G.E. Graven’s
GROTESQUE 
~A GOTHIC EPIC~



CHAPTER 1


Awash in a still mist, the mountain forest seemed a perfect Eden. Clamorous birds fluttered in the canopy, and morning sun bled through the treetops, casting shards of slanted light through the haze. Ever so often, the mist parted for a wandering animal inspecting roots and grubs, only to swallow the creature up once again and become what it had been, an unbroken diaphanous wall. A single leaf spiraled lazily through shafts of sunlight, disappearing into the mist. Another leaf trailed the first, then another. The birds fell silent. 

And so it began. 

The mist began to churn with fleeing wildlife, and leaves, twigs and feathers rained from the trees as flocks of bright birds erupted skyward. The mountains rumbled and trees swayed as the earth tolled like a struck gong. At the peak of that ominous tolling, a stampede of hideous winged beings came surging over the mountain crest. Some, Cyclopes, towered tall as trees. Others, grotesque-like, stood no taller than might a human child. All wore battle dress, their membranous wings flailing in agitation, claws clutching swords and shields. By the thousands, the host of angels, giants, and grotesques poured down the mountainside together as one — a cascading avalanche of ruin. In the forefront of the roaring blaze, a band of angels with wholly black eyes led the descending multitude into the shadowed valley, carving a wide swath along the slope and pressing the forest flat. No living thing remained standing in the wake of that unholy legion. Then, as hastily as it arrived, the Pandemonium vanished. 

A new silence overwhelmed the ravished landscape, as complete as the devastation of only moments before. At length, the gong resounded as the earth began to groan with the passage of a second multitude. Across the mountain now came another legion of angels, clad much the same as the first horde, but unlike enough to warrant being classified as an entirely different species. These creatures resembled large men and women rather than demons; and though their eyes were equally black, they were more intent than incensed. 

The host of creatures paused on the summit of the mountain, surveying the devastation below. The lead angel, Michael, turned and spoke in a voice like a choir of thousands. "A deception is woven here — they remain!" Turning back to the seemingly abandoned slope below, he bellowed, "Semjaza, you shall have no peace! Undo your incantation! Cerberus! Araqiel!" There was no reply. "Show yourselves! By command of the Throne!" the angel roared. 

Two more legions of angels descended from the skies, their numbers nearly blotting out the sun before lighting amongst Michael’s formation. These were the hosts of Gabriel and Raphael. Michael addressed them, saying, "Semjaza and his legions are below. Cerberus has betrayed us as well, since aligning his ranks with those of…"
Abruptly, a fallen tree became the angel Araqiel, revealing her true form even as she hurled toward Michael. 
"Michael!" Raphael warned. 
Michael spun and thrust his sword in the air in a single movement. Araqiel came down on it, swiping at him with her sword and screeching even as his blade impaled her. She crashed to the ground and exploded into an angry swarm of dissolving dust flecks. "Semjaza!" Michael shouted. "Your deception shan’t exclude you from judgment." He stepped into a clearing. "Another gate shall be here," Michael exclaimed, thrusting his sword into the ground. Again, the mountain shook as Michael withdrew the brilliant blade, blood now spewing from a wounded earth. 

At once a scream rent the air, and what had appeared to be a boulder became the stumbling figure of Semjaza, clutching a gaping wound in his chest. "Cerberus!" He cried. "Break the sword! Close the wound!" As Semjaza fell, his spell broke and the landscape transformed. Where fallen trees and boulders had lain in disarray, now the legion of demons stood revealed — thousands of them — crouching on the ravaged mountainside. Instantly, one of them blazed upward along the slope of the mountain: a horrid angel with three dog-like heads, gnashing teeth and the whipping tail of a serpent — Cerberus. Winds gathered with tempest force, and clouds roiled in a quickly darkening sky.
"Ezequeel!" Semjaza cried. "The clouds! Break the sword!" Semjaza then rolled a brief distance, died, and burst into a cloud of dust. The host of Semjaza lunged forth in attack, following Cerberus up the mountainside toward Michael. Calmly, the three legions atop the mountain moved back, knelt and bowed their heads. A black vortex descended from whirling clouds, falling toward the earth. The ground heaved, and a rock rose from the bleeding wound Michael's sword had made. The vortex enveloped the rough stone and scoured it black, shaping and inscribing the stone in a fury of motion. From the chaos emerged a polished rectangle, etched upon its five surfaces with hundreds of rows of intricate circular and linear symbols. 

The emerging monolith turned Cerberus' advance to a rout. The attacking legion turned as one and tore back down the mountain, terror replacing the blood lust in their black eyes, but it was too late. The gate was complete. The fleeing angels slowed as though the air had turned viscous, slowed and then stopped even as they fought to escape. The whirlwind sucked at them, dragging them inexorably to its heart until each one had been swallowed by the monolith. When the last had disappeared, the heart of the monolith burned away, leaving a gaping hole through its center. The vortex ascended into the heavens and the clouds slowed their spin. In the silence, the angels could hear the hiss of steam rising from the new-made gate.

The smooth black monolith was seven feet high by five feet wide by three feet deep, every visible inch of it covered with verses in the language of angels and of God Himself. The glassy black surface of the monolith was as perfectly smooth as the best mirror, and the center hole was flawless in its shape, two feet across and gutting the stone widthwise. The stone seal was perfection.

The kneeling angels rose. Michael turned to Gabriel. "The remaining Nephalim are cloaked in the hills of Uhr." Gabriel stroked his sword and moved up the mountainside. "Gabriel," Michael called up to him. Gabriel looked back over his shoulder. "They must be slain by their own swords," Michael added, "by command of the Throne."
Gabriel turned again toward his destination and bellowed to his legion, "To the valley of Uhr! We seek the Nephalim! No swords!" Gabriel then blazed away with his legion.

"Michael, where has Azazel fled?" Raphael inquired with a voice of many.
"He has flown into the desert mountains of Haradan," Michael answered. "He has sworn an alliance with Lucifael. Azazal has promised her the Throne in exchange for the protection of her greater numbers." Michael inspected the hissing monolith, and then the two of them circled the stone seal as Michael continued. "And Batarel's many legions soon fill her ranks." Michael stopped and turned to Raphael with concern etched in his brow. "If they unite, then Lucifael acquires the numbers she needs to accomplish all that she desires — and she desires the Throne above all else."
Raphael roared to his angels, "We move against Lucifael!"
"She will be ready, but the Throne is with us! Make haste," Michael commanded of all. The remaining angels tore into the heavens, abandoning the standing seal.

And so the seal stood for nearly six hundred centuries, long since concealed by the elements and time as dust settled upon it, and then layers of dirt and rock. Encrusted within the Asian continent, it lay dormant as the decades chased one another like mating Chinese mayflies.

With the fall of the Watchers, those angels who looked after earthly affairs, only Man remained to oversee the good earth. And He did for many generations. Then, whilst tending His gardens, Man happened to discover the buried gate. Knowing it to be of divine origin, He cleared away the centuries and enshrined it, constructing a temple around it. For half a millennia more, He kept the artifact secret, worshiped it and fashioned His life around it — until the day came when He became learned enough to open the seal and yet remained foolish enough to attempt it. 

Central China – June – 1331

Hundreds of pigeons lined the massive roof of an ornate Chinese temple, clucking and pecking one another as they sought to lay claim to more of the sparse ledge space. Again and again, a single bird fluttered from the congested ridge, circled wide, and rejoined the throng, disappearing into the mass. Below the ledge, decades of pigeon excrement had streaked the stone surfaces gray and white. Statues of stone perched atop evenly spaced platforms protruded from the pigeon shelf. Each depicted a grotesque stone beast, four feet high and with membranous, bat-like wings. 

Some of these stone beasts were dragon-like, others part man and part beast, and still others were humanoid but primitive in appearance. Some crouched with wings splayed, some with wings tucked and folded, and then there existed various combinations of the two. Details of the statues and their random posture were so lifelike that they might have been living creatures frozen in stone. They thrust outward in all directions, lining the entire top of the temple. 

The temple itself was notably ancient, comprised of irregular stone slabs hewn a thousand years earlier. Eroded engravings depicting flying demons covered the outer walls of the structure, the most plentiful an icon of a dragon with splayed wings and wholly enclosed by three circles that shared a common center. Three arched entrances lined the temple face, the center arch standing higher than did those on either side of it. Three eight-foot stone carvings of winged lion-like beasts guarded the left edge of each of the arches, and engraved above each of the three arches was a distinct Chinese inscription. Altogether, read right to left, the completed passage could be rendered: ‘Flying Dragon Temple.’ 

Manicured gardens surrounded the temple as humped teak bridges bowed back and forth across a slithering brook. Beyond the Bonsai trees and boulders of the inner garden, orchards of fruit and nut trees and small groves of hardwoods gave way to wilder mountain forests. On the fringe of those arranged gardens and untamed woods, a China thrush perched in an ancient, native ginkgo tree, filling the air with tranquil tones whilst midmorning sunlight dappled paths and pools. 

A row of black-robed monks snaked from the forest, moving solemnly down the stone walkway leading to the building. They drifted like mist down the path with lowered heads and hands clasped before them. They filed silent as death into the temple. Inside, countless candles burned on every horizontal surface, and the sweet smoke of incense spiraled from perforated canisters. Candles and incense combined to lend a thick air of spirituality to the atmosphere inside the temple walls. The silken monks moved through three consecutive chambers, each chamber larger than the one before it. The last of these was vast and its concave ceiling reached high above the priests. Etchings of flying beasts encircled the dome of the ceiling. Countless intersecting lines and inscriptions marked its curved surface, appearing much like a detailed astrological map of the heavens. 

A perfectly symmetrical round hole had been cut into the polished floor in the center of the room. The pit was large, nearly thirteen feet deep. Like the floor of the temple, the cylindrical wall of the hole was smooth and polished, and in the center of the hole, fifteen feet below the temple floor, stood the stone seal. Even with the passing of sixty thousand years, the gatestone stood flawless and unspoiled as the day it swallowed the Watchers and a great part of the heavens. 

Four emaciated priests sat near the edge of the pit hole, with their legs folded and their robes pulled away from their shoulders to reveal narrow chests and thin arms, their decrepit condition  evidence of long periods of fasting. Sweat glistened on their necks and ribcages, and their eyes burned in the bottoms of sunken sockets as they sat like statues, deep in meditation. The procession of monks circled the four priests, then seated themselves shoulder-to-shoulder to form a solid wall around the priests and the pit. As more monks arrived, they formed a second circle, and then a third, until three concentric rings of meditating holy men filled the chamber. In the deep silence, the occasional guttering of burning candles echoed softly through the dome as the sounds of far away thunder. 

Soon three more priests entered the area. Two carried large candles and the third walked between them, this one garbed in robes as red as fresh blood. He carried an ancient, scrolled parchment in his hands. The three priests stopped behind the circle of monks, and the priest in red unrolled the scroll, revealing columns of Chinese writing. The parchment contained translations of the verses that were inscribed on the surfaces of the gatestone. 

Outside the temple, around its grounds, the only sound was the gurgling of the placid stream. The thrush took sudden flight, chasing a bee through the garden flowers. As the beak of the songbird snapped the bee from the air, there was an explosion, and instantly the dome of the temple shattered, sending stone shards hundreds of feet into the air. The concussion was so fierce that it stripped the nearest trees naked of their leaves and fragments of stone and human bones impaled their seared trunks. Enormous chunks of stone hailed down into the garden, snapping branches and pressing craters into the neatly raked earth. Billowing dust and ash raced over the grounds and rolled down the entire mountainside like a hyperactive pyroclastic cloud. 

What was left of the temple glowed with furious heat, cracking the stones left standing. And still, the temperature climbed, until the sides of the smooth pit at the epicenter of the temple liquefied like seeping sap. The seared trees surrounding the temple burst into flame. The unscathed gatestone stood out from the center of the crater. The hole at the heart of the stone turned thickly opaque with a bilious black fog, which began to roil and fume, spilling out of the gatestone like a viscous caustic cloud dense as sulfurous gases. 

The cloud rose from the crater and hugged the ground whilst it drifted beneath the lighter ash. It did not dissipate, but remained collected as a single boiling mass, blighting the garden greenery in its wake. Then, in an unscathed clearing, it stopped and churned in place for but a moment before rolling in upon itself and coalescing at its center. Arcs of light resembling a thunderstorm in deep cumulous flashed through as, deep within the mass, a form took shape. A shadow at first, it evolved to gather density and structure, and finally, flesh-tones. The cloud thinned to expose a nude woman with sprawling membranous wings. Her waist-length hair was red as crimson fire and fine as silk thread. Her eyes and nails were black as the gatestone face, which contrasted with her skin as pale as death. Her angelic beauty stood unmatched even by Eve herself. She was the Dragon, unholy Lucifael, and Mother of Hell. The materialized spirit of Lucifael spat in a voice of many women, "One! Two remain," she smugly declared, surveying the destruction. 

Around her, the dissipating brume revealed the landscape of a nightmare. The temple grounds were a smoking, corpse-ridden ruin. A field of blackness encircled the glowing remains of the temple, and the outer gardens lay flat and singed, dying of thirst. Steam lingered up from the stream, now black with soot and char itself. The Bonsai trees crackled, burning and occasionally one and another fell to ash and cinder where they had stood. 

Lucifael stepped forth and raked a dead pigeon from the ground. She caressed the bird as a caring soul. "Not yet, my dear," she whispered. "Come." The bird jolted to life, its head wobbling as if its neck were broken. She stroked it. "Indeed. Come back, little one." Its eyes eased open and locked with hers. It fluttered and she clutched its neck. She brought the bird to her face, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a thick sulfurous cloud over the struggling bird. Its feathers glowed yellow. 

Within the rancid plume, seeds of annihilation lay ahead for virtually every living thing on earth, for it bore a deadly germ vile enough to rot the face of Asia, and eventually, the greater part of Europe. The germ was Yersinia Pestis  — the very instrument of the Black Death. Lucifael grinned, instructing the bird, "Hear me, little one. Deliver unto Men my word — that I come soon to reclaim what is mine." She tossed the pigeon into the air. It circled and flew south even as Lucifael burst into a cloud of rolling ash, which then transformed into the likeness of a raven. The smoky visage tore across the grounds and dived through the hole of the gatestone. 

Clumsily and irregularly, the pigeon spiraled through the air along the mountainside and out onto the plain. Its shadow grazed the thatch roofs of a tiny settlement, fled across a field, and through a thicket of woods. Eventually, the bird found its way into the heart of a congested village. It fell into a seizure and plummeted towards earth, crushing itself against the slat wall of a building, whereupon it came to rest on the ground behind a fish stand in the bustling village market. As eve fell and the marketplace emptied, none noticed the dead bird, and in the gathering darkness, no one remained to see the sickly pale light that began to emanate from the carcass. 

The pigeon stiffened and grew cold, yet its feathers still shone with an unwholesome yellow glow. Just before first light, a pair of black rats happened upon the corpse. One rat sniffed at its gaping eye whilst the other smelled its anus, and both, finding the carcass fresh, tore into it. Yet, before they had finished with this gruesome feast, a man approached the fish stand, waved away green-backed flies, and slapped a heavy, milk-eyed fish onto the rough boards of the stall. The rats sped away, filled with the disease carried within the flesh of the bird. 

The rats were skillful scavengers, but more efficient still were the parasites that feasted unseen upon the rodents. The bacillus that had traveled to market with the temple pigeon amplified within the bodies of the rats, making them a living stew and witches brew of death for the fleas that infested them. Although not greatly affected by the bacteria, the fleas gorged themselves with infected rat blood, which they promptly regurgitated into the bodies of subsequent hosts as they prepared for the next meal. In the two weeks after the pigeon had fallen like manna into the rats’ marketplace warren, fleas spread the germ to every rat in the village. 

The rats began to die, forcing the fleas to look for healthier food. The disease, too, sought new breeding ground as it decimated the rodent population, and carried forth in the stomachs of billions of fleas, it found that new host — the disease moved to its next victim: humans. 

On this sweet and sunny morning, a young Chinese girl inspected tied bundles of black ginger heaped atop a produce stand a few feet from the landfall of the cursed pigeon. Pointing to a small bundle, the girl asked the old woman who ran the stall what she wanted for it. The woman waggled seven fingers in front of her toothless smile. The girl grinned, accepting: ‘twas a fair price. The woman retrieved the girl’s coins and held out the bundled roots, yet at that moment her young customer shrieked and leapt away from the stall. "A rat!" she exclaimed, her pleasant features twisting with distaste. "It ran over my foot."
The woman laughed, waving a lazy hand in the air. "Only harmless pests," she said, grinning. "They have become bold with so much food lying about, like pets almost." 

The girl reached out to receive her purchase, wishing now to be away from the old crone and her ‘pets.’ Feeling a stinging sensation on her ankle, she recoiled again from the vendor and lifted the hem of her long skirt to reveal a bare foot. She bent over in closer examination, frowning. In doing so, the wide straw hat she wore tumbled to the ground, where a passing merchant trampled it. Laughter burst from the old woman, who seemed to find amusement in the commonest of misfortunes. The girl’s sharp glance only increased the woman’s mirth. 

"If everyone were so unfortunate as you, we’d all be dead by dawn," she cackled. The girl, failing to see the comedy in this bleak philosophy, retrieved her hat and popped it back onto her head. The old woman’s laughter followed her mockingly as she stomped off and disappeared into the crowd with a bundle of ginger, a dirty hat, and a flea’s bite. The bite, small as it was, would prove large enough to swallow nearly half of the known world. 

In only a few days, the ensuing outbreak of disease swept through the Chinese village like a tsunami. The children, closest to the earth and to the animals and insects that crawl across it, were the first to sicken and die. The mortality rate of the infection was bone chilling, soaring to nearly seventy-five percent. The mild winter offered ideal conditions for the spread of the disease, and the coming warmer weather would be yet more devastating to humans, more bountiful for the bacteria. Although happiness in Hell is quite rare, in that moment of tragic human infection, Lucifael capered. Man was ripe. The warm conditions were ideal to offer Death a bountiful harvest, Death who stood ever at the ready wielding a honed and gleaming scythe like a seasoned hired hand poised eagerly to reap of the plenty. 

Those infected with the plague died abruptly, as the germ was thorough in destroying their immune systems. It attacked lymph nodes unto rupture, rendering them useless. The victim’s body had little time to defend itself before it fell, completely overwhelmed. Hemorrhagic blood pooled beneath the victims’ skin in black splotches, and their infected body fluids — blood, sweat, and wastes — carried a horrifying stench. 

The Bubonic Plague was one of Hell’s more clever designs. The breath of Lucifael was devious, and her desire was complete annihilation of her adversaries. Thus the plague was a chemical shape-changer: what it did not accomplish in one form, it achieved in others. The disease changed, and a second wave of infection danced its dark way across the field of human life, and then a third wave. The pneumonic plague infected the lungs of its victims and multiplied there so rapidly that the chest cavity of the hapless victim swelled and filled with blood within days of infection. Though some survived the bubonic plague, pneumonic plague took no prisoners. Worse, the infection was easily transmitted through a cough or a sneeze — death filled the very air. 

The third form of infection proved deadliest of all. Septicemic plague attacked the blood, filling every particle of body tissue with the wildly multiplying bacillus. Victims died within hours, their inside organs literally liquefied in pools of highly infectious blood. Like the lung-borne form of the plague, the septicemic infection was nearly one hundred percent fatal. 

