas and the others following. Down the streets they clattered, sliding and slowly here and there on the cobblestones, until they reached a larger road that had had a lot of wood chips laid down. "My idea," Uncle Gunthor shouted. "I thought that you might need to get to the Hightower in a hurry."
By the time that they reached the nearest jetty, where a boat manned by oarsmen was waiting, all in Hightower colours, Willas's feeling that something was terribly wrong with the world was redoubled. As he dismounted he pulled Otherbane out of its sheathe and slung it over his shoulder by its strap.
But as he sat down in the stern of the boat, with Garth, Loras and Uncle Gunthor around him, he could see that they were now in a race that they were doomed to lose. A small flotilla of boats were already on the way to the Hightower from the other side of the Honeywine – and one was flying the flag of the Reach.
"To the Hightower – stretch out! As fast as you can!" Willas said urgently and the men pushed off and then obeyed orders. The oars dipped on one side of the boat to align it with the current and then they were off, the oars flashing up and down at the barked commands of the grizzled little man at the tiller.
The boat was fast, the oarsmen were good, but there was too much of a lead on the part of those other ships. They made it to the main jetty of the Hightower first. Willas scowled a bit but there was nothing to be done. "Two silver stags for every man if you get us there as fast as you can row!"
The men cheered and then they redoubled their efforts, grunting as the oars hit the water and then pulling as if their very lives depended on it. The man at the tiller stepped up his shouted command of 'Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!" and the boat sped through the waves.
By the time that they moored at the Hightower's small harbour the men were panting at the oars and he pulled out a pouch of silver stags and handed them all two stags as promised. "My thanks," he said and then jumped onto the jetty, his brothers and Uncle behind him. Up ahead he could see a group of men at the main gates to the Hightower – and some were very familiar. Father was there, next to Septon Alyston, a man in very white robes that seemed to have something silver faintly visible on it. And then there was Grandfather.
Leyton Hightower was much as Willas remembered him, if with more white in his hair, but he could tell at once that his grandfather was furious. He was standing there, red-faced, speaking intently and jabbing with a bony forefinger at Father and the Septon. Father looked more than a bit abashed, but the Septon of the Starry sept looked like a man who was angry himself but trying to hide it. Behind Grandfather stood Septon Norry, a dignified man that Willas had always liked, whilst behind the Septon – were those stars that had been sewn into that robe? – there were a pair of rather large Septons who looked as if they had been chosen for the size of their fists rather than their piety.
"-this is the Hightower, Goodson, and the matter of what lies beneath our feet is the business of House Hightower," Grandfather said furiously, with another jab of the finger at Father. "This is not the business of the Starry Sept, nor of Highgarden."
"Lord Hightower," Septon Alyston replied as his nostrils flared, "You have a blasphemous and dread object at the base of the Hightower that has reduced many of your men to abject terror. It is, from all accounts, a thing of evil that must be cleansed." Willas narrowed his eyes as he walked up to the group. The Septon of the Starry Sept was a man who liked to stress words in a way that got up his nose. He'd never liked the man.
"Grandfather, Father, Septon Alyston." His words caused various reactions. Grandfather smiled at him, Septon Alyston scowled a little and Father… Father jumped a little, flushed and then looked both guilty and annoyed. "I heard heated voices on my way here. What is going on?"
"Willas – what are you…?"
He cut Father off with a nod to Grandfather. "Mother alerted me to the letter from the Starry Sept asking for help about this... gate. Apparently the Hightowers have been guarding it for centuries at the very least."
"More like thousands of years, Willas," Grandfather said carefully. "Your mother told you about it?"
Willas nodded sombrely, which seemed to reassure Grandfather whilst puzzling Father. The Septon on the other hand came very close to curling a lip – and then rounded on Grandfather. "Lord Hightower, whatever this thing in the Hightower is, it must be sanctified in the Light of the Seven. All of Oldtown is now talking about it – people are terrified of it! I insist on be allowed to cleanse it!"
