The Thirteen Hallows by Michael Scott, Colette Freedman

but only barely so, a raw scream of absolute agony, high-pitched and terrible. It was coming from the direction of the stairs. She should turn and run, get the police, get help…but almost unconsciously, she stepped forward into the devastated hallway. There was a door under the stairs.
    “Judith?”
    Sarah stopped with her hand on the handle of the low door and pressed her face against the wood. The smell was stronger here, a mixture of blood and feces and something else…the stale, acrid odor of burned meat.
    “Judith?” Sarah asked, pushing open the door.

     
    “JUDITH…”
    The one-eyed man had turned his head; only the slightest sparkle in his single eye provided evidence that he was facing her. Had he called her name?
    “Why, Mr. Ambrose, why?” Seventy years and she’d never forgotten his name.
    “Judith?…”
    “Because you are the Keepers of the Hallows. The blood of the blessed flows in your veins, diluted certainly, but there. You are the descendants of those chosen to bear the Hallows and keep the land. Only the bloodline are worthy enough to keep the sacred Hallows.”
    Had he spoken, or had she imagined the answer, culled it from years of research into the artifacts?
    “Judith?…”
    The voice broke through her consciousness, shattering the images, pulling her back, making her feel the pain.

     
    “DEAR GOD!”
    Sarah clapped both hands to her mouth, feeling her stomach heave. The figure tied to the chair in the tiny cellar was barely recognizable as human; in the glow of the single bulb, it looked more like a side of meat from a butcher’s window.
    “Judith?” Her voice was a rasp, barely audible in the noisome closeness of the cellar. Sarah wondered how long the woman had survived the incredible agony. Shockingly, the woman raised her head, blood-filled eyes turning to the sound. Her torturers had spared her face, making the damage to her body all the more obscene.
    “Judith…” Sarah reached out to touch her, then drew back her hand, realizing that every movement must be agony.
    Incredibly the woman recognized her voice. Judith Walker smiled. “Sarah?” Her voice was a gargled mumble.
    “I’ll get the police…and an ambulance.”
    “No.” She attempted to shake her head and cringed with the effort. “Too late…much too late.”
    “Who did this?” Sarah knelt in the blood and fluids and worked at the thin wire bonds that secured the old woman to the chair. They had obviously been twisted shut with pliers, and in places the wire had sunk deeply into her flesh.
    “They came for the sword….” Judith’s voice was a thread now, rasping, sobbing.
    “The what?” Sarah eased a wire away, blood weeping from the torn skin.
    “Dyrnwyn, the Broken Sword. Listen to me. There’s a bag in the kitchen upstairs. From Tesco. It’s on the table, a shopping bag filled with notes and papers and what looks like a rusted piece of metal.” She coughed suddenly, fine blood misting the air. “Take them to my nephew, Owen…his address is in the bag.” Suddenly her free hand shot out, flailing blindly until it touched Sarah’s shoulder, bloody fingers biting deeply into the young woman’s flesh. “Promise me this. You must give it into his hands. His and no one else’s. Promise me. You must protect the sword. Promise.”
    “I promise.”
    “Swear it.” Her body was trembling now, shivering wildly. “Swear it.”
    “I swear it,” Sarah said.
    “Bring him the bag…and tell him I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
    “For what?”
    “For what’s going to happen.”

20
     
    Tony Fowler pounded on the wheel of the car. “I don’t believe it. She exists? There really is a Judith Walker?”
    Victoria Heath grinned as she replaced the radio. “There is. And she was burgled on Tuesday. Miller was telling the truth. We’ve got the call logged in at three fifty-five. Officers arrived on the scene at four twenty. They took statements from Judith Walker and ”—she paused for