The pestilence spread rapidly from its source and engulfed the countryside. Three-quarters of all surrounding villages and towns now exposed to the plagues were decimated within days. In the following weeks, hundreds of thousands of infected dead lay strewn across open fields because few dared bury them for fear of infection. The fly population soared, the rotting corpses fine incubators for their larvae. In the more developed areas of the country, the stench of blackened, bloated corpses was so concentrated that a dead village could be smelt nearly ten miles downwind. A mass migration commenced as tens of thousands sought refuge in remote, unsettled areas. 

Even in their panicked flight, travelers avoided established roads, which were littered with the rotting remains of people, sometimes entire villages. Rural roads were often blocked by fly-filled carts hitched to dead horses. Death and decay was everywhere. The Plague reigned, and men were its slaves. The Great Pestilence took more than thirty-five million Chinese lives in sixteen hard years, and still it was not sated. The plague marched silently into Mesopotamia and Asia Minor, laying waste to them as it had China, sweeping across entire continents like some vengeful, marauding horde. 
The disease coursed through every vein of Asian civilization, following trade routes that radiated out from the heart of Mongolia. The Silk Road, an ancient caravan route that carried goods of the East to the Mediterranean Sea, now carried Death’s appointed handmaiden toward Europe. Indeed, Death breathed over the land like a foul breeze, tainting the air with the rancid odor of putrefaction. Its unholy stench was ripe enough to anesthetize even the heavens. Thus it happened, as horrible events in history invariably do, that Lucifael’s message rang out across the lands — she would soon reclaim her own.








Chapter 2

City of Avignon, France - 1342

Situated on the banks of the Rhone River, Avignon was the Babylon of the West and the very heart of the Christian Empire in the fourteenth century, a city teeming with tradesmen and soothsayers, drunkards and craftsmen, soldiers and ambassadors, Jezebels and thieves. High ramparts encircled the town to protect it from outside invasion, but with so many people pressed together within its walls, adequate sewage disposal proved a daunting task, and a foul odor hung over the enclosed congestion like an invisible but quite tangible pall. 

The Popes’ Palace rose out of that sea of stench, towering over the land. Built upon a rock for which the Roman Empire had found no use, the looming configuration served as the cornerstone and pontifical throne of the Holy See. The enormous Gothic castle stood as the largest in existence, its fortified walls twelve feet thick and replete with battlements, towers, and arrow loops. The whole of the formation sprawled as a double palace boasting twin quadrangles. Its wings held massive halls, the larger and more significant of them being the consistory, conclave, banquet, and treasury halls. In the bowels of the edifice was a great cellar that housed seemingly countless gallons of wine extracted from rolling acres of papal vineyards and aged in ranks of immense wooden casks. In the heart of the castle were hellish hearths where tens of thousands of bread loaves a day were baked to feed Avignon’s Babylonian hoard. The Popes’ Palace was nothing short of a medieval monster scaled to magnificent proportions, a beast colossal. 

Within the palace there were squirming entrails of corruption, wealth, seated iniquity, power, and great authority, ceaselessly rolling and contracting. Invariably, the castle corridors teamed with cardinals and Curia officials, papal guards and squires, councilmen and lawmen, concubines with lowly gazes, knights and their lords, visiting dignitaries and their escorts, including distinguished relatives and private entertainers of the Pontiff. 

During the reign of Pope Benedict XII, twenty-four cardinals served in the College of Cardinals — Cardinal Blasi was its fiery wolf and disliked by most of the mainstay. One of the youngest cardinals, Jean-Francois Blasi, was a man of good health, standing tall and sporting a head of blonde hair. His most notable feature, disturbing enough, lay in his eyes, one a clear brown eye and the other a blind milky eye worthy of a devil’s return gaze. Only a few of the cardinals tolerated his company outside formal engagements, but a few were all that Blasi required — those cardinals with enough inner-circle influence to serve his needs. Mostly, they were Senior Cardinals who also served within the Pope’s Palace as overseers. 

‘Twas standard practice in Avignon for cardinals of higher stature to be assigned to oversee various wings, halls, chapels, and grounds of the palace. For years, Blasi was the overseer of the Great Cellar. The expansive hold, dug in 1337 and spanning the entire length of the wing housing the Conclave Hall above it, was a subterranean hallway. This enormous underground vault held hundreds upon hundreds of seasoned kegs aging some of the finest wines in Europe. Blasi was responsible for nearly every aspect of their production, grape to keg, including the subsequent storage and safekeeping of the wines. Generally considered as an appointment of grand importance, the winery was responsible for a good portion of the annual revenue of the Papacy. 

Thus, most of those about the palace considered Blasi to be the ‘Cardinal of the Wines.’ Moreover, every connoisseur knew that befriending Blasi was to befriend the Great Cellar. Cardinal Raulin Toussain, the wiry unto being gristly overseer of the Palace Pantry and Boteillerie (the Bottle Storehouse), and the very obese yet delicate Cardinal Lilo Julin, master of the Kitchens and Banquet Hall, considered themselves epicures, and thus each had made certain to cultivate the friendship of the Cardinal of the Wines. Blasi knew well enough why these two courted him, but nevertheless there was at the least an obvious brand of camaraderie amongst them. 

Unlike the much larger College of Cardinals, the Council of the Apocrypha contained only three cardinals: Cardinals Hadour Xavier, Senior councilman, Avit Basiliste, the eldest and most frail, and Edmard Lean, the youngest and most recently appointed of the body. Cardinal Xavier’s service ended with the discovery of his nude and decapitated corpse. A peasant boy discovered his remains in a thicket alongside a road west of Avignon. Scattered in the brush about him lay the remains of his guards, their bodies equally defiled. His murder remained an enigma, and before the rumors of the murders grew stale, Pope Benedict died as well. Though several cardinals insisted that Benedict had been poisoned, and that the string of murders were somehow part of a larger political conspiracy, such speculations were never substantiated. Blasi was closest to the papal wines — and a tyrant to boot — and many suspected him of the poisoning. None were bold enough ever to confront him for fear of his fiery temper, however. 

Less than two weeks after Benedict’s state funeral, the French-dominated Conclave hastily elected another Frenchman, Pierre Roger de Beaufort, who was fifth in succession to the Avignon Papacy. De Beaufort was christened Clement VI. Most of the usual dignitaries were present for the election: the College and Council cardinals, the Secretary General, the Vicar General and Vice-Regent, chief papal officers of the Kingdom of Naples, the more distinguished Bishops, and all the bevy of hangers-on such an assemblage required. An envoy from Philip VI de Valois, King of France, was notably absent, having arrived too late to attend the ceremony. 

The power of this election rested overtly with the College of Cardinals, but as only a few living men knew, the true power of pontifical persuasion lay in the hands of a mere few — namely the Council of the Apocrypha. Over the centuries, the College of Cardinals had evolved its role into an electing body of the Church, now serving the Holy See in much the same manner as any parliamentary organ serves its overall organization. In contrast, the Council of the Apocrypha was a small, veiled and purposefully unrecorded papal body wielding an authority that easily rivaled that of the College. The cardinals of the Apocrypha suffered no dominion, save that of God, and were accountable only to His chosen representative on earth — the Holy Father and Pope. 

The Apocrypha was composed of two distinct levels — the Upper and Lower Councils. The Upper Council consisted of the Pope and the cardinals he appointed, who in turn supervised the abbots and monks of the Lower Council. Since the time of its inception, membership of this Council had varied between sixty and sixty-six members, each appointed by the Upper Council. Appointments to the Council were for life, and new members were given charge only upon the death of an existing appointee. The two of the original three cardinals of the Upper Council — Basiliste and Lean — resided in Avignon in the villa Chateau Rouge. However, the members of the Lower Council were divided evenly between two equal and remote monasteries in the hinterlands of France and Italy. These were the Abbaye des Gardiens, located in the hills of Auvergne Province in France, and the Monastero del Cancello, situated in the mountains of Italy’s Molise Province. 

The Gardiens Abbey of the Lower Council fell under the direction of its resident Abbot, Vonig, whilst the Cancello Monastery in Italy fell under the direction of its resident Abbot, Domingus. Both Lower Council Abbots reported only to the Upper Council cardinals, who reported solely to the Pope — and in secret. These isolated monasteries considered themselves Benedictine, yet were not governed in accordance with Benedictine Monastic Rule. They had become an order unto themselves, which was neither Benedictine, nor Franciscan, nor Cistercian. For centuries, these monasteries had remained disjoined from the monastic rule and fell under the exclusive control of the Council of the Apocrypha. The Council and its two monasteries, with its esteemed circle of servants, were outwardly a kind of ‘holy ghost’ guarding the most ghastly skeleton of the Papal Closet. However, few secrets escaped Lucifael — those of the Council, in particular. 

Thus, whilst Lucifael decimated Asia with her breath-of-death, she was equally occupied with Europe, deceiving two of its nations. Through marriage, France and England crossed royal bloodlines. In short, a king died and England had rightful claim to France — but the devil lay in the details. Nevertheless, the entangled kingdoms found themselves at an impasse and the bell tolled, ringing in of the Hundred Year Wars. The very first of these battles, which would prove to be the most horrific in history, played itself out on French soil and would forever be called the bloody Battle of Crecy. Many would bear witness to the horrors that came to happen on the muggy August afternoon of the battle. 

Crecy-en-Ponthieu, Northern France - August 1346

Only remnants of the storm remained. Thunder rolled off to the west, and lightning lanced into the distant hills. A luminous black raven settled amongst the wind-warped branches of a splay oak, disturbing a few battered leaves. Its black pupils swelled and contracted, cold and mechanical, as if some machine governed the pitch-dark eye. The raven rocked its head and cawed at the retreating thunderhead twice, and then again. Below the oak perch, a column of French soldiers sloshed along a muddy rutted road. 

The Frenchmen — most of them peasants whose hands were more accustomed to wielding axes and pitchforks than swords — were marching to war through the sodden hills of northern France. Their newly crowned king, Philip VI, had told the English dog, Edward III, that France would never share the throne with England, or anyone else, for that matter. France, Philip decreed, was sovereign, and its throne was his alone. Responding to Philip’s cavalier claim with a fit of rage, and thenceforth determined to unseat him, Edward carved a path through France, burning entire villages in his wake. He was intent on inflicting enough injury to force Philip’s downfall, for those within his own ranks to unseat him. When news reached Philip of Edward’s brazen attack, he gathered many of the French lords to march against the invading intruder. 

Philip’s call to arms was so great that Edward, now confronted by the massive French force on the plains above Crecy-en-Ponthieu, refused to engage him and fled north toward Calais. The French were confident and very much anticipated a hasty victory. Philip’s force was enormous, composed of the armies of many lords, and even if made up of mostly peasants, they were more than thirty-five thousand strong and outnumbered the English three to one. The French lords and their knights, however, were easily distinguished from the host of farmers and tradesmen. They were well-mounted, carrying banners and sheathed in heavy armor, and they had the proud bearing of noblemen and the grim determination characteristic of veteran soldiers. 

Long swords, maces and shields clanked against armored mounts, and ranks of pikes bobbed amongst the orderly columns of foot soldiers marching behind crossbow wagons that lumbered over rutted terrain. A thousand saddles creaked; a thousand horses blew and stamped. Shouted commands were relayed from rank to rank as pockets of men sung of the fields and the harvests they had left behind. In the wet August air, the sounds of war made a requiem for men who marched stonily toward their fates. Although the soldiers were brash, presuming a hasty and decisive victory and the taking of many English prisoners, deep within them ran a great unease akin to that of skittish hogs on the eve before slaughter. The shared state of mind betrayed a distinct level of nervousness, spawned more of incorporeal premonition than of any concrete estimation, a dim yet thoroughly distracting awareness running deep through these men’s bones — a sense of impending doom. Even the battle horses discerned the very marrow of it; however, the same luminous black raven, perched well above the battlefield in the gnarled oak, apprehended it best of all. ‘Twas the unseen presence of the Devil herself, and in her company but unseen was another ready angel — Death. 

In the midst of the column of soldiers, two heavily armored knights with armored horses moved shoulder to shoulder. Over their breastplates hung sleeveless jerkins embroidered with identical emblems. The same insignia decorated their saddle blankets and shields. The knights rode under the banner of Lord Amelet of Laon. They were brothers separated by six years who bore the coat-of-arms and distinguished sir name of Blasi. Jean-Jacques and Jean-Rene were the youngest of the three Blasi brothers, and the eldest was Jean-Francios, revered Cardinal of the Wines. 

Unlike Jean-Jacques, an unbridled man, Jean-Rene lived with his wife, Alsae Blasi, and his only son, Michael Blasi, in a chateau on the respected Blasi estate located on the northern outskirts of the town of Reims. Jean-Francois resided in a large papal-owned chateau, the Chateau Rouge, in Avignon. He shared the two-story chateau with several other papal dignitaries, their lavish apartments combined under a single roof. 

Jacques bit the last meat from an apple and tossed it at his brother’s helmet. The core struck Rene’s raised visor and slammed it shut. Rene snapped it up again, exposing a bitter brow yet holding a forward stare. Jacques laughed and leaned forward on his horse for better inspection of his brother’s stubborn expression.
"Come now, Rene," the young man said with a smile. "Laughter raises the spirit before battle. I’m not King Edward, Le Petit!" Jacques slipped a fresh apple from a pouch draped at his side. 

Rene responded coldly. "The men are not prepared for the charge. They are weary from the march."
"I shall run the English into the sea!" Jacques proclaimed, raising his apple on high. "I shall shove an apple in Edward’s mouth and hurl him back across the sea. And since I am your kind brother, Rene, I shall capture an English squire for you," he added with a chuckle before biting a chunk out of the apple.
"They shall position themselves defensively and be prepared for the charge," Rene stated.
"They shall be tired as little girls," his brother countered. "They have seen days of battle. They shall throw down their arms in surrender at the sight of our numbers."
"They shan’t surrender. Both Edward and his Black Prince are with them. Their army shall defend them to the death. You speak foolishly, brother."
"They are tired," the younger man insisted. "They shall surrender. You are the fool, Rene. I shall remind the fool of whom he is after the battle, if there be one."
"You have orders, Jacques. You shall follow them, as will I. His Majesty’s marshal has ordered every banner rest until the men are fresh from a day’s march."
"Look about you, Rene. Look in their eyes — at their spirits! They shan’t rest. Their blood is hot. They shall attack, against orders, even," Jacques replied.
"Many of these men have never tasted battle as we have," Rene reminded him. "And we are bound by orders from Lord Amelet, whose banner flies for His Majesty." Rene spat. "We have orders to rest. We must not move against Edward until we are given the order to move." 

The two men looked over the slow-moving army as a short silence fell between them. The column seemed to extend itself through the uneven terrain forever before and behind them. Jacques turned to Rene, his face twisted by disgust, and said to his brother, "If these simple men place their lives before the Englishmen, most without shield or armor, then so shall I ride and defend them. True to France, so shall any knight. We serve France, and these men are France — I shall defend them!"
"You swore an oath, not to be broken." Jacques stared forward as though he did not hear Rene. "Damn you then, Jacques." Rene growled, snapping his face guard down.
Shortly, Jacques asked, "Shall you ride with France, as well?"
Rene raised his visor and replied, "You have lost your balances, Jacques." 

Jacques grimaced and repeated the question. "Shall you?"
"You’re no knight — an armored fool only."
"Shall you, then?" his brother repeated.
"I shan’t confess to Jean-Francois that I was not beside his foolish brother in battle."
"Yes," said Jacques. "‘Tis as he said: The cross rides with both of us, or with neither."
"Indeed it does," Rene sighed. He turned to Jacques and scolded him. "You leave me little choice. You enjoy that, yes?" Rene’s frown fell away, and finally a small smile crept into its place. "I shall ride with the Fool of France." Jacques laughed and leaned toward his brother. "Look about you. I know men’s hearts, Rene, as do you. These men shan’t rest until they throw Le Petit into the sea. The victory is already ours. Soon enough, we shall have Edward’s head — and his throne. Show our cardinal brother’s cross, that we may charge to victory!" 

Tossing the apple aside and slipping off his helmet, Rene pulled a fine golden chain from beneath his breastplate. It supported the considerable weight of a gem-studded crucifix that had belonged to his elder brother, Jean-Francois Blasi, and was since blessed by the late Pope Benedict XII himself. Francois had insisted that Rene and Jacques carry it with them in every battle. As the moment dictated, it was Rene’s turn to wear the Blasi cross. This was a part of the reason Rene felt compelled to join his brother if Jacques charged. He would not leave his brother to face death alone, and without the cross. Nor would he leave the French army to fight the battle on its own, no matter how foolishly united. He was equally dedicated to his countrymen and to his brother, if in different ways. Both he would defend. Both he would honor. Rene leaned over the side of his horse and handed the cross to Jacques. Jacques kissed the cold metal, bowing his head slightly in reverence. A crash of thunder resonated over the countryside. Jacques laughed and welcomed it as a good omen. Above them, in the boughs of a squat oak, the luminous raven stirred with fluttering feathers. It bolted from its perch toward the northwesterly horizon, toward the armies of the English. 

"In the name of the most high Lord and Saint Denis," Jacques murmured with stony severity. Rene squared back on his horse and repeated the same reverence. He returned the crucifix to its place upon his breast and pulled his helmet on.
Horsemen raced down the column of armies, shouting, "Make ready! Ready your weapons!" The column lunged forward. 

Philip’s army had caught up with Edward, who now had little choice save to turn and fight. The English king had aligned his mounted knights and pikemen on a wide hill near the village of Crecy, archers ranked behind and in front of them and yeomen waiting beside more horses at the rear. Edward held his command from within an occupied windmill atop the hill. 

In a short space, whilst continuing in the direction of northeast, the agitated raven covered an expanse of roughly tilled earth and dived into a secluded thicket, hidden by a scant ridge. The bird’s luminous appearance lit heavily amongst the thistle and yew, its harsh call startling a young English archer who stood relieving himself in the lee. "An untoward sign on an untoward day," the archer whispered, staring at the raven. It seemed to the man that the bird saw him, indeed saw into and through him, and its unnatural gaze pierced his soul. He buckled to his knees, clutching his head as if attempting to keep it from exploding. He huffed and moaned, crumpling to the ground before dying. The bird shrieked and fluttered wildly before it too fell to its death, dropping into the undergrowth in a feathery convulsion. 

As the bird’s dead form hit the earth, the dead archer’s eyes snapped open. He lifted himself from the ground and scanned the hollow. The whites of his eyes were washed away, now shiny and black as a raven’s feathers. He retrieved a longbow that stood propped against a tree trunk, and with a full quiver of arrows slung across his back, he left the grove more filled than he had entered it. Even with his bladder emptied, his heart was brimming — brimming with the black evil that boiled in his unbeating breast. He broke through the thicket to a rigid formation of nearly a thousand archers flanking five hundred men-at-arms. The formation stood positioned atop a point overlooking a shallow valley to the east. Behind them and to the west, thousands more soldiers waited in two perfect squares. The archer took his place amongst the ranks. 

Just as Jacques Blasi had predicted, the French army charged recklessly into the fray before their commanders could restrain them. In the valley, a disorganized mass of shouting men-at-arms, spearmen, Genoese crossbowmen, and mounted French knights rushed toward the ridge occupied by the English. There was no order to the melee, and the men were knocking one another to the ground in their bloodlust, some even impaling themselves by their own inept hands. 