On the word 'insist' the two Septons shifted slightly forwards – and then stopped dead in their tracks when a bristling Grandfather laid a hand on the hilt of his sword and then glared at them both. "Insist is it? You insist at the Hightower do you? You…"
The Septon paled a little as he seemed to realise that he had crossed a line – but then Grandfather's snarl faded a little. "Very well. Down you go. I'll allow you to try. I will watch you… try." And with that he nodded to a pale-faced guard. "Take the Septon down."
"Lord Tyrell, please join me as I cleanse this object," the Septon said after a slightly surprised pause, before sweeping off towards the Hightower, Septons in tow and followed by Father and his own men, some of whom looked rather uncomfortable. As for Father, he was starting to look like a man who had made a mistake – especially when he passed Grandfather, who eyed him grimly and then muttered that he would see him in his Solar afterwards.
As he followed Grandfather had a muttered word with Septon Norry, who had been looking at the Septon of the Starry Sept with something very close to open scorn and who then nodded and followed the main group. Grandfather gestured at Willas and the others to wait a moment and then led them into the Hightower as well, hanging well back from the others.
"My thanks for coming, Willas," he muttered. "Your support could be important. I knew that people were worried but, fool as I am, I never suspected that this idiot would use their worry to do this."
"The Septon?"
"Aye."
"He's been looking at raising the profile of the Starry Sept. There have been whispers of the Faith Militant here and some of the whispers have been leading to Oldtown. I will support you in all that you decide here Grandfather."
Grandfather nodded in thanks as they started down a long set of stairs. "The taller of the Septons behind that idiot in white? He has ties to the Faith Militant. I am heartily glad he came today, I will have him watched until he goes mad with nerves. As for your father… I thought that he was 'hunting'?"
"He was," Willas sighed. "It seems that he too is trying to raise his profile a little."
"Then he chose the wrong cause," Grandfather replied as they started down new and equally long staircase. "A pity. He normally is cleverer than this. I remember the wisdom of his Siege of Storm's End. He preserved his options by doing very little."
His eyebrows rose for a moment. Yes, he'd always wondered about that. "My discovery of the statue of Garth Greenhand and then the Tarly's own discovery of Otherbane… changed Father. I have placed him in the shade."
Grandfather looked at the spear at his back with an upraised eyebrow. "I am proud of you Willas." They had reached a new staircase, one with black stone – and it was then that Willas stiffened a little. He had the sudden feeling of imminent dread. Grandfather placed a hand on his shoulder as they walked down into the base of the Hightower. "You feel it then?"
"What is it?"
"The Gate. And we are not even there yet."
"Grandfather," Loras said uncertainly from behind them, "What is the Gate?"
"No-one knows," Grandfather said simply. "The Citadel is researching the history of the Hightower, but no-one knows." As they reached the bottom of the staircase he paused and looked at them all. "Be wary when you are here in Oldtown. I do not think that it is a co-incidence that the Septon decided to insist on this visit at a time when the Call is roiling Oldtown so much."
"It was strong here?" Garlan asked.
"Your uncle Baelor has left for the Shadow Tower, leading a small fleet of the best that the Hightower – and Oldtown! – can offer the North and the Wall. Knights, men at arms, builders, carpenters, farmers, loggers, hunters, cooks… Answering the Call."
There was a gate ahead of them, guarded by pale and sweaty guards, and the others had paused there. The Septons from the Starry Sept all looked at his grandfather with narrowed eyes at the mention of the Call. "Pagan superstitions," the tallest of the supporters – should they really be acolytes? – sneered, before Grandfather's angry face made him swallow and step back.
"Open the gate," Grandfather snapped at the guards, who leapt to obey him. "And you are relived."
The guards bowed and then all but ran from the room. Willas wondered why – and then he looked through the gates into the room inside and paled. There was a… a green and glowing mockery of a gate at the end. It was huge. And it filled him with dread. It filled everyone with dread, based on the look on the faces of the others. Everyone except for Grandfather, Uncle Gunthor and Septon Norry, who both set their jaws and looked at the damn thing with resolution.
They all walked – of in some cases shuffled – into the room. Willas stared at the... thing. There were runes carved into it and there was also a noise like… "Is there something on the other side of that thing?"
"We do not know," Grandfather sighed. "But it seems prudent not to allow whatever it is access."
A silence fell, a silence broken only by the faint boom – boom of whatever it was beyond the gate. Loras was very pale, as was Garlan. After a long moment Septon Alyston seemed to rally a little. "Ah," he quavered. "A heretical blasphemy of the First Men!"
"We do not know who made it, or what it does!" Grandfather snapped. "Do not be a fool man! There is no congregation here for you to bluster to!"
The Septon glared at him but then pulled out a multi-coloured crystal, which he held up in the air. "Brothers," he said to his attendants, "Attend me! I will cleanse this dread object with the power of the Seven-Who-Are-One!" And with that he started to intone a prayer to the Seven whilst stepping forwards almost ceremonially.
"This should be interesting," Grandfather said as he watched. "The closer to that gate you get, the more fear you feel."
Willas took a step closer to the gate himself and then swallowed. Yes, the sense of dread did indeed increase. Then he frowned. "Grandfather, what is that wooden marker on the floor for?"
"That? That marks the closest you can get to the damn thing before you void yourself these days. A year ago you could walk up to it and touch it with no more than a vague sense of unease. Now – the closer you get the more you want to piss yourself with fear."
The Septons seemed to hear him and then pick up the pace a little as they walked slowly towards the gate. The Septon of the Starry Sept was still praying rather theatrically, his voice booming in the room. But then Willas noticed something. As they got closer to the gate the higher the Septon's voice seemed to be getting. And the prayer was getting faster, some of the words starting to bump into each other.
As they got to within six feet of the wooden marker the prayer was in danger of becoming a gabble. All three of them were pale and white-faced, with sweat starting to pour down their faces as their eyes started to take on a slightly wild look. Another step. And another. The hands that held the crystal were shaking opening now and the prayer was almost incoherent.
Another step. And another. Almost to the wooden marker. The prayer was now just a random jumble of words. And then the taller of the acolytes stopped dead in his tracks, his head twitching violently. There was a sudden spatter of something liquid – and then he turned on his heel and ran for the doors, a look of utter terror on his face, slipping and sliding on the foulness that was dribbling down his legs.
"Follow him and keep him safe!" Grandfather bellowed. "And bring mops and water for the floor!"
Willas paid the flight of the man no mind – he was staring at the remaining two Septons. Both were trying to shuffle forwards, their heads twitching. The Septon of the Starry Sept rallied for a moment, because all of a sudden a few coherent words emerged from his mouth. Another step, beyond the marker. Another – and suddenly Grandfather had a hand on his shoulder and was squeezing almost painfully.
Another step took the two men forwards. And then the other acolyte seemed to bend in the middle and then sink to his knees, sobbing at first and then letting out a long wail as he collapsed bonelessly in a heap and clawed for a moment at his head, before he seemed to shake like a leaf, his head thudding against the floor until the blood spattered everywhere.
Willas took a horrified step forwards, but then Grandfather pulled him back. The Septon of the Starry Sept was still upright. Another step – and then the crystal fell from his hands and smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor. The Septon reeled, his impetus taking him forwards – and then he screamed and clawed at his face with his hands. He was making horrible, horrific noises as something spattered on the floor, and then even more noises that seemed indistinct, as if the man was chewing off his own tongue. And then he stiffened like a board and fell face forwards onto the flagstones with an audible crunch of something or something breaking.
That noise broke the spell on the room. Screams went up from various guards. Willas darted forwards – and then reeled back as fear rippled through him like a black wave. Garlan and Loras also moved forwards and then back.
As Willas swallowed and tried to regain his nerve someone else moved forwards. Father did not stride, he ran towards the Septon, his face set in a look of the utmost resolution. He did not waver, he did not seem to even think about what he was doing – he just ran. As he reached the wooden market though he reeled for a moment – but then he pressed on, his hands over his ears. What was he hearing?