On the English side of the hill, the soul emptied soldier passed between long rows of archers who held longbows high and drawn.
"Steady! Hold," roared a voice of authority.
The living archers, seeing the blackness of his eyes, poured back, their ranks rippling in twain as a parting Red Sea. Stricken, the men whispered to one another, "Move ‘way! He’s the Devil in him!" None moved to stop him as he turned among ranks and marched down the ridge, leaving the English and their position behind him.
"Archer! Return to your post!" The bellowing order came from behind the ranks. The voice was that of Lord Clifford, certain in its power of command, and yet the archer maintained his slow, sure course down the hill. Behind the English formation, gray skies broke and the afternoon sun pierced the clouds. With the sun behind the English, the approaching French forces stood blinded. 

From his station amongst his own bowmen, the Earl of both Warwick and Oxford called, "Lord Clifford, return your archer! Lords, hold your men on the mark!"
The devil-archer slipped an arrow from his quiver, and without breaking stride, drew it deep into his longbow. His black eyes lay fixed on two bright specs near the far end of the valley.
"Archer! Return or be felled from behind," Lord Clifford demanded. The archer continued down the ridge, his dark figure thrown into eerie relief against the chaos of the advancing Frenchmen. Clifford moved his horse forward, followed by his bannerman. He stopped beside one of the archers, growling orders to drop the lone warrior where he stood.
"From behind, my lord?" The bowman asked uneasily.
"I order you: step forth and drop that man! Do it now, archer," Clifford hissed, gesturing furiously toward the retreating figure.
"Indeed, my lord." The archer bowed and moved to a clear position. He drew back an arrow, tested the wind, and launched the bodkin arrow down the ridge. The shaft flew straight and swift, piercing the soulless man’s back and sprouting from the center of his chest. The impaled archer paused a moment, then turned around to face the ridge. The English soldiers saw only a blur as the dead man turned around to face them, almost as if to hail them. No one saw the arrow fly from his bow and up the ridge; no one saw that arrow pierce the eye of Lord Clifford’s young bowman. Only when the bowman crumpled to the ground did they see the black-feathered arrow pushing out from his head. The devil-archer turned and continued down the field, into the roaring gape of the French charge.
"Leave him go!" Clifford spat, staring at the walking dead man. "Archers, find your targets! Be ready on my mark!" But all eyes were on the thing that still walked unaffected toward the advancing French enemy, mindless of the lodged arrow that had pierced through its torso. 

The blast of a primitive English cannon echoed across the field as the first hail of arrows rained down amongst the charging Frenchmen. Men and horses fell beneath the onslaught of the arrows, dismaying the French. The arrow shafts had a brand of bodkin arrowheads, new to battle. Bodkin points were long heavy iron tips capable of slicing through armor, and the English longbows were carved from dense Yew wood and fitted with resilient hemp bowstring that required a draw of a hundred pounds or more and hurled this devastating new arrow with incredible force. The metal suit of the French knights did little to protect them. 

Seeing his men in disarray and falling quickly, Philip ordered them to turn back and regroup. They ignored the order, charging past him and running through the valley like madmen. The Genoese crossbowmen found themselves in a hail of longbow shafts. Too far from the English to hit them, they threw down their bows and fled. Upon seeing this, Philip’s brother, Count D’Alencon, ordered them slain. Thus it happened that, on that day, more Genoese fell in battle at the hands of their French comrades than by the invading English army. 

The soulless archer walked alone on the churning battlefield. Men and horses obeyed the instinctive terror those black eyes inspired, and none would approach the bowman who moved about with apparent unconcern for the arrow that pierced him. He drew another arrow from the quiver on his back, strung and released it in one sure motion. Nearly three hundred yards downfield, the shaft thudded into the earth between the forelimbs of Jean-Jacques Blasi’s horse. Two Genoese crossbow bolts now found their mark in the ribs of the dead archer, and a third impaled his thigh. His black gaze never left its target, and the arrows did not stop him or even slow his hand. Another arrow left his bow before the first was still. This one did not miss. It blazed downward into the collar of Jacques’ armor and pierced his left lung. As he tumbled from his horse, another shaft flashed from the sky, and beside him, Rene heard a disheartening pop as his own mount crumpled beneath him. A black-fletched arrow protruded from between the animal’s eyes. But the dead archer was not immortal. Even as he released another arrow, a crossbow bolt punctured his throat and he finally fell to the ground. Rene jumped to his feet and ran to his brother. Soldiers screamed past them, their mad charge unabated. Rene lifted Jacques’ faceguard, raised his head from the ground, and cradled it in the bend of his arm. His eyes welled with tears — he knew Jacques would not leave this valley alive. 

"Do not, Rene," Jacques said, his face struggling between forced smiles and an expression of pure agony his brother had only seen on the faces of the dying. "I have fallen with honor." He coughed on the bubbling blood in his breath. "I wish to…to kiss the cross….once more."
Rene ripped away his helmet, raised his chin, and jerked on the neck chain until the crucifix tumbled from his breastplate. He fumbled with it, bringing the cross to his dying brother’s lips. Jacques kissed it and he smiled.
"Rene, when you slay Edward, ask the great Jean-Francois de France to pray for me," he whispered. "Swear it."
"I swear, Jacques. And I shall also pray for you, until no breath is left in me," Rene responded with a laugh and a shower of tears. Such was a long-standing jest amongst the brothers — the foolish title with which they had teased their ‘overly serious’ older sibling: Francois de France. As Rene pushed the cross back beneath his breastplate, his brother sighed and died in his arms. 

Across the valley, the devil-archer stirred. His work was not yet finished. The thick crossbow shaft lodged in his thigh broke off with a grisly crack as he rolled and stood to his knees. A hail of arrows peppered his light armor, but his blood did not flow. He strung an arrow and released it. Rene raised his face to heaven, wailing in both grief and defiance, even as his own death flew toward him on black wings. Hell’s arrow streaked toward the earth like a soul damned. It scored Rene through the roof of his screaming mouth, impaling his brain and cleaving his skull. He screamed no more. His body fell across his dead brother’s with an expression of horror on his contorted and bloodied face. His gaping eyes did not see the Genoese arrow that took the damned archer through his skull. The archer fell once again and moved no more. 

The English force had consisted of approximately twelve thousand men, over half of them archers. Men-at-arms stood, centering two spreading flanks of bowmen, forming a precise V of roughly eighteen hundred yards in length. The French force numbered thirty-six thousand. Wave after wave of charging knights — fifteen waves in all — raced into the English funnel of arrows, only to heap themselves upon their dead and the ones dying before them. Between the fleeing Genoese crossbowmen, the sun blinding their eyes and the untrained peasants’ mad screams about the battlefield, the French forces began to fall into complete disarray. The battlefield lay riddled with English arrows that stood out amongst the slain men and animals like stiff barley stalks. In the short space of ten hours, nearly half a million English arrows had rained down from the high ridge and over six thousand French and Genoese fell dead. Surely ‘twas a devil’s dance — and a wicked waltz it was. 

The witching hour was upon him when the wounded Philip retreated. He had little choice but to abandon his injured where they lay. Two kings, as allies to Philip, had fallen in the horrid slaughter, one of them the blind King John of Bohemia. But Philip had no recourse but withdrawal, and Edward took no prisoners. At midnight, his son, the Black Prince of Wales, moved under cloak of darkness, and with long knives, his men slashed the throats of the injured. In all, sixty-six hundred Frenchman and only a few hundred Englishmen died in the battle. ‘Twas a battle in which Lucifael was all too involved from the onset. The credit for the large number of dead was hers completely. Both kings, Edward and Philip, were merely pawns in her much grander game. She was the reigning queen, and unwittingly, two foolish kings jousted as jesters before her. 

Following the battle, Philip buckled. With the aid of two Avignon cardinals as conciliators, a truce between France and England was soon in place. Edward retained occupation of Calais and Philip became frantic. The English had removed chivalry from the rules of battle. Hand-to-hand combat, face-to-face confrontation in a battle pitting one man’s skill and power and courage against another’s had been replaced by what amounted to spearing an enemy from behind. The English longbow was a slap in the face to the Knights’ class. Although French knights scorned it — labeling it as outright cowardice — combat at a distance proved highly effective for smaller armies like Edward’s. And with Lucifael’s intervention, the art of war had changed and dusk had fallen on the glory days of knighthood. 

In desperation, Philip considered seeking out the help of the Holy See and its vast numbers of educated priests, but he required more than prayer of them. He needed finances and a solid counter to the new weapon — the rapid-firing longbow and its armor-piercing bodkin arrow. He needed new strategies to counter the unchivalrous tactics employed by the English as well. He thought that a decisive counter-weapon and definitive counterstrategy in combination might drive Edward out of Calais and back across the Channel. Nonetheless, Lucifael moved against all thrones, bitterly eager, as a wronged yet outwardly ever mastering Queen-of-queens. The throne of the Holy See and the Papal Palace of Avignon were not immune. The Pope, the College of Cardinals, and Apocrypha Cardinals were all equal prey in her game, and she wove her web among and within them all. 

Chateau Rouge - City of Avignon - April 1347

Avignon’s Chateau Rouge served as guarded residence for several College cardinals. A guard stationed at the rear entrance of the chateau shifted his feet — the prickling pain was in his left heel. He searched his boot, yet found no raised tack, no splinter or thorn inside, but he felt a prick like a tiny dagger stabbing at his heel again when he put the boot back on his foot. It would allow him no peace. He studied the dead grounds. Not a soul gave sound in the late hour. With a furtive glance toward the arched entrance of his post, the guard stole into the shrubbery that flanked the thick stony walls of the chateau. He patted his pockets hopefully and grinned at finding a folded leaf of paper in a vest pocket. Leaning against the wall, he unlaced his boot and slipped the paper inside it. He was just retying the laces when the long shadow of a hooded figure fell across him. In a panic, he straightened hastily and nearly fell.
"Guard. You are not at your post," the priest said softly. "Why?"
The guard moved toward the archway, looking chagrined, the shadowed figure also moving to block him. "I heard a noise, Friar," he stammered. "But ‘twas only cocks roosting in the bush."
"Ah, roosting cocks. I see." In better light, the soldier saw the priest as tall and rather burly, with full black hair. He seemed to be eyeing the paving stones, but when his dark eyes flashed over the face of the guard, they were piercing as daggers. "You chase clucking cocks with an unlaced boot?"
"I did not notice it, Friar.
"Ah, I see. You did not notice the loose laces." The soft voice was an eerie contradiction to the flashing eyes, and the combination set the guard’s teeth on edge. "Show me your orders, guard. This instant."
Surprised by the friar’s request — he had been wondering when this unnerving priest would leave him to his duty — the soldier reluctantly bent and removed his boot. He withdrew his makeshift bandage and offered it to the priest.
"In your unlaced boot? Ah." The priest unfolded the paper and stood beneath a wall torch to read it. "Why are your orders in your boot, guard?" 

The guard confessed all. The priest smirked, and returning the folded orders, said, "Then it appears your orders are best when trampled upon. Shall we keep the confession between us?"
"If you would, Friar. And how can I be of assistance, Friar…uhm…" The guard struggled for the priest’s name.
"Sevalle, Archbishop Lou Sevalle. I am here by personal appointment to see Cardinal Jean-Francois Blasi."
"I shall summon the Master-at-Arms. He can arrange an escort." The guard began to turn away, but the priest seized his shoulder in a painful grip.
"I see by your orders that you are new to this post," the big priest whispered. "I gather you wish no stain against you? I need not wait for an escort. I have been here many times and shall find my own way."
The soldier, who was indeed a raw recruit and none too quick in the bargain, felt a haze fall over his mind. ‘Twas imperative that he obeyed his orders, and yet, he felt compelled to allow a strange man into the chateau unescorted — an unthinkable dereliction of duty. However, it seemed imperative that he obey the soft voice too, and the command in the flashing eyes. "Visitors are escorted. I must…"
"Is it possible," the priest interrupted, "that I did not notice you away from your post? Is it also possible that you did not notice me enter? Do hear me, guard — I am but a quiet roosting cock and ‘tis late. I am weary. Do you gather my meaning?"
Looking away, the guard responded, "I gather it. As you say, then. I do not know you. Nor have I seen you."
"A lie in good intent is no ill deed. Well done. I shall see the favor settled thrice as much," the priest said, patting the guard’s shoulder with a sneer the soldier did not see. He disappeared beneath the arched entrance and drifted through the quiet corridors of the chateau. The priest came to a corner, and as he rounded it, his features and dress were abruptly changed, metamorphosed into an altogether different form. Instead of a robe, he wore the battle dress of a French knight. On his chest gleamed the gold and gem-studded Blasi cross. He turned another corner and walked placidly through a stone wall, the armor-clad visage melding into the massive stones without a sound. 

In the bedroom of Cardinal Jean-Francois Blasi, a hanging wall tapestry fluttered briefly as the form of the knight passed through the solid stones of the wall. The cardinal tossed and moaned in his gilded bed, his eyeballs rolling under their lids as they tracked the features of a nightmare landscape. Jean-Francois rolled across the huge bed, trapped in a dream in which he was swiftly falling. Abruptly, he gasped and bolted erect, wide-eyed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The nightmare, when discovered, fled the room. The cardinal’s shoulders slumped in relief, and he lay back on the bed, his eyes slowly closing — but then snapping open again. The nightmare was not over after all. He sat up, his heart fluttering oddly in his chest. There, in the corner of the room, stood the dark silhouette of an armored knight. 

"Who goes there?" Francois hissed at it, terror in his throat. The shadow stepped into the moonlight falling through the open window.
"Jacques," Francois choked. "Is it you, Jacques?" His hands flew to his face in astonishment.
"‘Tis I, Jean-Francois. Have you faired well?" It seemed the knight wore an impish grin.
"I…indeed, I have! I have prayed for you. How are you? And Rene?"
"Rene preaches, as he always has. He deemed it best that I not visit you — he thought it may distress you."
"Oh, no," Francois lied. "Not at all! You must tell him to come. Tell him, Jacques."
"I have come to warn you of a horrible thing, Francois," the knight whispered hurriedly. "France shall fall to Edward of England in the space of but twenty years. Edward shall gain the support of many French lords. He shall come from the west and the north and win the heart of the Burgundy. He shall divide France."
Quite confused, the cardinal replied, "Even with most of the lords of France behind Edward, how might he be victorious? He has no capable army!"
"He shall," the knight said sharply. "He has since sealed a pact with the Devil. ‘Tis the Devil himself who speaks to Edward of the secrets of war! Edward shall take our homeland, Jean-Francois, lest you stop him before his campaign — lest you stop him now." 

Francois’ mind spun. "That is madness! I can not stop such things. If I speak to His Holiness of this, he shall deem me mad," he said. "Can you not stop these events, you and Rene?"
"Only you can stop these events, Francois."
"I can not prevent the will of a king, Jacques. Nor can I command of the Devil. I am merely a servant of…"
"Hear me, Francois." The dark figure was indignant as it stepped closer. "The Council of the Apocrypha, you know of it?"
The cardinal stiffened slightly. Reluctantly, he confessed, "I do, but only bits of the truth. What of it?"
"They hide secrets, a weapon that can destroy the English king. You must take charge of this weapon, Francois. You must release it against him. First, however, you must learn of its proper use. Such knowledge rests in the archives of the Apocrypha, in what some call: the Naramsin Translations. In these pages, you shall learn of the design and workings of this weapon." 

"And how am I to lay hands upon these things?" Francois asked, unconvinced. "The archive is well guarded. And they use words of passage to gain access. I do not know these words, Jacques! The archives are for the Council only."
"The Devil shall whisper this secret in Edward’s ear, and Edward shall come for the Naramsin writings. With them his power shall become greater than even the Holy See. He shall take all of France if you do not heed my words. Francois, you must proceed with this act, if not for France and Church, then for your brothers — that we fell with cause and honor. Even angels fell that the Will of God be done. If others must fall that more may live, ‘tis His Will."
Francois recalled his nightmare. "Others? Who must fall?"
"Even Christ fell that others may live. I must leave, Francois." The knight turned away.
"A moment more!" Francois cried.
The knight turned back, grinning. "You are Francois de France. For the sake of God, save France. Save us all." He turned and disappeared through the wall.
"Wait! No! Jacques! Jacques!" Francois bolted from his bed, chasing the fleeting form.
He ran through his apartment chambers and threw open the door, stumbling into the hallway. "Jacques!" The long corridors lay empty, echoing his brother’s name. 

His brother’s visage had already crossed the corridor, stepped through the far wall and into a priest’s visiting room. He fell to his knees. "Jacques! Come back!" The priest sobbed, and doors creaked open, heavy-eyed guests sleepily poking their heads out of doors. 

A sleeping priest stirred at the cry outside his chambers, but his eyes did not open. His bedside oil lamp illuminated the book of scriptures lying face down on his chest, his hands laced across it. The knight stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at the dreaming man. Slowly the plates of the knight’s armor began to meld and change, blending into the gleaming skin of a lushly made woman, her flesh pale as death. Her eyes and nails were black, her waste-length hair and wide aureoles red as blood. She was the embodiment of pure and shameless Eve, the reason that all men and women were fallen. She was Lucifael. She stood over the priest, smiling. The voices of many women uttered from her pale mouth. "‘Tis a waste of a man to be alone, especially if he is not beneath me, one of my charges doing my bidding. But soon enough."
The priest grimaced, moaning in his dreams, and rolled onto his side. The open scriptures tumbled to the floor, where her bare heel trampled it as she stepped through the outer wall of the Chateau, leaving only a ghost of profane laughter to trouble the holy man in his dream. 

And quite deserving was Lucifael’s laughter — less than a month transpired before the wicked seed took root. 

Chateau Mallow - City of Avignon - May 1347

Unlike Chateau Rouge, which belonged to the College of Cardinals, Avignon’s Chateau Mallow belonged to the Council of the Apocrypha and was the residence of Cardinals Basiliste and Lean. As Lean was in England on a papal mission, the elder cardinal was alone at Chateau Mallow, and Basiliste lay fast asleep in his apartment. Atop his letter desk, a nearly extinguished oil lamp struggled to produce a flame, casting flickering shadows over a nearby quill and inkwell, and over a composed letter that bore these words: 

 
My Dearest Cardinal Lean,

Forgive my lack of fortitude, but the gravest fear has settled upon my soul. I am now convinced that Cardinal Xavier's death was not by chance and dark forces move against us. They seek access to that which we guard. 

I implore you, return to Avignon at once, and together, we shall insist upon an audience with Clement. He must be warned of the dangers. 

Make haste, my friend. I begin to fear for my own safety.

Yours As Ever,
Cardinal Basiliste
 
A brisk breeze killed the flame as the back window eased open to a shifting silhouette. A rouge guard slipped into Basiliste’s bedroom and straddled his chest, slapping a hard hand over the cardinal’s mouth. Then he drew a dagger from his shirt and whispered the questions he had been told to ask. Basiliste struggled, but he was too feeble for the strong soldier. In a baleful whisper, the intruder warned him not to cry out, the cold steel at his neck making the threat plain. The soldier removed his hand and awaited answers. 

In defiance, Basiliste stared at the silhouetted face, saying nothing. The knife moved slowly toward the cardinal’s left eye, leaving a shallow trench of blood. Basiliste gritted his teeth and made no sound. The hand clamped again over his mouth, pressing his head deep into the pillow. With his weight securing Basiliste’s chest, the guard sunk the dagger into the tender flesh beneath the eye. Basiliste screamed through his nose as the knife scraped the walls of his eye socket. The guard flipped the eye onto the floor. When some of the struggle had gone from the old man, the soldier informed him that he still had one eye left with which to bargain. 