As he reached the motionless form of the prone acolyte Father seemed to stumble and went down onto his knees, but then he reached out with violently trembling hands, grabbed the leg of the man and pulled him with a strength that surprised Willas. The Septon slid backwards, past the wooden marker, and that seemed to snap Grandfather and Septon Norry out of their paralysis enough to run forwards themselves and pull the motionless man back to safety.
Father turned to Septon Alyston and then reached out again. Just short. He leant forwards again – and then he screamed and slammed his hands over his ears again, before collapsing and shaking.
"Father!" Willas shouted and tried to dart forwards again, only for the fear to roil through him again. He snarled at his own weakness and then reached back to shove Otherbane into a more comfortable position – and then as his fingers met the shaft the fear vanished like a wave receding. He froze in shock – and then he pulled the weapon off his back. No fear. What was this?
No time to think about this. He ran forwards himself, ignoring the cries of fear and warning from the others. He reached Father and pulled him up. Father's face was drawn with horror – but he was alive, if palsied. Willas pulled him back towards safety, making sure that he never let go of Otherbane, back to where Grandfather and the others could grab Father, who pulled him even further back.
"Is he alright?" Loras asked. "He saved that other Septon. What about the Septon of the Starry Sept?"
Willas turned back and walked back to the damn fool who had caused this disaster – and then he paused. The pounding noise had stopped. And then someone wailed in horror. The bloody man was starting to stand jerkily. He was alive? And then the world seemed to pause and stand still for a long moment as the Septon of the Starry Sept turned his head in a way that no living man should have, as if his backbone was made of jelly. His eyes were gone, bloodied holes in his face above a smashed nose and shattered teeth. And yet, something seemed to glitter, like wet and malformed eyes, deep in those bloodied sockets just for an instant.
The mouth of the Septon gobbled something before the head wobbled back towards the gate – and then the body of the Septon took a shaking step towards the glowing artefact.
"What in the Seven Hells is that thing?" Someone shouted the words that Willas was thinking. The walking corpse took another step forwards – and then the gate seemed to shake so hard that dust fell from it. Boom came the noise from it, Boom, BOOM.
Willas gripped Otherbane in both hands as he looked at the gate – and then he blanched as something seemed to press against the stone that made up the face of it, as if solid stone had suddenly become like cloth. The shape of a hand appeared on it for an instant – skeletal with long nails. The thing that had been Septon Alyston gobbled something again and then stepped forwards again, bloodied hands reaching towards the gate.
"Willas – kill that thing!" Grandfather shouted.
He swallowed and then strode towards the shambling figure. Otherbane was in his hands and as he approached the Septon it seemed to be shining in a strange way. Something was pressing on his forehead and he blinked a bit. And then he drove the head of Otherbane into the back of the Septon.
The bloodied figure screamed – and then a face appeared in the gate. A face out of a nightmare. Cadaverous and yet with something that writhed under its chin. The face seemed to look at him and then it made a noise that was a cross between a noise and a scream. Willas pulled spear back and then struck again, deeper than before. The thing that had been the Septon of the Starry Sept screamed even louder – and then it collapsed bonelessly before the threshold of the gate.
Willas pulled the ancient weapon free, his brain filled with fire as he looked at the face in the gate. "Go back to the abyss that you were thrown into!" He bellowed the words without thinking, the words appearing in his head from somewhere deep within him that he had never known even existed. "You belong with the dead!"
The face in the gate screamed in a way that he could not describe – and then he grasped Otherbane in both hands and drove into the head of the Septon. The head burst apart into a puddle of foulness, as if the man had rotted to pieces at a gallop.
Something shuddered below his feet – and then the face in the gate vanished. The gate flickered for a moment but still kept glowing. Willas sighed, looked down at the rotting remains that were suddenly at his feet and then stumbled back to the others. All of a sudden he was terribly tired. And then as he reached his grandfather the sound of pounding at the gate started up again.