Basiliste began to speak immediately, telling all he knew. When he finished, the guard demanded that he repeat the code words of passage to ensure they were correct. Sobbing, he swore he had told the truth. Even so, the knife slipped into the cardinal’s right eye. Again, Basiliste screamed against the cold hand, and again, he was asked to repeat the words. He gasped and stammered — the words were the same. Convinced that he had extracted the information he was hired to collect, the guard shifted himself onto Basiliste’s diaphragm, squeezing the air from his lungs. After the cardinal fell silent, the assassin slipped over the windowsill and vanished into the still eve. 

Some time later, he met his patron in the secret place they’d agreed upon prior to the grisly event. A leather purse changed hands, and the hired killer rode out of Avignon’s west gate and across the Rhone River Bridge; but before he had traveled even a mile, an informed and waiting thief with a broadsword took his head and his purse. The evidence of a vile murder disappeared into the French countryside. And its perpetrator, Cardinal Jean-Francois Blasi, now held the key to the secrets of the Council of the Apocrypha, and consequently, the two closely guarded monasteries: des Gardiens and del Cancello.





Chapter 3


Abbaye des Gardiens – Auvergne Province – Central France

Gardiens Abbey was a walled monastery upon a great stony hill that brooded over the untamed lands of central France. Beneath the abbey, an elaborate labyrinth of catacombs snaked through the bowels of the hill. Friar Ivan Gogu, senior amongst the mendicant brothers of Gardiens, had assumed responsibility for the catacombs upon his arrival at the abbey more than a decade before; and in that span of time, the vast sepulcher had become a kind of stony penance that weighed heavily upon his heart. His coarse robe whispered in the weaving passages as he hurried, keeping ever straight and traveling ever downward. Most friars rarely ventured to such great depths, as attested to by the sparse array of dry torches wedged into the stony walls. The pitch-dark passage had no branching vessels. The hollow artery simply plunged into the earth like some black-bricked road to Hell. The sole purpose of the tunnel was to tap into an underground freshwater spring to provide a pure and plentiful supply of water to the abbey catacombs in even the most demanding winemaking seasons. To that end, far beneath the sunny hillside, the tunnel ended at a single stone-carved room that Gardiens monks called the ‘Well Hole.’ A stone-lined trench divided the room, channeling a swift underground spring. 

From the darkness of the Well Hole, a whimper echoed up the tunnel. The voice was that of a child, and yet, the haunted cry bemoaned the pain of a lifetime of misery. Another sob broke loose but fell stifled, as though sorrow and pride warred incessantly within a tortured and pitiful breast. Gasping breaths followed the choked sobs, then silence – then another outburst of grief. The cycle repeated, echoing in the darkness, like the lament of a vanquished king and the wailing of an aggrieved widow woven together into one immeasurable sadness. 

“Lazarus?” The crying ceased. “Lazarus? Are you there?”
“I am…I am here, Friar. I am filling the bucket.” 
The pitch darkness surrendered itself to the light of a crackling torch held by the monk as he entered the room. He was tall, with broad back and deep chest, and the sadness in his deeply blue eyes belied the jovial smile on his lips. The well-groomed ring of silver hair, which rimmed Friar Ivan’s head like the fallen halo of an angel, complemented his clean and close salt-and-pepper beard. A severely hunchbacked boy rose from the spring, a full pail of water at his feet. He wore a similar robe of rough-woven cloth as the friar, however, with a deep hood pulled forward over his head. A mask of the same material covered the face of the child. Two holes were cut where there might have been eyes, and a small flap of cloth covered the mouth. The dirty covering resembled the mask of a leper with a monk’s cowl draped about it. The boy was an apprentice, yet his quarters were not with the other abbey squires. Lazarus lived here, within the catacombs, in a quaint room that Friar Ivan had appointed for him, replete with a rudely fashioned bed and thick blankets. Although he appeared every bit as old as thirteen years, his slight stature and thin limbs made him appear much younger. Unknown to all the Abbey residents, save himself and Friars Ivan and Odino, Lazarus was a Gogu – the misbegotten child of Ivan Gogu. 

“What troubles you, son?”
“Nothing, sir. I have the water now.”
“Are you crying, Lazarus?” The boy pressed his fingers against his face and the cloth beneath his eyeholes darkened with moisture.
“The hood slips and I can not see. I turn my head and it slips. I open my mouth and it slips. I sleep and it slips. It wears my ears and the laces catch my hair.”
“Then we must make you a new hood. I shall double my efforts on it and make it comfortable. Would you like a new hood?”
“This hood has an odor. It shall no longer wash clean. I know how to make the next one better, Friar. I can show you.”
“Then you shall. You can help me make the next one.” Ivan stooped, and with his free hand, he hugged Lazarus.
“I have a surprise for you, son.”
“What is it?”
“I have discovered a book of animals in the scriptorium.”
“With birds?”
“Yes, the book is filled with leaves about birds – with colorful paintings of them, even.” 
“Might I see it this eve, Friar?”
“Yes, I shall bring it to you. ‘Tis new – from Paris! Yet, I must return it at first light, lest the others find it missing. You may have the book this eve, but firstly we must clean.”
Briefly, Lazarus said nothing, and though his features lay concealed, a pensive air overtook him – his shrouded face turned its burlap gaze on the monk. 
“Friar, may I ask you something?”
“Pray, do.”
“Shall I be ugly when I am grown?”
Ivan sought the boy’s full attention by resting his hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, son. You are not ugly. You are beautiful. You are not wearing the hood to hide ugliness. You are wearing the hood to hide your beauty from ugliness. Ugliness fears beauty as evil fears the pure heart.” The monk stood abruptly, and after admonishing the child to remain, he stepped from the room, torch in hand. Blackness enveloped the small, hunched figure. After a moment, cautious footsteps stirred the silence. In the black room, Ivan found the boy and squatted before him. “Put the pail down, son.” Ivan felt the floor behind him, found a pebble, and covered it in his fist. He likewise closed his other hand, then presented both to the boy. Ivan lifted his left hand. “What have I got in my hand, Lazarus?”
“A stone.”
Ivan lifted his right hand. “And in this hand?”
Lazarus answered, “Nothing.”
“Can you be certain, Lazarus?”
“I heard you pick up a stone, and then I heard you do nothing.”
“Catch the stone,” Ivan said suddenly, tossing it through the air. In the dark, he listened for the pebble to clink against the floor. It did not.
“Pray tell, what do you hold, son?”
“The stone.”
“And why might it be in your hand, Lazarus?”
“You commanded that I catch it.”
“What you caught was more than a stone.” 
“How is it more?”
“‘Tis a confessor of truth. Now, toss the stone to me.” Ivan felt a small hand in his own and pulled away. “No, son. Throw the stone to me, just as I threw it to you.” Lazarus obediently tossed the stone. There was a clink as the pebble struck the floor.
“Forgive me, Friar. I must toss it again.” 
“No. Be still, son — listen. Why did I not catch the stone?”
“You can not see without light.”
“Indeed. Now, what truth did the stone tell us?”
“A stone can not speak, Friar.” There was the hint of amusement in the child’s voice.
“Yet, it already spoke! When you caught the stone, where I did not, the stone confessed to the whole of the world that you are indeed beautiful. Do you gather my meaning, son?”
“I do,” the boy said slowly.
“Do you?”
“I do, Friar,” he replied before reciting with little passion what Ivan had long impressed upon him. “I am beautiful in my element, in the world in which I am equipped to succeed. Yet, how much longer must we remain in the Abbey?” 
Ivan rose to his feet and pulled the child against him. “Soon enough, we will leave.”
“How soon?”
“We shall be living in Burgundy before the end of year, and you shall never wear the hood again. However, for the moment, we shall stitch you the best one yet. It shall be the last.”
“Can Migual and Thateus have new hoods as well? Theirs also slip. They have told me so.” Both Migual and Thateus were severely deformed squire boys who, unlike Lazarus, had been abandoned on the abbey steps to be taken in and reared by the Gardiens monks. However, like Lazarus, they too wore full leper-like hoods with eyeholes to conceal unsightly disfigurements. The three boys shared a common bond in having identical outward appearances, and together and fully cloaked, they might have resembled a trio of little burlap ghosts. Frequently, Ivan would summon Migual and Thateus to the catacombs to work alongside Lazarus, and as Lazarus had always been confined to the catacombs and spent much time alone, doing this brought Ivan as much if not more joy than it did Lazarus. For the three boys, giant Friar Ivan was the maker of their masks – a savior and face-saver. For Ivan, when these ghost-like children were together and Lazarus burst into laughter, a rare sound in the catacombs, the unexpected and memorable merriment invariably served to still his troubled soul. 

“We shall stitch them new hoods as well. You can give them their new hoods yourself, son. Would you like that?”
“I would.”
“Very well, then. You shall.”
“Can they come with us?”
Ivan took a deep breath before he spoke. “They must remain here, Lazarus. The abbey is their home. The abbey is good for them.”
“Can Friar Odino come?”
Ivan threw his head back and laughed. “Lazarus, really! If we left without Friar Odino, he would chase after us and beat us with a goat.” The child laughed. “Do you wish him to beat us with a goat? Of course Friar Odino shall come with us.”
“Yet, where shall we go?”
“Far, far away from here, Lazarus. Now, hand me the pail. We have much to do.”
“I shall carry the pail, Friar.”
“No. Give me the pail, Lazarus. You may carry the next.” Ivan had retrieved the torch and now held it out to the boy. “You lead the way.”
“The pail is heavy, Friar. I must carry it.”
“I have the pail. Take the torch and lead the way, son.” 
Reluctantly, the boy took the torch and lit the way, feeling awkward that Ivan walked behind him.

Nearly an hour had elapsed as Lazarus scrubbed down ornate wall carvings in the main corridor, which were blackened by years of torch oil fumes and soot. In that span of time, the brimming pail of pristine water had become half a pail of darkened soup as viscous as India ink. Another trip to the well hole was in order. Lazarus lifted the pail and started down the corridor, but he stopped dead upon seeing a black rat race down along the base of the wall beside him. Friar Clodius bumped into the boy from behind, jarring the bucket and spattering a good deal of the filthy slop on the front of the boy’s robe. 
“Move out of the way,” Clodius snarled. He continued past Lazarus, chasing the rat with a long wooden rod.

“Forgive me, Friar,” Lazarus mumbled, continuing down the corridor, looking down at the mess on his robe. He caught up with Clodius, who had the rat cornered between the wall and a wall column. 
“I have you now,” Clodius spoke to the petrified rat. Lazarus stopped behind the friar to catch a glimpse of the rat. Unaware that Lazarus stood behind him, Clodius raised the rod slowly, intending to ram the rat into the corner and kill it.

Abruptly, Lazarus dropped the pail, sloshing dirty water upon the floor and flushing the condemned rat out of the crevice. The filthy liquid splashed over Friar Clodius’ feet and up his robe. Startled, he yelled and turned on the boy, as the rat, now drenched, scurried around a corner and to safety.

“You! You did that intentionally!” he scolded Lazarus. 
“Forgive me Friar, Lazarus replied. He turned the bucket upright, dropped to his knees and hastily sopped up the water around the monk’s sandals. Clodius raised the rod at him, and Lazarus braced himself for the blow.

“Clodius!” Friar Ivan said as he came storming up the hallway. 
Clodius hastily lowered the stick and addressed him. “He threw a pail of filthy water on me!”
“What?” Ivan stopped before them. He studied the mess on both Lazarus’ and Clodius’ robes.
“I cornered a rat and he threw foul water on me to protect it! I demand an apology and punishment issued at once!”
“Lazarus,” Ivan asked. “Is this true?”
“I dropped the pail, Friar.”
“Intentionally?”
“I did, Friar.” Lazarus lowered his head.
“There! You see! I knew it,” Clodius yelled.
“Lazarus? Why?” Ivan asked him as he held his hand up to stifle the other man’s outburst. 

“Thou shalt not kill, Friar,” Lazarus softly stated. Clodius huffed and rolled his eyes in disgust.
Ivan continued. “But that rule applies only to men – not rats, yes?” 
Lazarus shifted his feet and, after a pause, he answered, “I know, Friar, yet…”
Ivan interrupted him. “Then I gather that you might owe the good friar an apology.”
“Forgive me, Friar Clodius. I wish to be corrected now.” Lazarus humbled himself.
Clodius raised his stick again, but Ivan stepped between them and addressed Lazarus. “Your penitence shall be this: to fetch a fresh pail of water and clean the engraved walls. Now, move along.”
“Indeed, Friar.” Lazarus bowed hastily and scurried away with the pail.

Clodius’ mouth dropped. “You already had him cleaning the walls!”
Ivan, a full head taller than Clodius, stepped close to his face and growled, “What affairs do you claim in my catacombs, save chasing rats? Hear me well: you oversee the abbey grounds and I oversee what is beneath them. You correct your squires and I shall correct mine! Now, take your leave at once, Clodius!”
The scolded friar retreated, storming up the corridor, his murmurs echoing in the stone abyss as he hastily departed. “I shall see the boy corrected, Ivan! I now take it to the Abbot!”

“Kindly do! And share with him that you chase rats in my catacombs instead of tending to your own responsibilities,” Ivan shouted back. Clodius refused to reply, disappearing in the gloom.

Clodius was a bitter man. Even the Abbot had little tolerance for him. Fortunately for Ivan, Abbot Vonig looked upon him as the son he never had. In the eyes of the Abbot, Ivan could do no wrong, and all the monks of the abbey knew it. Naturally, to befriend Ivan was to befriend the Abbot, and of course, the wine cellar of the catacombs. Conversely, the surest way to anger Ivan was to mistreat Lazarus, Migual, or Thateus – those fragile squires damned by deformity.
Ivan turned away, finally revealing the grin he had struggled to conceal the entire time. He threw back his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back like a condemned yet proud prisoner bound for a march into Hell, and he descended deeper into the catacombs, the darkness swallowing him up.
***

Lazarus had long since completed his chores. Ivan tore him from the book of painted birds and saw him to bed, extinguished the few burning catacomb torches, and retired to the dormitory for the eve. Most all of the monks of Gardiens had long since sought their sleep. 

Friar Delon Odino left the monks’ dormitory through a small side door and stole across the mist-covered courtyard for his nightly indulgence. He struck a torch only after he entered the catacomb stairwell. Several goblets later, he was joined in the wine cellar by a sleepy Lazarus. For both, this was quite a routine practice. They enjoyed the suspense of it, the thrill of the illicit. Lazarus knew that he was not to leave his room after Ivan’s departure, and Odino, whose weakness for the fruit of the vine was not the best-kept secret of the abbey, had been warned to stay away from the catacombs after nightfall.

Now, Odino sat atop a workbench, slumped against the cellar wall with his legs spread out before him. Vats of aged wine and kegs of dregs filled the room around him. The air was heavy with the sticky and pungent odor of fermented fruit.

“Ah, Lazarus, my boy. I presumed that you lay sleeping. Come in! Speak!” Odino grinned, waving a half-empty goblet. Aside from Ivan, Odino was the only other monk of the abbey who truly knew the boy. In many ways, the fat, rosy-cheeked friar was like an uncle to Lazarus – uncle and friend. “You did not gather that I was coming?” Odino asked him, the words spilling sloppily from his wine-wetted lips.
“What?” Lazarus asked sleepily.
“With you and Ivan – out of the Abbey.”
“I did not know if you were coming with us or not.”
“And if you leave without me, I shall chase after the both of you and beat you with a goat.” They chuckled together. “In an odd way, I shall miss this abbey.”
“And the wine?” Lazarus asked. Odino cast a disapproving eye at him. Lazarus paced around the room, now a bit more awake, touching every thing within arm’s reach as he went, heading nowhere but around again, in child’s play.

At length, Odino again spoke. “I have noticed a fire burning in you the past days – your blood is hot. You wish to be free of these catacombs, yes?”
“I wish to see the world – outside of books and beyond these walls. And birds — I wish to see live birds flying, not like the dead one you brought me.”
Odino burst forth with a hardy laugh. “You still have that rotting thing?”
“I opened its wings and it fell to pieces. I wrapped and laid it in one of the crypts. Did Friar Ivan tell you when we shall leave for Burgundy?”
“Soon enough, boy. Soon enough.”

After a short pause, Lazarus asked, “Friar, may I ask you something?”
“Indeed.”
“Are you a bit concerned about leaving the Abbey?” Lazarus searched his face for any message that might be conveyed there beyond whatever words the friar might choose.
“The routine has grown stale. I can not keep up with the days.”
“What shall we do then, without the abbey?”
“Well, for one thing, we shan’t have to live the order of the day. Does that not please you?”
“I suppose. I do not know.” Lazarus lowered his hooded head.
“Of course, you do not. ‘Tis all you know, these catacomb walls and the same dreary routine, but you shall see, soon enough. You do not belong down here – your father knows it well. He sees what I have seen for some time now: a bird fluttering in its cage.”
“What bird?” Lazarus looked about the cellar. “Where?”
“You are the bird and the abbey is the cage,” Odino stated matter-of-factly.

Lazarus leaned against the table beside Odino. “Does the wine taste as it smells, Friar?”
“Even better.” The monk smiled and toasted the boy with a flourish before drinking deeply from the rough wooden cup.
“It smells bad. It must taste so, as well.”
“After a few cups, one does not dwell upon taste.” Odino wiped a sleeve across his grin and held the empty vessel out to the boy. “Help a fat and tired fool, my boy.” Lazarus took the cup.
“Why do you drink the wine more than the other monks, Friar?” Lazarus asked, approaching a wine keg.
“First Timothy, 23 of 5?” Odino said quickly. 
The boy did not hesitate. “No longer be drinking water, but a little wine be using, because of thy stomach and of thine often infirmities.”
“Once more, boy. This time in Latin!”
Lazarus replied obediently, “Noli adhuc aquam bibere sed vino modico utere propter stomachum tuum, et frequentes tuas infirmitates.”
Odino laughed, stopped abruptly, and snapped his fingers. “Not that barrel! This one, boy,” Odino stated, pointing to another keg. Lazarus moved to a nearer keg and carefully filled the cup. 
“‘Tis all the same, I gathered. Why, this barrel, Friar?”
After Lazarus returned and gave the goblet to Odino, the monk asked him, “Luke, 39 of 5?”
Again, the boy did not hesitate. “And no one, having drunk old, doth immediately wish new, for he saith, The old is better.” Odino rolled with such a hearty laugh that he sloshed wine all over the cellar floor. Like a confused dog, Lazarus cocked his head to one side and froze as a statue whilst Odino collected himself. Then Lazarus asked, “What is it? I speak it correct.”
“Indeed, you do – as you always do, Lazarus. Yet just now I have discovered the secret of it,” the monk sputtered, still shaking with restrained jollity. “As I see it, you have a small scriptorium of very tiny books beneath that mask of yours. And you turn their leaves with your nose.”
“I have no tiny books, Friar,” Lazarus plainly replied.
Odino laughed at the boy’s earnestness. “Then how do you do it, boy – recite every word as you do?”
“I can read.”
“Others can read too, and yet, words do not remain in their minds as they do in yours. How might you read something only once and know it forever? None in this abbey can do it. In all of my days, I know of none, save you. Tell me the magic of it.”
“I only recall it, Friar.”
“Of course you do, boy.” Odino sighed. “And only the Lord knows the depth of such an uncommon blessing as yours.” Again, he toasted Lazarus before gulping the last of the wine from his cup. Then he thrust the goblet toward Lazarus for refilling, but the boy had turned away and was facing the cellar entryway.

Lazurus turned back to Odino. “Friar, someone approaches! Perhaps three, I gather.” Odino scooted off the workbench as if his ass were aflame. He waddled to the back wall and hid his goblet behind a vat. Lazarus moved to the other wall, pulled the torch from its bracket, dipped it in the oil pot and extinguished every feature in the cellar – the room fell black as pitch.
Odino searched in the darkness with arms waving in the direction where he last saw Lazarus. “Come here, boy. Lead me,” Odino whispered.
“Lead you where, Friar?”
“Shush. Mind your tongue. Lead me out of here. I can not see,” Odino hissed impatiently, feeling through the air for Lazarus.
“Where do you wish to go?” Lazarus asked, gently taking Odino’s hand.
“Blazes of Angels! Anywhere, boy! Get me out of here!”
“To a crypt, then?”
“Yes, a crypt! At once!” Odino hissed.

Lazarus led Odino out of the wine cellar and down the black passage. “Here, Friar,” he whispered, guiding Odino’s hand to a thick iron handle. The monk pulled open the heavy door, gesturing in the darkness where he had last heard the boy’s voice.
“Inside! Make haste!”
“I am in here, Friar.” The voice came from behind him now, inside the sepulcher.
“Lazarus,” Odino whispered, pushing the door closed, “How can you know so much and yet gather so little?”
“I do not gather your meaning, Friar.”
“Of course not. You can read from pages in your mind, yet you do not see my meaning?”
“I did not know where you wished to go, Friar.”
“Ah! Then, you do gather my meaning.”
“You did not tell me where you…”
The catacomb doors opened and Odino cut him short, “Shush, boy. They are coming.” Three monks marched down the tunnel just far enough to fetch torches and a pail of oil, and just as quickly, they left again. After hearing the catacomb door close, both Lazarus and Odino slipped from the crypt. Lazarus returned to his room, and Odino, still drunk, followed the walls out of the catacombs and returned to his dormitory quarters.

Elsewhere, in a quaint second-story cell of the monks’ dormitory, Ivan lay fast asleep. Through a narrow open window, a swelled moon revealed the sparse contents of the room: a bed with a wooden cross upon the wall above it, a writing desk lined with books, and a small crate of Ivan’s worldly belongings. Silence permeated these meager quarters.

Then a flapping of wings broke the dark stillness, and a luminous raven shone atop the windowsill, its cold eye frozen on Ivan. The room chilled immediately and Ivan’s breath churned a fog. At once, the raven leapt into the room before transforming into a nude woman who strode across the floor on bare feet.

Lucifael slung her long hair and halted at the foot of Ivan’s bed. With pitch eyes and a coy grin, she ogled him. “Fate joins us again,” she whispered. She swept a black fingernail over him. “Stay sleeping, my love.” Ivan grimaced, now encased within a sensuous dreamscape. “And this time our seed shall mend history, corrupting you at the same time.” She eased aside his coverings, undid his garments and caressed his paler parts. “And I shan’t lie below you.” He groaned as his condition became presentable, and she mounted and rode the bare horse. The fog of Ivan’s breath quickened like the snorts of a galloping steed, his eyes rolling wildly beneath lids locked in sin. And in that short space of devil-sown lust, just as a hundred monks have suffered since, yet another Gardiens friar fell from grace.

First light came as it always did, too soon for several of the senior friars of the abbey, and far too soon for Friar Odino after an eve’s pilgrimage to the wine cellar. Long before most of the dormitory woke, the senior monks fell into their routine tasks – care for the horses, preparation of morning meals, and various other duties that required them to be the first to start the day. Ivan’s predawn call-to-arms was breathing life back into the abbey catacombs. He would be joined by his permanent catacomb squire, Lazarus, who proved himself by making and replacing, lighting and extinguishing, the many catacomb torches. Between the two, the tunnels remained in pristine condition for the heavy monk-and-squire traffic that each day offered.

Troubled by his dreams of the previous night, yet unaware of the visit of the raven spirit, Ivan embraced his daily routine. From beneath his bed, he retrieved a wooden bowl draped with a cloth – his untouched meal from the prior eve. He left the dormitory with a flaming torch and the food bowl, crossed the dark abbey grounds, and entered a long building that held the catacomb entryway. He strode down its corridor, turned a corner, swung open a wooden door, and descended a stone staircase with torch on high. His stride was long and deliberate as he entered the catacombs, his rough robe flickering in the torchlight like a homespun curtain dancing in the breeze of an opened window.

As the monk drifted deeper into the ancient winding tunnels, arched recesses appeared between fluted columns of carved stone along one wall. The walls of the recesses consisted of elaborately carved grotesque figures. The strange tableaux stood, blackened with centuries of torch smoke, depicting hideous combinations of humans and beasts. There were knights with the heads of birds or dogs, demons and beasts of prey with human faces, creatures with horrific features and fur-covered, humanoid limbs. In all the hundreds of figures, there was a single constant – each bore a pair of bony wings, like those of bats. The ghastly wall sculptures were an aggregation of aberrations that only the damned and demented might appreciate. The friar had often wondered what possessed some long ago occupant of this dark labyrinth to make such a marvel of evil and despair.

Further down still, the carvings gave way to smooth walls in which were embedded a series of wooden doors, entrances to crypt rooms housing the mummified remains of privileged papal dignitaries: former abbots, friars of the Lower Council, even a few bishops and other nobility. The friar took to the right at one fork and at another to the left. The catacomb now opened into a maze of tunnels, twisting away in every direction. Ivan wove a familiar path through the labyrinth of stone blocks and chiseled subterranean rock, though his deep blue eyes were distant, drowned in a dark and troubled sea.

After a time, he stopped beside a narrow entryway. Securing the torch in a niche in the wall, he leaned into the darkness and spoke. “Lazarus, I bring more food. First you eat, then we light the torches.” He retrieved a slender wax wick from a pocket in his robe, lighting it on the torch. He slipped into the room and applied the wick to an oil lamp resting on an upturned oak keg. Dim light filled the tiny room, exposing a small plank bed set against the wall. On it sat a sleepy Lazarus, his hood off, his fists rubbing his eyes. The boy yawned, exposing a set of canine fangs, thick and blunt. 

Lazarus’ brow was heavy and his jutting jaw resembled that of a lower order of primate. At the peak of his forehead, running back along the center of his skull, were ridges that grew increasingly larger as they disappeared behind his head and joined precisely with his spine. But these lay mostly hidden, concealed by a thick mat of wild black hair that hung to the boy’s shoulders. Unlike the other resident cleric boys, his crown remained unshaven. Lazarus’ eyes were of such a piercing indigo blue that they appeared almost black in the dim light of the lamp. From the sides of his head, two folds of skin rose abruptly and then lay backward, resembling oversized, hairless bat’s ears rather than those of a boy. His appearance was more strange than hideous, his odd features somehow mythical and perhaps even alluring in an almost unholy way. A loose-fitting robe sprawled over the boy’s thin shoulders, eventually gathering about his ankles. Course burlap socks wrapped his feet, the bottoms frayed and caked black with grime trampled from the tunnel floors.

Ivan stood frozen for an instant, eyes wide, then stepped toward the plank bed so forcefully that the sleep-dazed boy cringed back against the wall. “Put it back on,” the monk ordered harshly. “This very moment!” Ivan set the bowl down with a clatter and searched the room. “Where is it? You are to wear the cowl always, boy! Do you hear me? Always!” The monk’s distracted gaze was gone, and in its place was a tortured expression that Lazarus thought must be anger, though it was not.
Ivan’s stern scolding awoke him fully, and the boy obeyed, reaching behind himself to retrieve the hood from the bed, complaining as he slipped the mask over his head. “Friar, I can not sleep. The cowl turns and covers my breath.”
Ivan sat beside him, and Lazarus turned his head so that Ivan could tighten the laces on the back of the hood. “No matter. You must wear it always. Turn up the cloth flap over your mouth, if you must, but leave the face-cowl on.”
“Might I wear the new cowl, Friar?”
“‘Tis not ready. I am stitching it, still.” Ivan worked his fingers down the leather laces, periodically tightening them, whilst Lazarus aligned the holes with his eyes. “It shall be ready soon,” Ivan said, his voice losing some of its hardness. “Now, keep these laces drawn tightly, and this one shan’t turn so. Ah, I see. Your hair is a bit too full. We shall thin it when I finish the new hood.” Tying the cords off firmly, the monk rose from the bed. “There, tight again. If you remove it again, then be certain I shall discipline you for it, Lazarus. Now, here. Eat.” Ivan retrieved the bowl and set it in Lazarus’ hands. 

The monk moved over to the doorway and leaned against it. Now and again, he peered out of the room and back at Lazarus, as if keeping guard over the boy. He watched as bits of bread soaked in goat’s milk disappeared under the hood. Shortly, Ivan pulled the torch from the wall. “I shall prepare the torch wrappings. Meet me in the wine cellar when you have finished,” Ivan stated, stepping out of the doorway.

Lazarus called to him, “Friar, may I ask you a question?”
Ivan returned “What is it, son?”
“Why does the gatestone scream?”
“Scream? Why do you say that it screams?”
“It feels louder than I have ever recalled, as if it were in my very room.”
“I do not wish for you to think about that…thing, Lazarus. Leave it alone. You are not to know it exists. Think of something else, perhaps birds, trees, or the big rolling rivers of which I have told you. Consider even angels in all of their purity. Can you do that for me?”
“I shall, Friar.” Ivan was about to leave the cell when the boy called after him again.
“Can birds fly as high as angels? To Heaven, even?”
“No, Lazarus.” Now the monk sounded only tired. “Heaven is for Man, not for the beasts of the earth or the fowls of the air.” Then he added, “Do not mention the gatestone again. Not to anyone.” 
“Friar – am I a Man?”
“You are still a boy. You have much to learn, but one day… Enough questions. Eat. And remember what I speak of the gatestone – do you gather me?”
“I do, Friar.” Lazarus turned back to his food as Ivan disappeared.
***

Aboveground, in the empty cathedral, a black beetle emerged from a hollow and scurried across the stone floor toward the sanctuary. It crossed the chancel through the last light of a morning moon and ran against the slab upon which the altar sat. Between the floor and the slab ran a thin crevice, and the beetle searched for an entrance roomy enough for its winged and hunched back. At once, its motion ceased. Frozen, it flipped onto its back. The insect had found not an entrance but an exit, and seeping from that crevice was a living darkness. 

The curious beetle was swallowed in the pitch shade that radiated from far below, spreading up and straight through the flagstones like light – yet this was the antithesis of light, a darkness more fell than any starless night. Where the blackness touched, there was nothingness, and even shadows of the moon seemed bright by comparison.

As this most unholy darkness reached the edge of the sanctuary, a blast of dust accompanied the noise of a steady hiss that originated from beneath the altar stone, blowing like a volcanic vent. An acrid, sulfurous substance corrupted the air as a pale gas ebbed from the crevice and began to gather form, roiling whilst growing increasingly dense. The shifting mass bolted upward, weaving and spiraling through flying buttress columns and circling the ceiling like a trapped housefly. Then it dived, strafing the sanctuary with tendrils of oily, noisome cloud before disappearing down a corridor of clergy dressing rooms.

In a corner of a dressing room, heavy against the floor, the cloud gurgled as the mist thinned, revealing a darkening mass that grew within. Bone, ligament, tissue, and skin congealed, ending with a hawk-like screech that ripped through the silent corridors of the cathedral. — just like hundreds of times before. Another grotesque was born, another Eljo offspring delivered through the Gardiens monolith. The child was of an ancient and beastly breed, old as the dawn of Hell and spawned only from the carnal union of Man and an angel wicked enough to deliver such an aberration of Creation. The grotesque was a female, nearly human in form, and comparable with a girl of six or seven years in size and stature. Aside from silver hair, her appearance was a perfect mirror image of the squire boy, Lazarus.
***

From the eye view of a bird in flight, the cathedral abbey formed the shape of a cross, with a vertical main hall intersected by a pair of spreading wings. There were three sets of external double doors: the main entrance, positioned at the base of the cross, and others at the outermost of each wing. The sanctuary lay at the heart of the cross, atop the monolith. The confessionals and the penitence and flogging rooms lined the head of the cross. The sacristy, vestry, and practical rooms stood housed in the left arm of the cross, and an oratory of terraced seats formed the right arm. 

The dark hours of predawn flew by, and steady clanging haunted the countryside as the bell tower ushered forth another day of ora et labora – prayer and work. In the dim light of dawn, long formations of monks drifted through a thin mist toward the oratory wing of the cathedral. A clinking noise of outer door latches shattered the crypt-like peace within the church. An acolyte cleared a path with a smoking censer, swinging the perforated metal ball to and fro like a pendulum. Long rows of terraced wooden seats faced one another across a wide center aisle. The foremost seats were flush with the floor, whilst the rear rows pressed against the walls. Each seat, save designated guest seats nearest the back walls, belonged to but one monk. The columns of priests broke apart, and each man found his way to his respective place. 

Together, Friars Ivan and Odino stepped up and shuffled down the same aisle. Only a few seats down, Ivan stopped and whispered over Friars Clodius and Greville, “Find any more rats, Clodius?” Clodius replied with a defiant glare. 
 
Ivan smirked and moved on as Odino stopped and patted the top of Greville’s head. “He has managed to find Greville, here!” The sour monk slapped Odino’s hand away. 
 
Odino chuckled and followed Ivan as Greville growled after him, “Your day comes soon enough, Odino!”
 
“Pay them no mind,” Clodius consoled Greville with high chin and stiffened lip. “Even without the Abbot, we shall see both of them humbled.”

As he sat several seats down, Ivan noticed the occupied seat below him and broke into a grin. “Nicholas!” A hearty sun-tanned young friar looked up and smiled at him. Absent from the abbey for several months, Friar Nicholas remained stationed as the town priest of the nearby village of Murat. 
 
Nicholas spoke, “The prodigal monk returns!”
 
Ivan chuckled and asked, “How fare the good people of Murat?”
 
“They are in sore need of guidance.” Ivan nodded in confirmation. 
 
Odino approached and, spotting Nicholas, he halted abruptly. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
Odino rushed forward, Nicholas arose, and the two monks embraced. 
 
“Tis good to see you again,” Nicholas replied.
 
Odino whispered mischievously in his ear, “And how fares the lovely widow of Murat?”
 
Nicholas sighed and shook his head at the floor. “She tries my faith, brother.” They snickered as nearby heads turned to reveal expressions of utter constipation. The two friars collected themselves and sat. The bell of the abbey tower tolled and the assemblage fell quiet.

From a front row seat, a young friar rose and stepped toward a podium that was in the center of the aisle. Atop the podium sat an open oversized binding of the Holy Scriptures. The young monk rounded the prop, bowed respectfully, and kissed the book. He cleared his throat, rested a pointing finger in its pages and read aloud, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who…”

“Screech!” The priest grabbed the podium and turned about, searching intensely for the origins of the horrid voice that pierced the air. More than a hundred pairs of wide eyes darted past him and toward the Sanctuary. Mouths dropped. Nearly all of the monks had heard that sound before, yet they wore identical expressions of confusion.

Abbot Vonig leapt to his feet, scowling, all eyes directed upon him. “I expect all but the Lower Council to return to the dormitory. At once!” Nicholas and a hundred other frightened monks jumped to their feet and found their way to the door. The Abbot called after them, “Prostrate yourselves in your cells and repeat your acts of contrition ‘til I bid otherwise!” Thirty-three senior monks remained, including Ivan, Odino, Clodius and Greville.

When the last priest had exited and closed the cathedral door, Vonig turned to scrutinize the remainder of the congregation of astonished faces. His own countenance glowed with anger and was twisted in disgust. More screeches echoed. As Vonig’s burning eyes swept across the rows of monks, craning heads drooped and curious eyes fell hastily to examining the floor.

“Which of you is responsible? Confess yourself!” No priest confessed. Vonig turned and stormed to the podium. “Very well, then. Take your positions!” Instantly, they obeyed, knowing the routine that followed: With each new grotesque born, all paid the price. They always did, and they would pay now, just as they would many times to come. As one, the Lower Council friars rose, stepped down from the terraced rows, and gathered in the center aisle. Each dropped to his knees, clasping his hands in the small of his back.

Before the Sanctuary, the three investigators braced themselves and swung the door open — nothing. The monks stepped carefully into its dim interior. Save a few robe-draped statues, pedestals, and other religious artifacts, the room stood empty. “Hiss!” Their heads popped up to discover the grotesque with wings spread and wild silver hair baring fangs and perching on a stony ledge near the ceiling. She let fly a torrent of angry sounding words, strange and exotic to the ear – the language of angels.

Glaring over the podium at the shaved crowns of heads humbly bowed, the Abbot turned his attention to the book before him. He flipped through its pages, his neck and ears glowing red in anger as screeches and foreign words still rumbled. One of the three investigators returned, clasping a flesh wound on his jaw. Blood seeped between his fingers and dotted the floor. “Leave us,” the Abbot responded. “Tend your wound.” The monk bowed and left a considerable trail of red toward the cathedral door whilst shouts and screeches attested to the continued struggle in the Sanctuary.

Shortly, his two companions approached, wrestling with a struggling grotesque wrapped in a monk’s robe. The Abbot stopped them at the podium and they held her against the floor. Muffled yet insistent, she continued her running harangue of angelic condemnations.

Vonig stabbed a finger onto the scriptures and screamed over her and his congregation, “And the Lord said: Go, get thee down, for thy people have corrupted themselves!” His rage thundered through the flying buttresses of the ceiling. The Abbot stole a glimpse at the priests’ long faces. A seemingly strange calm fell over him, his features changing in tune with an altogether different mindset. Gently, he closed the book, patted its cover, and stared at it.

He heaved the book from the podium, raised it high, and hurled it. The book crashed to the floor between the monks. Leaning over the podium, he bellowed as the protestations of the grotesque punctuated his tirade, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me! Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in the heavens, in the earth, or in the waters beneath the earth! Thou shalt neither bow down nor serve them, for I am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me!”

Vonig beheld them intently, but as a father to his wayward sons, trying to convince himself that these were not evil men. As their Abbot, their failure was his failure, their guilt his guilt. Nevertheless, men are men, holy or not, the Abbot told himself. Even as Adam desired a woman’s loins, lust is lust, in wicked heart or pure, even as a writhing snake knew Adam’s loins. From monkey to monk, desires of the flesh lay seared into the blueprint of Creation. This new grotesque confirmed Vonig’s belief that Man would continue to obey the Laws of Creation even at the expense of his own laws of faith. 

The Abbot rounded the podium and strode amongst them. “You!” He kicked a monk. “What shall I do with the thing?”
 
The startled priest responded, “I know not, Abbot. ‘Tis not mine.”
 
“All of them are yours,” Vonig scolded him. “You are a Council friar!” He moved to another. “You! Where shan’t I go with it?” 
 
The second replied, “Atop the church?”
 
“And why not?” The Abbot matter-of-factly questioned.
 
“‘Tis full.”
 
“Indeed. ‘Tis so.”
 
“Perhaps the Notre Dame?”
 
“Oh, but they desire no more.”
 
A third monk spoke up, “Abbot, I know of holy ground to the north – a new cathedral. Might we send the gift to…”
 
Vonig spun about and cut him off, “No! No more of them leave the grounds of the Council monasteries! We have every order of the Holy See convinced that Gardiens and Cancello are filled only with master stone smiths, sculpting these…these gifts! Would that we might master ourselves. No, not gifts. Sins! Yours, sealed in stone! Enough!” The monk broke his gaze from Vonig’s piercing glare. Vonig turned and paced between them, “Gather this much. The statues are but timeless records of your sins – records in stone that shall earn you a just claim to Hell. And this woman spirit of the gatestone…”

Immediately, a flood of carnal images flashed through Ivan’s mind, perverse mental pictures of his dreamed union with Lucifael, and he realized that the midnight tryst had been no dream as he had first fancied.

“She is alluring, is she not? Ripe and willing? And oh, so eager to please…” Vonig’s voice echoed throughout the chamber.

Ivan’s eyes flew wide open and settled on the bound and struggling grotesque, as the full realization of the unwitting part he had played in its creation nearly overwhelmed him.

“And when you earn damnation, perhaps this mistress of your lust shall greet you in Hell and comfort you as she once did on earth. Yet, since she shall no more have need to tempt you with her lurid charms to see you fall, perhaps she might comfort you in her true form –that of a hideous serpent or a dragon. And if the woman-spirit is really the Devil himself? Oh, indeed, perhaps he might comfort you in ways you can not even gather. Perhaps he can defile your body whilst you scream – have his way with you – forever. Oh the imaginative ways that he might do so, the many torments. Can you even count them, the infinite ways that shall make even the hardest man weep the tears of a frail girl, all the whilst burning, forever screaming in the fires of Hell?” Vonig scowled over the lot of them. He retrieved the Scriptures from the floor, kissed it, and strode back to the podium. He slammed it down, his wrath echoing throughout the cathedral.

Ivan knew that his confession would only jeopardize Lazarus’ safety, and as any righteous and protective parent would do, he obeyed his instincts and offered nothing.

The Abbot slapped the sweat from his forehead and bellowed, “There are idle hands amongst us! I shall see them busy again, building a new bell tower for the Abbey!” He raised his head and searched the dim upper regions of the cathedral wing. He clasped his hands, and in a composed voice, he shared his vision with them. “It shall be taller and deeper. It shall be larger at the base than the top and shall have terraces enough to hold a thousand grotesques. First, there must be sunlight — the tower shall rise high enough into the heavens that the sun never sets on these stone demons. If need be, the tower shall pierce the clouds. Secondly, the tower must stand on hallowed ground — one of you shall be locked inside the tower, praying at all times, and you shall toll the bell as penitence for the remainder of your days. In that way, the tower shall become more hallowed even than our cathedral. Lastly, for warding off Evil, we shall make the tower round, so that your abominations face every direction. The Devil shall see your stone grotesques from every hill and valley on earth and shall fear these grounds. Now, you might say to me that erecting such a tower is not possible. If so, my reply to you is simple: You shall show me why it is not possible by your labors, by building it. Pray, what say you now?”

“Screech!” The grotesque thrashed about as the two friars wrestled with it. Ivan clenched his jaw more tightly to hold back the words that might escape, the truth of his unwitting transgression.
 
“Rise,” Vonig yelled. The monks stood as one.
 
“This grotesque shall be exposed to the sun at first light and so be made into stone. Then I shall have it transported to Italy, to Cancello, for placement. With it, I shall send a letter to Abbot Domingus, directing that henceforth any grotesque born in his monastery shall be sent here. From this time onward we shall bear our sins and those of our brothers. Now, to the bathhouse. Bind and place it under close guard until the morrow.” With a curt wave of the hand, he dismissed the two monks and they carried the straining grotesque out of the church. 
 
He then turned his attention back to the monks, “As you are well aware, since we found the grotesque this morn, this carnal union certainly occurred sometime last eve. If none of you fathered it, I expect each of you to speak with the priests and squires who serve under you. If one of you discovers who fathered this demon, I expect you to inform me immediately. And I need not remind you that this meeting is for Lower Council friars only. Speaking of Council matters or mentioning the gatestone is punishable by death.” Vonig pounded the podium. “I shall have my Abbey back! Now, leave my sight!” As one, the Council friars turned and filed toward the door. With that, the Abbot lowered his head and rubbed his temples.

Last in line, Ivan was about to step through the door when Vonig called after him, “Friar Ivan!” 
 
Ivan stiffened and turned slowly, his heart in his mouth. “Yes Abbot?”
 
“Do you wish to confess something?” 
 
The moments that passed between the question and the answer seemed as long as days to Ivan. “No Abbot.”
 
“Really?” More days passed. “Do you deny there is a rat in your catacombs?”
 
“A rat?”
 
“Thou shalt not kill?” Vonig said, a tired smile creeping over his face. “If only my monks saw their duty as clearly as your catacomb squire.”
 
“Yes, Abbot,” Ivan replied.
 
“You may go.”
 
Ivan bowed and hurried out of the cathedral, heavy in heart with his newly discovered sin.





Chapter 4


City of Avignon – May 1347

The afternoon air hung thick with the smell of rain, and the western sky lay black. Cardinal Lean arrived in Avignon from England, blustering into the courtyard of Chateau Mallow in a heavily guarded carriage. Dust churned around the striding entourage only to be swallowed up by larger whirling dust clouds born of the encroaching storm. Lean sat forward and peered out of a window as the coach neared the entrance, and he discovered that some members of his advance guard wandered about dazedly. 

Lean’s escort captain spurred his steed forward, toward the chateau entrance. He reigned in his horse and hailed to his nearest man. "Sergeant! Have you secured the grounds?"
The sergeant looked up with a drawn expression of disapproval. “Captain, we have; however — one of the cardinals — we found him just as he is.”
“Just how,” the captain asked, quickly dismounting his horse. 
Lean bolted from the carriage, holding a hand on his wide-brimmed hat as he tipped it against the wind. The captain and three other escort guards joined Cardinal Lean and the party entered the chateau. Upstairs, the noise of a steady hum intensified as they neared Cardinal Basiliste’s bedchamber. They swept into the room and froze. Several of them moaned and averted their gaze. Cardinal Lean pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth as a guard ran to the open window and retched. 

Before Lean, a black and bloated Basiliste lay in bed whilst his face entertained a clinging mass of yellow jackets. The insects streamed back and forth through the open window, lugging stung maggots away from the hollows of his head. The dead cardinal was unconcerned, as he lay rigid and putrid, his eyes drying upon the floor like a pair of dirty coins. 

Lean was not a man to dote upon such intricacies. He examined the room, his eyes coming to rest upon the parchment leaf lying on the desk, and stepped forward in haste to inspect it. Lean lifted the parchment of the cardinal’s last words, which were addressed to him. Shortly after, the party exited the chateau as hastily as they entered. Lean scanned the letter as he marched. "The Apocrypha! Rush like the wind!" he growled whilst ducking into the coach. "Mount, at once!" the captain bellowed to his guards as he leapt into the saddle. Men hurried for their steeds. The captain spurred his mount to the head of the party. The carriage lurched and catapulted forward. Lean tore his eyes away from the letter and shuddered. With a charging army of twenty-four troops, the cardinal rode west over the Rhone River Bridge, away from Avignon and toward the Apocrypha, toward a monstrous thunderhead swallowing up the horizon. Lean’s attention, however, was consumed with his grave responsibility to the Council of the Apocrypha, and to Pope Clement, who remained ignorant of all matters concerning the Council. 

With Cardinals Xavier and Basiliste murdered, Lean was the last surviving Upper Councilman. Everything that the Council kept cloistered for nearly five centuries now rested on his shoulder. And though canonical law decreed that the Vicar of Christ — the ruling pope — was the highest ranking member of the council, Lean knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to approach Clement directly. Previously, as a cardinal, Clement had argued fervently against any proposition to which, in his eyes, stood to strengthen the position of the Council of the Apocrypha. Clement had always felt that the Council undermined the authority of the College of Cardinals, and Lean entertained no hope that the man had changed his colors since becoming the ruling pope. Nevertheless, he was determined to secure a visitation with Clement, even by force, if necessary. And if it came to that, he was prepared to justify such an act of insubordination by doing something that had never been done before in the history of the Apocrypha Council —removing the evidence from the archive of the Apocrypha and presenting it directly to Clement in person. 

Lean and Clement were opposites in character. In a word, they clashed. Both were quite aware of their disparate natures. Lean was a man of few words, modest, apprehensive, and sincere. Clement was tactless and impatient, enjoying the luxury and social lifestyle of his office. As pontiff, his demeanor was more that of the debonair monarch than the austere messenger of God. When conversations between them did occur, they were formal, brief, and largely uneventful. In the four years since the advent of Clement’s ascension, Cardinal Basiliste had approached the pontiff repeatedly regarding matters of the Apocrypha. Each time, he had been refused an audience on the grounds that more urgent matters demanded Clement’s immediate attention, such as new palace construction, affairs of state, finances and taxation. Clement had neglected to appoint new members to the Upper Council, even after the death of Cardinal Basiliste, and his inaction had caused the once-powerful body’s influence to wane. It seemed to Lean that this was almost certainly deliberate neglectfulness on Clement’s part, and yet, Lean now had little choice but to force himself on Clement and remind him of his responsibility to the age-old body of the Council of the Apocrypha. 

The Council’s Apocrypha had been constructed in 1334 by order of Pope Benedict XII, who, despite voicing aspirations to return the papacy to Rome, removed all papal records from the Vatican to the new stronghold in France. The tomblike building lay in the vast, damp valley of the Rhone, surrounded on three sides by steep ravines that lay shrouded in second-growth woods and thorny brush. To the east, the ramparts of Avignon towered over the river valley gorge, but just to the west, the grandeur of the city dwindled — along with its stench. 

Less than an hour elapsed before the heavily guarded coach bearing the seal of the Church of Rome labored up a steep, rutted path screened by tall stands of evergreens. The stone battlements that rose darkly beyond the trees were as black as the sky behind them. Suddenly the winds reversed and turned to ice, followed by flashes of lightning and great rolls of thunder. In only a few moments, fat raindrops had paved the way for torrential rains. Lean’s entourage struggled up the narrow mudslide of a road. Several mud-caked guards dismounted and pressed against the back of the carriage to urge it forward. They heaved it out of puddles and moved onward, inch by inch, foot by foot. Lightning illuminated the road ahead whilst outlining the ever-looming silhouette of the Apocrypha. 

No window interrupted the stony exterior of the imposing block fortress. Its single entrance was attended, day and night, by watches of Council guards, men hand-picked by the Upper Council for their strength of body and will, and for their unwavering loyalty. Even the rigid protocol of King Philip’s Royal Guard was lacking by comparison. Within those guarded walls lay words of scripture known but to few living men, including: the complete, once-scriptural, books of Enoch, Jubilees, Giants and others; ancient scrolls written in tongues not heard on earth in a thousand years; artifacts of the long-destroyed Grecian Library of Alexandria; Assyrian clay cylinders that detailed the years following the Great Flood and confiscated from Jewish temples in the earliest crusades; and much more. The Apocrypha’s archives held all the existing secrets of the Church, and held them close. 

Lean sought material that lay contained in four specific bindings — texts that the cardinal knew nearly by memory. Although it was against his better judgment to remove anything from the Apocrypha, he could fathom no better approach to the task that lay before him: to convince Clement of things that no sane man would dare believe to be truth. 

The first of the four bindings, the largest of them, was the Statue Physique. It contained detailed descriptions of the Council monasteries and their two gatestones. It also contained the history of each. The first gatestone was unearthed in 876, during the reign of Pope John VIII. Located in current Molise Province in Italy, the excavation site was also an ancient Samnite settlement known as Aescernia. The second gatestone was discovered in 877, under Pope Stephen VI. Found in current Augergne Province in France, the monolith sat atop a stony hill south of the Loire River. 

The second of the books was the Council Proclamations. It listed the historical membership of the Apocrypha Council. It listed every pontiff and councilman ever to serve the Upper and Lower Councils. It also contained the Council’s bylaws. 

The third binding was the Reformation Exclusions and was scribed by Pope Benedict XII in 1336. These were special amendments or exclusionary clauses to the papal bull: the Redemptor Noster. It allowed the Apocrypha Council to govern its two monasteries in ways that it saw fit. 

The fourth and last of the texts sought by Lean was the Naramsin Translations. These frail bound pages dated back three centuries and were collectively named after their author, Naramsin, a recorded Gardiens cleric who, through dedicated service, had managed single-handedly to decipher the French monolith. The translations represented a Latin rendering of the strange language carved upon the faces of the French stone. And since the etchings on the Italian stone were identical, the Naramsin papers served as translation for both gatestones. 

Lean knew that any of the four texts might serve to awaken the unconcerned pontiff to the real danger at hand, yet it would take all four to bring the man under Lean’s, and thus under the Apocrypha’s, control. He must be made to see the truth, if the Council was to survive. Lean’s carriage came to a halt, and he peered out of its portal to see silhouettes in a driving rain as they gathered in two ranks to flank a pair of massive iron-strapped doors, the entrance to the Apocrypha. 

Within the Apocrypha and behind its great doors, wall torches illuminated a score of resolute guards lining the corridor entrance. On the other side of it, spear butts pounded against the door, followed by a muffled command. "Open, by command of His Eminence, Cardinal Lean of the Apocrypha Council!" 

Two guards removed iron bars and strained themselves to open the doors. Cardinal Lean and his captain bustled through, drenched completely from the heavy rain. The guards bowed as the two passed, and the doors closed behind them with a resounding thud. Never breaking stride, Lean and the captain disappeared into the dim hall, leaving a trail of water that dripped from their garments upon paved stones, which mirrored quivering reflections of the torch flames of the corridor. 

As Lean stepped around a corner and neared the end of a hallway, six guards abruptly made their presence known. They stood before a tall richly ornate door covered with intricate carvings, embossed with shimmering metal plating, and studded with precious stones. In Greek letters, the word APOCRYPHOS lay inscribed above its keystone. The door sergeant stepped forward, hand raised and with his palm outward. "Halt!" The guards behind him raised weapons in kind, and a clattering of heavy iron armor traveled through the hall. Lean halted before the Sergeant, who continued thus: "State the nature of…"
Lean swiped his hand aside briskly. "I have no time!" He leaned forth, cupped his hand, and whispered the words of passage into the sergeant’s ear. 
The soldier spun, clicked his heels, and addressed his door guards. "Give way to His Eminence, Cardinal Lean of the Council!" 

The guards quickly parted and the sergeant slipped a large brass key into the lock. They heaved open the tall door, and Lean took a torch from one of the guards before ducking through the doorway. The heavy and towering door slammed shut behind him with a loud clang. In the still darkness in which his torch was a tiny island of light, a silence enveloped him that was only disturbed by his own breath and a steady blowing sound of the torch flame. 

Lean moved through the blackness in quick strides, lighting an array of wall torches. The massive room took form as the cardinal whisked away the darkness. Numerous rows of book casings lined the walls, aisle upon aisle of them crisscrossing the floors, their shelves harboring a vast assortment of texts — manuscripts, scrolls, and inscribed clay cylinders — all of the secrets of the Holy See. Lean secured the torch in an empty bracket mounted against the side of a shelf. A spacious reading table illuminated before him. He lifted one of several wooden stools around the table and scurried down the many shelf rows. He turned a corner and froze, ice and dread in his veins. Several yards up the aisle a stepping stool already stood. He dropped the stool that he carried and ran to the other one. 

Lean climbed atop the new stool and searched the shelves, scanning feverishly before he found it — the Statue Physique. With a sigh and an apparent second wind, he retrieved the massive book and hurried to the reading table. He no sooner dropped it on the table, settled himself into a chair, and cracked open the cover than his heart leapt into his throat. Some of the pages were missing. 
"No!" he gasped whilst flipping the pages, hand over his mouth, eyes wide and glistening with a mixture of astonishment and deep terror. Nearly half of the pages were gone, torn out. "No. No!" He bolted from the table and ran for the closed door. 

"Open this door at once!" Lean cried, pounding his fist against it. A key clicked in the lock and he pushed open the heavy door, filled with newfound strength. 
 
"Who has been in the archive?" Lean screamed. 
 
The sergeant stammered, "Your uhm….only…only cardinals of the Council have been admitted."
 
Lean leaned into his face and growled, "I am the last of the Council. The last! There is no other!"
 
"What of Cardinal Masson," the soldier asked.
 
Lean jolted back, and his expression crumpled. "Masson? There is no such cardinal." 
 
"He…this Masson knew the words of passage, Your Eminence! My orders are to allow…"
 
"The key, give it to me!" Lean interrupted. The solder obeyed. Lean stuffed the key beneath his robe. "I know your orders, guard!" Lean collected himself. "Tell me, what did he look like? Was he dressed…," Lean pointed to his own scarlet robes, "as a cardinal?" 
 
"Yes, Your Eminence. He claimed to be a newly elected Council member. He said that he had been sent by His Holiness to inspect Apocrypha records. And he knew you quite well." 
 
"Sergeant, my reason for visiting the Apocrypha is to inform His Holiness of his obligations to it. How might he issue orders regarding things of which he knows nothing?" 
 
"Your Eminence, my orders are…"
 
"Mother of God," Lean mumbled. His hands were trembling and his eyes tracked back and forth over the floor before locking back with the sergeant’s and narrowing. "What did he look like, this Cardinal Masson?" he pressed. 
 
"He was quite certain of himself, carried himself like a cardinal. Your height, blond hair, fair skin, but his eyes were quite odd: one brown eye and the other white! The soldier pointed to his left eye. "This one was blind." 
 
Lean hardened and ground his teeth. There was only one cardinal with such eyes. Damn him, Lean thought. Blasi. The College must have put him up to it. 
 
"Who came with him — the escort?" Lean demanded of the bewildered sergeant. 
 
"He came alone, Your Eminence, on his own mount." 
 
"On his own?" Lean huffed loudly. "Sergeant, I come with tens of guards and an armored carriage. Did you not think it odd that a cardinal might travel outside the palace, let alone out of the city, unescorted? On a steed, at that?" 
 
"Your Eminence, each time he came, this Masson, he whispered to me exactly the words you yourself used moments ago or I would have not allowed him inside. My orders…" 
 
"I know your orders!" Lean erupted. "‘Each time he came,’ you said. How many times has he been here, sergeant? How many times did you open these doors to this intruder?" 
 
"Many in recent days," the sergeant said lowly. "I expect him again on the morrow. Shall I take him into custody, Your Eminence?" 

Lean knew that without Clement’s knowledge of the Apocrypha, Blasi’s arrest might only serve to anger him and inflame an already fragile situation. "No, sergeant," Lean replied calmly. "Simply refuse him access to the Apocrypha. Do not arrest him. The new Council shall decide what to do with him." Then another thought came to him. "Have you ever repeated the words of passage to anyone?" 
 
"Me, Your Eminence? I have not. I am forbidden by order to do so." 
 
"Never? Even to yourself?" 
 
"Never, Your Eminence." 

The man had stood guard over the same door for nearly two decades. Lean had no reason not to believe him. Then it became clear in his mind as if he saw the key turn in the lock and a door to a sinister truth open — he saw it at once. Cardinal Basiliste was tortured into confessing the words of passage, which assuredly connected Blasi with Basiliste’s murder. 

"You shall say nothing of this to anyone. We shall change the words of passage before I leave. No one crosses the threshold of the archive, not one, save me. Do you understand me?" 
 
"Indeed, Your Eminence. I do," the sergeant hastily agreed. 
 
"One thing more: Did the intruder come or go with anything, even a sliver of paper?" 
 
The sergeant answered, "On the first day he removed two bindings from the archive, and I insisted he return them. I angered him, yet he complied. Since then, he has carried nothing away in his hands. I inspected his robe to the best of my abilities, yet I dared not demand a search of his person, since he was, or so I gathered, a Council Cardinal," the man burst out. Cheeks flaming, he eyed the floor stones as he murmured, "Exactly as I did you, Your Eminence." 
 
Lean frowned. "Speak no more of this. Close the door." 
 
"Yes, Your Eminence." The sergeant heaved the tall door closed, and Lean withdrew the key from his vestments, locking the door from inside. He returned to the reading table. 

Lean assessed the damage, gathering what Blasi might have learned from the torn pages. He flipped through more pages. "Damn!" Lean pounded his hand on a missing section. He searched deeper in the book only to find all of Naramsin’s translations removed. "Damn him!" He slammed his fist on the table. His anger resounded through the shelf, the floor, and perhaps even to the very core of the earth. Through Clement, Lean would see to it that Blasi kept silent. 

"CAW! CAW!" There came a raspy call, "CAW!" A startled Lean jolted his head up to find a fluttering raven perched atop a bookshelf, whipping the air with its wings. Lean rose slowly. "How in the…" The bird lunged at Lean, aiming squarely for his eyes. With a shriek, the cardinal stumbled back. As quickly as lightening, the screeching black feathers tore open his face with its flashing beak and talons. In a mask of blood and blinded, Lean scrambled backward, crashed into a massive shelf and fell down. The shelf rocked back and the raven took flight. On his knees and clearing his eyes of blood, Lean discovered the bird perched calmly atop the shelf where he first saw it. Slowly, he rose to his feet. 

"Creak!" Lean looked over his shoulder to see the rocking bookcase now falling toward him. He held his arm out and screamed. An avalanche of books and shelving came down on him and scattered across the room even to the tall door. The torch, mounted against the side of the shelf, crashed atop the heap of books and set them ablaze. Then all fell quiet — all but a crackling flame and the muffled moan of a cardinal pinned beneath the rubble. At once, the form of the raven burst into a cloud of dissipating smoke and vanished. 
"Your Eminence!" The sergeant called to him, beating against the tall door. 

Beneath the case, Lean lay bound with broken legs and shattered ribs. Books and shelving blocked him on every side. Smoke crept through the heap. "Dear God! Help me! Guards!" he cried. 

The smoke rolled along the surface of the floor, and beneath the threshold of the door, it gathered around the sergeant’s boots. "Fetch a ram! Summon every soldier! Now," the sergeant bellowed to his men. They scattered. He pounded against the door. "Cardinal Lean! Open the door!" 

Time passed and the smoke thickened. When the soldiers returned with their ram, they pounded against the tall door, doing so with stinging tears and to the choking screams of a cardinal burning feet-first. 
 
***

It so happened that fate had been kind to Cardinal Blasi. Had Lean lived but one day more, Blasi would have been accused of murder. The Pope would have had little choice but to begin a thorough investigation of the Apocrypha, which would have revealed the secret that the Council guarded. The Pope would surely have appointed a new Upper Council body, even whilst Blasi rotted in a pauper’s grave. Instead, Blasi now found his way magically cleared of obstacles. 

On the day after flames engulfed the Apocrypha, the pontiff’s Lord-at-Arms, Captain Pitro, was dispatched to investigate the accident. Pitro returned with his findings: Cardinal Lean’s death and the consuming fire, which destroyed the contents of the archive, was a mere accident. The matter was dropped and the Papacy continued its investigation of Basiliste’s murder, though it was not considered a priority. With King Philip’s scheduled visit to the Popes’ Palace less than two months away, ‘twas politics that occupied the minds and tongues of the palace. The Apocrypha and its secrets would have to wait. After all, England had occupied parts of French soil, and Philip needed Pope Clement’s help under the current truce to reclaim the lost territories of the north. 

Over the course of the following month, Blasi had ample enough opportunity to mull over the records he had stolen. Of keen interest to him were the Naramsin Translations. In the privacy of Chateau Rouge, he read and reread the fascinating text. If these things are real, he thought, awestruck, then my brother’s specter spoke true: this monolith has the power not only to drive Edward from France, but to crush him, and all of England with him. 

‘Twas early afternoon when Blasi stepped into the cloister courtyard of the papal palace. He spotted Julin walking across the grounds leading two servant boys. Upon the boys’ shoulders stretched a long bolt of midnight-blue cloth studded with silver buttons. 
"Cardinal Julin! A moment of your time," Blasi shouted across the gallery. As he neared Julin, another red robe, this one adorning Cardinal Firmus, converged. Firmus was also a palace overseer, and his duties made him the most intensely disliked of all the Palace Cardinals. He investigated, documented, and reported all palace affairs directly to the Pope. In short, Firmus was the Pope’s eyes and ears, and he carried himself as if he had already been elected as the next Pope. However, in truth, his was no more than a self-consumed nosey body. 

"Julin, do you know the whereabouts of Cardinal Toussain?" Blasi asked. 
Firmus interrupted, "Blasi, have you marked the three wine barrels for His Majesty, King Philip?" 
"I did, yestermorn," Blasi answered curtly before turning back to Julin and repeating, "Where is Toussain?" 
Julin glanced over his shoulder. "He was following us only a moment ago. Perhaps he… Ah! There he comes, now." Toussain stepped through the archway of the Cloister Gallery with both arms supporting a thick square of folded blue cloth. 

Firmus thrust his face between the cardinals, demanding Blasi’s attention. "Has Toussain filled His Majesty’s bottle crates and marked them?" 
Julin intercepted this query. "He has. Two eves prior." 
Toussain reached the group, out of breath and his countenance strained. "Julin, they shall drop the cloth and soil it if you stand about much longer," he snapped. Julin noticed the three grimacing boy servants, their feet shifting beneath considerable weight. 
"Oh, dear! Do not drop it! To the Banquet Hall!" Julin harped to his servant boys. He turned about and acknowledged the two cardinals. "Blasi. Firmus." He sped away, the boys trailing him. 
"I am only just behind you," Toussain called after him. He nodded to Blasi and Firmus, clearly making ready to hurry after Julin. Firmus stepped in front of him, crossing his hands behind him and rocking back on his heels. "His Holiness has requested me to confirm that the bottle crates are packed and marked," he said importantly, staring down his long nose at Toussain. "I expect they are?" 
"As they should be," Toussain snapped back. 
Blasi grunted, exasperated. "Only a moment ago, Julin admitted that Toussain has readied the bottles." 
Firmus tilted his head back even further, squinting down at Blasi as from some great height. "Indeed he has, yet I wish to hear Toussain’s words and not those of another. Oh, and tell me Blasi, have you placed a guard beside the wine barrels that you marked for His Majesty?" 
"There was no need," Blasi said, the corner of his mouth upturned with a small grin. "I informed the wine kegs that, if they attempt to escape the cellar, I shall personally see to it that they be drunk to death. Thus, they agreed not to escape." 
Toussain choked back a laugh, nearly losing his proper composure. Firmus’ brow hardened. "I shall pretend that I did not hear the jesting of cardinals," he said coldly. "Blasi, perhaps you have forgotten that England and France are at war. Perhaps you shall take personal responsibility if His Majesty were to fall poisoned and die." Turning to Toussain, he continued. "The Lord-at-Arms is not in the Guard Room. Have you seen him this day?" 

Blasi broke in. "Perhaps you have already discovered my wine barrels unguarded and have since sought out Captain Pitro to place a guard on them, yes? If so, then it might seem quite pointless of you to ask me if I had placed a guard." Firmus blustered, but Blasi gave him no opening. "Yet you did ask, perhaps because you intend to convince His Holiness that you have caught me in some horrible dereliction of duty? Might this be the design of your scheme, Firmus? To place yourself in a favorable light with the Holy See by shedding a poor light on me?" 
Firmus countered the accusation with a quote from the Book of Proverbs: "A fool uttereth all his mind: but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards." 

Toussain diplomatically disarmed the conflict by answering Firmus’ earlier question. "The Comte de Pointers has since arrived and is in the Dignitaries’ Wing. I believe you may find Captain Pitro there as well, Cardinal Firmus." 
"Yes, of course," Firmus agreed, eager to end the exchange with his own words. He nodded carefully to Toussain and Blasi. "Cardinal Toussain. Cardinal Blasi." 
Blasi allowed the man enough space to regain some of his equilibrium before calling after him, "And he that passeth by, and meddleth with strife belonging not to him, is like one that taketh a dog by the ears." 
Firmus stiffened visibly but continued walking as though he had not heard. Toussain bit his lip to conceal a creeping laugh. He leaned toward Blasi, whispering, "Captain Pitro is there, behind you." He gestured subtly toward the arches at the far side of the courtyard. "There, behind the furthest column. He speaks with a guard." 

"Ah, well done, Toussain." Blasi strolled over to the column. He found Pitro behind it and whispered in his ear. Pitro nodded to Blasi’s whisperings and then barked an order to the guard, who turned and hurried off in the direction of the Great Cellar. Blasi patted Pitro’s shoulder in gratitude and returned to Toussain. 
"My friend, we must speak. There are matters of grave importance I must share with you," Blasi urged, almost pleading. 
Toussain observed the other man’s manner, the twisting of the hands and eager posture. Looking past Blasi’s shoulder, he barked, "Boy! Come in haste!" 
A big-eared squire boy approached the scarlet-clad cardinals warily. "Your Em-nuh-ness?" 
"Eminence, boy," Toussain corrected him. "Emm-ih-nence. You are one of Cardinal Julin’s boys, yes?" 
"Yes, Your… Yes, sir." 
"Your master is in the Banquet Hall." Toussain offered the square of heavy silk to the scruffy child. "Now take this cloth to him. Tell Cardinal Julin that Cardinal Toussain shall be there shortly. And if you soil this cloth, squire, you shall answer for it. Do you understand me?" 
"Yes, Your Em-nuh-ness." 
Toussain handed over the material with a sigh. "Go on, then. Be off." The boy rushed away with the cloth. Toussain said speculatively, "Not the Cellar. You sent a guard in there. And I have servants in the Pantry. The Boteillerie Room?" 
"Good enough," Blasi replied. They left the courtyard together. 
The two red robes whispered together as they walked rough wooden stairs into the Boteillerie. Toussain inspected the six rooms for servants before motioning Blasi into the Bottle Storehouse, where they made their way through a maze of full and empty racks until they came to a rear corner of the room. Here they stood with clear advantage, as they were capable of spotting the approach of someone walking in on them long before the intruder might hear their hushed exchange of words. 
Blasi spoke for long moments whilst a stew of warring emotions passed across Toussain’s features: shock, skepticism, horror, distaste, and finally, open disbelief. "How can you expect me to believe something so absurd?" he requested stoutly, after Blasi had finished. "Like some fantastic tale!" 
Blasi defended himself. "Have you ever seen the two monasteries of which I speak mentioned in the papal tax records? Have you ever known of the purpose of the Council of the Apocrypha? Better still, what it holds in its archive? Do you know why the Council and its cardinals have always been separate from the church electorate? Toussain, I have seen records from the Apocrypha. What I tell you is truth, before God and France. They are guarding the very gates of Hell." 

"So, you might have me believe," Toussain said slowly, "that the Council of the Apocrypha built these monasteries to guard stones that are, in truth, the gates of Hell? I am to believe that if one speaks these inscriptions carved upon the stone one might open Hell itself. And these gatestones…" Toussain’s lips lingered around the word as though it had a noxious taste in his mouth. "These shall save all of France? Blasi, do you gather me a Palace Cardinal so respected by my peers over the years because I lack reason?" He huffed. "Even an imbecile would be hard-pressed to believe such a reckless claim as yours!" 

"‘Tis truth! I know it is difficult to grasp, but Toussain, I swear it is truth." 
"Very well." Toussain made his mouth into a grim line. "Let us suppose that you do speak the truth. Let us also suppose, Blasi, that you might find means to penetrate either of the Council’s monasteries, that you find this guarded stone and speak the words that might open the gates of Hell." Toussain looked pointedly at Blasi. "Supposing as much, how then shall you persuade its demons to do your bidding? What shall you say when these spawns of Satan spew from this stone? ‘Go forth, destroy the English?’" Toussain uttered a harsh, nearly shrieking laugh. "Inasmuch as a bird freed from a cage does not return on command, why must these spirits obey you once free? Moreover, how can you open and close a stone with words? No, Blasi, you speak as but a child overcome with excitement!" 

"There is much more to the gatestones than opening and closing them," Blasi countered. "In truth, they are similar to gates, yet they neither open nor close. Spirits can pass through them. The translations are in verse form, like Scripture. ‘Tis by these words, the words on the stones, that one can summon spirits from them — or return them." 
Toussain shook his head. "You have yet to answer my question. Why must these spirits do your bidding once you have freed them?" 
"The translations confirm that one can summon spirits from these gatestones and command them!" Blasi was nearly frantic in his desperate insistence, pounding a fist against the thick plank of the Bottle Room wall. "And there is more. I had a blessed vision not long ago. My brother, Jean-Jacques, who was slain by the English at Crecy, came to me. He spoke of…"
"Enough of this foolishness!" Cardinal Toussain blurted. "I am required in the Banquet Hall. Perhaps you can summon the spirit of your brother and your stone demons to help you. Neither Julin nor I shall stand by you when an inquisition accuses you of heresy, Blasi. Oh, you can be assured that I shall carry your wild tale to Julin, as you have asked, and you can be certain that he shall gather you thoroughly mad with fever — as do I." Toussain turned away. 
"No, wait. A moment more," Blasi called after him. 
Toussain did not halt or turn as he spoke. "I have never had this conversation with you, and if you claim I have…"
"Would you care to see the records for yourself?" Blasi made his way around the racks of bottles. "I have them." 
Toussain stopped abruptly and rubbed his chin. No College Cardinal would refuse the opportunity to peer into the Council’s records, regardless of Blasi’s senseless claims, if in truth Blasi was given access to whatever it was the Council had guarded so jealously for so long. 

"Show me these records, then. Let me see for myself and gather my own truths. If they are convincing, I shall hear more of it. If not, I shall return the records to you on the condition that you cease to trouble Julin and me with this madness. You shall forget that you have ever spoken to us about the matter. Do I have your word on it, Blasi?" 
"Indeed, you do. And do I have yours that you shall guard these records at every cost and return every leaf after your private inspection?" 
"I have no need for them. I shall return all." 
"Very well then." Blasi seemed almost to fall limp in his relief. He would have allies, once his friends saw what he had seen. "And when you discover that I speak the truth, I shall expect an apology from you." 
"It would serve as much," Toussain said and laughed, yet contemplatively. How ridiculous this man was in his madness. Nevertheless, the records of the Apocrypha… "‘Tis agreed." 
"I shall have the records for you at first light. I shall bring them to the Cellar." Blasi departed. 
Toussain watched Blasi cross the courtyard, waiting before leaving the Boteillerie. After all, the man may have already spoken this insanity to others and it would not do to be seen in the company of one who, Toussain was sure, would end up on the Inquisitor’s rack before a fortnight had passed. 

As agreed, Blasi was waiting in the Cellar the following morning. He gave Toussain the Apocrypha pages that he had torn out of the Statue Physique and various other bindings — nearly a hundred pages in all. It took Toussain only a few hours of spellbound reading to realize, with dawning horror, that Blasi spoke the truth. ‘All true,’ he thought, dazed. ‘All of it.’ He sat in his study for the remainder of the day, not moving, not eating or drinking, the ancient writings scattered about him. As darkness fell, he staggered to his feet as though struggling awake through the fog of a nightmare. "All true," he whispered to the empty room. Gathering the pages carefully, Toussain went in search of Cardinal Julin. 

City of Avignon - Popes' Palace - June 1347

The Conclave Hall of the Popes’ Palace stood lined with murals of religious scenes and paintings of papal dignitaries, and Flemish wall tapestries hung high over the lavish accommodations. The Hall stretched long and wide beneath towering walls, its floor spread like an ocean beneath the massive timbers of the ceiling. The arched beams of the roof resembled the inverted hull of a ship, perhaps fit for even Noah’s odyssey. The hall served as the Palace guestroom, a suite for visiting dignitaries that was suitable for any king. 

Guards and servants poured in and out of the Hall entrance, unpacking King Philip’s luggage. "Make way!" a voice bellowed from outside the door. The entryway cleared as guards bearing halberds escorted a fat cardinal through the door and to the far end of the Conclave Hall. They passed through the entrance and into an elaborately decorated Banquet Hall before stopping short. 

A large dining table was in the center of the room. Seated in a high-backed chair that commanded the table, King Philip enjoyed lamb. He dined alone. Before him, the table lay covered with gold and silver dishes. At his elbow stood a valet, ever ready to refill his wine goblet. 

One of the guards struck his halberd against the floor and addressed the Hall. "Cardinal Julin of the Holy See seeks an audience with His Majesty, King Philip of France." 
"See him in," Philip barked, coughing through a mouthful of meat. 
The guards allowed Cardinal Julin to continue forth as they turned and marched out of the Hall. Then the two fell away to either side of the door and froze into position beside the interior of the entryway. Julin approached the table and bowed. "Your Majesty." 
Philip looked up, carelessly wiping his greasy chin. "As always, Cardinal, your kitchens rival mine, and the service is incomparable. Have you considered my offer to head my kitchens and banquet hall, Julin? I shall reward you twice and again all that you now have. I would expect no more than what you do now for His Holiness." 
Julin smiled and bowed again. "I am most honored, Your Majesty, yet my service must remain with the Church." Philip shook his head in disappointment. 

"Well." Philip pointed to a silver tray. "It seems you have confounded even my valet this time, Julin. What is it?" On the tray rested two miniature oil lamps, a porcelain apparatus with three legs, and a tin of water. In the center sat a silk-lined box that was finely worked with paintings of dragons and housed a makeshift nest of straw with a single egg. 
"May I?" Julin asked. 
"Indeed you may," Philip assented, staring at the painted dragons. 
Julin assembled the pieces. "‘Twas acquired from a Genoese trade ship. I gathered you might enjoy it." He slipped the two lamps and the tin into position. Next, he retrieved the egg and slipped it into the contraption. "The lamps need lighting." 
"Bring a flame," Philip said and snapped his fingers. The valet left and returned with a flame. 
Julin lit the lamps. "The oils in the lamps are special, and the egg is prepared whilst you are busy with other dishes and may be eaten after your meal." A flame heated the tin of water beneath the egg. Another, set before a concave reflection plate, burned behind the egg. The focused light offered a view into the egg. 
Philip peered within to discover the darker yolk of the egg suspending in an opaque glow. "I must have one. What is the name of this three-legged contraption?" 
"Call it what you wish. ‘Tis yours, Your Majesty." Julin smiled, reaching in front of the valet to refill Philip’s goblet. "May I have a word alone with you?" 
Philip waved off the valet and opened his hand toward a chair. "Sit, Julin. Speak." Julin squeezed himself into the chair. "Egg window," Philip mumbled suddenly with a grin. 
"Your Majesty?" 
"The name of it…" Philip gestured toward the dragon-decorated tripod. "’Tis an egg window — since I can see within it." 

"Egg Window. Indeed, an excellent name." Julin cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, if I may. I gather that you came to seek the advice of His Holiness regarding Edward and…the most unfortunate happenings at Crecy." 
"Then someone has misled you," Philip stated, turning cold and distant. "Advice is like water: everywhere and always changing. Advice, I have. Paris is full of it. I need armies." 
"May I be more direct with you, Your Majesty." Julin leaned forward and whispered, catching a glimpse of the door guards as he spoke. 
"Guards! Leave us!" Philip called out. The soldiers stepped out of the great hall and disappeared behind closed doors. He leaned back and listened as Julin spoke of the Apocrypha’s Gardiens gatestone and its potential use as a weapon against the English. Julin explained how the King might help by lending him enough soldiers to gain control of the gatestone. 

"Thus, as you may now gather," Julin stated, concluding his explanation, "the situation is most dire and your assistance is critical." 
"Oh indeed! Of course. Of course," Philip stated, swallowing the last mouthful of meat. Philip bowed his head, grabbed a napkin, and slapped it over his mouth. Choking gasps followed. The king’s face flushed red. 
Julin rose from his seat. "Your… Your Majesty?" Julin grabbed a goblet of water from the table. 

Philip dropped the napkin, flung back his head, and burst into laughter, the hall echoing with his hilarity. Between chuckles he coughed, "Spirits…legions of ghosts? Yes, I shall destroy him with my ghosts. Indeed! With my trusted ghosts!" Philip cast his eyes toward the ceiling and bellowed with melodramatic sarcasm, "Be gone, Edward, or I shall summon my ghosts upon you!" 
Julin set down the goblet and fell back in his chair, deflated. "Your Majesty, I am in earnest." 

Philip’s face fell stern. He leaned forward on one elbow, glaring as he whispered, "As am I! I have already raised an army of ghosts, Julin — at Crecy. Bring them back. Bring back my armies. Allow them to avenge their deaths on Edward. Can your stone weave such magic?" 
Julin attempted further explanation. "The gatestone ‘tis a machine of sorts, yet…"
Philip folded his arms on the table and interrupted him. "And suppose you can release these ghosts of yours. What, then? How shall you ask them to destroy Edward? Tell me, Julin, how do ghosts slay? Perhaps they shall frighten Edward to death?" He slammed his fist onto the table. Julin jolted and leaned back. "Foolishness! I need warm bodies, men trained in battle! I need weapons. I need monies. If I wished to frighten Edward, I would send him a fleet of my finest ships brimming with the rotting heads of all the Frenchmen he slew!" Philip’s eyes were icy daggers and Julin dropped his gaze. Philip collected himself and leaned back in his chair. "Unfortunately, Cardinal, my convictions are not as — how might I say it — as refined as yours. I see battles won by blood, sweat, and well-supplied armies, not by ghosts. I did not come to Avignon for advice, or prayer, or promise, or for tales of magical stones. As I am well aware, the Holy See collects taxes from both France and England. France needs those monies for her continued defense, and I have come in the name of France, as her serving king, to recoup some of those taxes." 
"Your Majesty, with only a few of your men, I believe…" 

"No, Cardinal. Here is what I believe. I believe His Holiness has put you up to this. I believe His Holiness does not wish to extend me the loan and has sent you to give me yet another promise. Only this time, his promise is a damned army of ghosts." Philip lifted the egg from the contraption, sat back, and began peeling it. "Inform Clement that his little ruse has failed." 

Julin leapt from his chair. "No! His Holiness did not send me! He is ignorant of all I told you! And he must remain so!" Philip froze, his eyes burning into the trembling cardinal. Julin found his seat awkwardly and bowed his head. "Forgive me, Your Holiness. I am a witless fool." 

Philip returned to peeling his egg. "There is more about you than even I suspected. Consider this, Julin. I shall agree to lend some of my troops to your ridiculous cause if His Holiness extends me the loan equal to the taxes collected from France and England. If His Holiness refuses, then perhaps everyone may come to learn how His Holiness hides this…this heretical stone of his." 
"But, Your Majesty! You must not speak of this…"
"I must not be told what not to do, Cardinal," Philip countered resolutely. He leaned across the table and whispered, "Ensure my loan and you get your soldiers. That is the agreement. Now, I must rest." 
"Your Majesty…"
"Enough, Julin. We never spoke, except of eggs and the egg window." Philip turned and shouted across the hall, "Valet, I am finished! Guards, enter!" The guards reappeared. "See the good cardinal out! And clear my quarters! No more visitors this eve!" 
"Yes, Your Majesty." Julin arose, bowed, and glumly followed the guards to the door. 

The following day, Philip and Clement and their fleet of notaries convened in the Treasury Hall. Only then did Clement realize that Philip’s loan request was of a substantial size — substantial enough to slow the construction of the Popes’ Palace. Rumor spread in whispers carried through the corridors. The meetings were not going well and most papal officials knew well enough now to leave the irate pontiff undisturbed. Most were also certain that Clement would offer Philip little more than a portion, a promise, and a prayer. Angry and afraid, Julin approached Toussain, who then spoke to Blasi with equal concern. If Clement discovered their intentions, he would have all three expelled from the College, excommunicated, and thrown into prison. Blasi quieted their fears and went to work, weaving a web involving what seemed to be an impossible task. 

At midday, Blasi entered the Guard Hall, approached a guard, and whispered in his ear. The guard replied with several nods, and Blasi slipped him a letter and a gold coin. "Not a word of it to anyone. Now be ready. He comes," Blasi commanded with narrowing eyes. 
"Yes, Your Eminence." The guard bowed as Blasi sped away. In a moment, Cardinal Firmus, arriving from the Dignitaries Wing, entered the Guard Hall. As instructed, the guard approached Firmus and presented him with the letter. 

"Your Eminence," the guard said and bowed. 
"Yes, what is it," Firmus huffed. 
"I found this leaf on the courtyard grounds. It does not appear to be the orders of a guard. Perhaps it is important?" 
Firmus read the letter, pursed his lips, and searched the guard’s eyes. 
"Can you read?" 
"No, Your Eminence." 
Then how do you know it is not a guard’s orders?" Firmus questioned him. 
The guard replied defensively. "I know the look of such orders, and most all appear the same. This leaf has no noble mark on it. 
"Did you show this leaf to anyone?" 
"I only recently found it. You are the first to see it." 
"Good. Then I shall see it returned. You are not to discuss this leaf with anyone. You never found it. Do you gather what I mean, soldier?" 
"I do." 
"If I hear word of it, I shall personally come for you. Now, back to your duties." 
"Yes, Your Eminence." The guard bowed and walked away. Firmus looked about, greed and guilt in his eyes as he clutched the letter close to his chest for a moment and then read it again: 
These are His Majesty's conditions: He shall grant in secret one tenth
of the loan to the cardinal who convinces His Holiness to extend the
full amount. If the loan shall be greater than his initial request, His
Majesty also agrees that the cardinal is due one tenth of all excesses.
Burn this leaf. Speak to no one.
Firmus searched the hallways for prying eyes. Seeing none, he slipped the letter beneath his robe and sped away, unaware of Blasi watching him from the shadows. 

Within the hour, Firmus stood in the Four-Windowed Room of the palace, convincing Clement to extend an even larger loan than Philip requested, suggesting higher and more frequent reimbursements. The discussion grew heated. Rarely had Firmus seen Clement so angry. However, Clement frequently relied on Firmus’ advice in stately affairs. As it happened, the Pope reluctantly agreed to Cardinal Firmus’ suggestions, since Firmus did present a rather compelling argument: ‘Tis best to collect interest on loans from France than to allow France and its tax base to fall to England. 
That eve, King Philip and Pope Clement signed the documents. As a result of the transaction, Philip envisioned the severed head of Edward, Firmus saw himself on the papal throne, and Blasi remembered his dead brothers’ faces. Toussain and Julin saw themselves as Cardinals of France, whilst Clement foresaw more delays in the creation of his massive papal machine. In short, the transaction pleased all but Clement, his treasurers, and the Papal Chamberlain. 

The following morning, King Philip summoned Cardinal Julin to the Conclave Hall. Philip was in the posted chair with Cardinal Firmus already before him, hands clasped, as Julin was announced. The cardinals exchanged glances. Both were as curious as to the business of the other in before the king, yet neither dared speak openly with the other present. 
"Ah. Cardinal Julin, come." Philip waved him forward. 
Julin bowed. "Your Majesty." 
Philip turned to Firmus. "You were saying, Cardinal Firmus?" 
Firmus cleared his throat. "I came to see if you required anything, Your Majesty." 
"His Holiness sends a cardinal to see after the needs of his royal guests? I have brought my own fleet of servants. To what do I deserve such special treatment?" Philip rubbed his chin. 
"Not exactly, Your Majesty." Firmus cleared his throat and stole a glance at Julin. "If it pleases Your Majesty, might I have a word with you alone." 
"Indeed. Cardinal Julin, please wait without. Cardinal Firmus, come closer." Julin bowed and left the hall. 

Firmus whispered, "Your Majesty. ‘Twas me — I secured your loan. I came to discuss the compensation." 
Philip chuckled. "I see that the Church is not without its own corruption. Very well, Cardinal. I am due three kegs of wine in the Palace Cellar. I shall leave one with you — we shall call it a gift, of course." 
Firmus squirmed. "I can not accept it, Your Majesty. If I may, I wish to speak about the tenth of the loan." 
Philip was stunned. "The tenth? A tenth of the loan as compensation?" 
"The tenth, Your Majesty, for convincing His Holiness to grant the loan." 
Philip scowled. "You can have what I offer you, Cardinal. Even that is more than adequate. Now, do you wish the wine?" 
"His Holiness shall never allow it. Your Majesty, I have the leaf describing the terms of our agreement." Firmus slipped the page from his robe and Philip read it. He raised his brow. 

"What nonsense is this? Who scribed this about me?" 
"Are you not aware of it, Your Majesty?" Firmus went decidedly pale.
"I said no such thing! And as for compensation, it shall be my silence in this matter!" Philip slipped the paper into his vest. "If you tell anyone that you or Cardinal Julin approached me, expecting a portion of the loan for yourselves, I shall inform His Holiness that both of you conspired against him. Leave me before I reconsider my silence!" 
"Yes, Your Majesty." His face set, Firmus bowed and left the room. Once outside, he glanced at Julin and scowled before escaping hastily down the hallway. 

"See Cardinal Julin in," the king ordered. The guards complied. 
Philip took the paper from his vest as Julin approached and fanned it slowly between two fingers. He stared at Julin, and Julin stared at the paper that he knew was Blasi’s note. Philip roared with laughter and returned the leaf to his vest. "You are very resourceful, Julin. Be at ease; all is well." Philip chuckled. "I merely persuaded you to ensure my loan — and you did it well. You may forget my placing you in jeopardy with His Holiness." He laughed again. "I knew His Holiness never sent you. I know you too well. Ah, and Cardinal Firmus believes you have also come for your reward. I made it known that, if either of you confess anything about it, I shall share the matter with His Holiness." 
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Julin bowed, smiling. 

"Now, as to your magical stone of ghosts. I shall grant you soldiers only under strict terms. Firstly, His Holiness is to know nothing of it — ever. Secondly, my men are in your service for a number of days only." 
"Very well, Your Majesty," Julin replied. 
"You shall have my Captain Bourne and his men. I trust him in matters of secrecy. Only he is to know the full concern. Speak not to his men. He shall command them." 
"Of course, Your Majesty." 
"He is now in Avignon and has two hundred men. That shall suffice, yes?" 
Julin shook his head. "Indeed not. Too many." 
"Bourne keeps his soldiers together. He is the finest of my Royal Guard, and I see no need troubling him with separating his men. The offer stands at two hundred or none. Which is it?" 
"Two hundred, Your Majesty." Julin sighed. 
"Done. Now share with me the very details. When and where shall they meet you, and what do you require of them?" 







Chapter 5

Gardiens Abbey – August 1347

The tunnel torches had long since been extinguished, save one that now leaned from a wall bracket as it illuminated the entryway of Lazarus’ quaint quarters in the catacombs. In its good light, Ivan pressed his large frame against the doorway, his eyes consuming a letter. Within the room, Lazarus sat on the edge of his bed, supping from a wooden bowl. 

Lazarus asked, between bites, "What do you read, Friar?" 
 
"A post that I send to Friar Salvitino on the morrow," Ivan answered without lifting his gaze from the letter. 
 
"Who is he?" 
 
"A Lower Council Friar who lived here at the Abbey before you…before you were born." 
 
"Where is he now?" 
 
"In Italy, at the other Council Monastery in Cancello." 
 
"Why do you write to him?" 
 
"I am in his debt. And he can help us with a small matter — once we arrive in Italy." 
 
"Italy? But what of Burgandy?" 
 
"Italy, first." 
 
"Friar Odino still comes with us to Italy and then on to Burgandy, yes?" 
 
The monk answered with a nod. "He has agreed." 
 
"How are you indebted to this friar?" 
 
Ivan briefly tore his gaze from the page. "Enough, Lazarus. Eat." 

Lazarus took another bite and chewed briefly before turning again to Ivan. "Whilst you were away, I saw a man brought down here and locked within one of the cells. What did he do, Friar?" 
 
"The prisoner is to stand trial for heresy. He shall be taken away in the morn." 
 
"What has he done?" 
 
"He is no concern of yours, Lazarus. Eat. ‘Tis late." 
 
Lazarus stole a glimpse at Ivan, who stood still enthralled by the letter. He slipped a bit of meat and bread from his bowl, tossed it beneath his bed, and resumed eating. "Perhaps he is hungry," Lazarus suggested. 

Ivan cleared his throat, refolding the letter and slipping it beneath his vestment. "Finish your meal, son. I do not wish you near him. Do you understand?" 
 
"I do, Friar." 
 
Ivan peered at the boy until Lazarus slipped the last bit of bread beneath the mouth-flap of his facemask. With a satisfied smile, Ivan took his empty bowl. Lazarus darted beneath the bedcovers, and Ivan tucked him in. "Your prayers?" 
 
"I have said them, Friar. And I prayed for the prisoner." 
 
"Splendid. Then, I shall see you in the morn. Sleep well." 
 
"Good eve, Friar." Ivan slipped the doorway torch from the wall, departed the room with unbroken stride, and made his way out of the catacombs. 

Peering over a heap of blankets, Lazarus watched his doorway fade to black as Ivan’s torchlight drifted up the corridor. Then he listened for the slap of sandals against stone as Ivan ascended the catacomb stairwell. Finally, Lazarus bolted upright to the clanging sound of a distant door. Now, his curiosity more powerful than parental instruction, he retrieved the food from beneath his bed, wrapped it in cloth, and tiptoed up the corridor. Upon reaching an intersection of tunnels, the Benion Tunnel to his left and a short hallway to his right, he turned right to enter a short passage of cells. Six cell doors lined the walls — three opposite three. Instead of crypts for housing the dead, these chambers were holding cells fitted with locking doors to imprison the living. Narrow windows on the doors were fitted with sliding iron plates. 

Lazarus approached the last cell on the right. He slid open the window plate, and the sound of mumbled prayers within the chamber stopped. 
 
"Hello, sir. I bring food. I am Lazarus. I shall speak with you, if you wish it." 
 
Cell straw rustled and a voice spoke. "Hello Lazarus. Exalted be the name of Lord Christ, who is Jesus." 
 
Lazarus passed the food through the window, replying, "Blessed is He. Take the food, sir." 
 
As the prisoner retrieved it, Lazarus stole a glimpse at his face. He was a young man with light-colored hair, brown eyes, and a thin beard to reveal slim facial features. "Most grateful, I am," the prisoner replied. He crouched against the door as Lazarus did the same, leaving only two inches of oak planks between them.


Lazarus picked at the door. "Why are you in here?" 
 
The prisoner responded with a filled mouth. "Accused of heresy. I am to stand before an inquisition." 
 
"What did you do?" 
 
"I live as Jesus lived." 
 
"Then, how is it heresy?" 
 
The prisoner swallowed his food and explained. "A bishop with his many soldiers came into our village and summoned a gathering of all. He scribed our names and trades in his tally books to determine the measure of our tithes to the church. As many in the village were Brothers of Penitence, the Third Order of Saint Francis, we refused. ‘Twas wrong." 

"Paying tithes is wrong?" Lazarus asked. 
 
"Jesus lived his life in perfect apostolic poverty. All men of God are required to live as Christ. ‘Tis written that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. A man is poor when he has no coins and no trade, yet he can still be rich in Christ and offer tithes to Him." 
 
"How so?" 
 
"Leave a tithe of the fields untouched. Leave a tithe of the beasts free. Leave a tithe of the fruits unplucked, or give a tithe of your meal to a hungry man. A tithe is an offering set aside for God. Temples have no place collecting a tithe of anything. They are places for worship only. 
 
"Yet the Church helps the poor, yes?" 
 
"If the Church collects a tithe meant for God and makes use of it, no matter its intentions, the offering is not to God but to the Church. Those are the words in Luke and Matthew." 
 
"I know the words, sir. Did you show the bishop and soldiers these words?" 
 
"They know them." 

"Why did you not tell them that you would work to fulfill their demand, and when they left, then all of you could have fled?" 
 
"Did Jesus run away?" 
 
Lazarus scratched his head and searched the flagstones before turning his attention to the door. "Then perhaps you can tell them you shall take the same trade as Jesus. Tell them your trade is teaching the poor masses about God. Offer them a tithe of your teachings, yes?" 
 
The prisoner chuckled. Lazarus cocked his head to the side as a puzzled dog. "‘Tis not so easy, Lazarus. I must make an oath before God. The inquisition has since prepared the questions that shall condemn me. I can not take an oath and lie. I have already been sentenced — I shall be burned." 
 
"Burned? The Church burns people?" 
 
"Hundreds have burned." 
 
"The Church? But the Church is of God. Why must it burn people?" 
 
"They give many reasons, but mostly for not paying tithes or for holding true to another faith." 

At length, Lazarus countered, "Then, Saint Matthew says of a lie: All sin and evil speaking shall be forgiven to men, yet evil-speak of the Spirit shan’t be forgiven to them." 
 
"Thou shalt not lie. Do you not recall these words, Lazarus?" 
 
Lazarus said, "I know them, sir. But if they shall burn you…"
 
"I shan’t take the oath, as Jesus did not. I shan’t flee those who unjustly condemn me. Nor shall I offer them a lie to save myself." 
 
"Sir, if they burn you…"
 
"Neither did Jesus lie nor did he tempt another man to do other than he ought. Lazarus, do not tempt me from the Lord." 

"Sir, may I ask you something?" 
 
"Indeed, Lazarus." 
 
"Why have you not asked me to open this door if you know that they shall burn you?" 
 
"I am already free. This door, whether open or closed, can not make freedom. Freedom is found only within." 
 
"Might you allow me to unlatch this door, that you may flee?" 
 
"Indeed, not. Are you tempting me again, Lazarus?" 
 
"I do not, sir. Only, I do not gather why it is that you do not wish to save yourself." 
 
"Faith, Lazarus. I am already saved by faith alone." 
 
"And they shall burn you, as you say?" 
 
"They shall." 

"If this is truth, sir, then why have I not read of such things?" 
 
"Perhaps you are not in a place to read of them. Yet, you are learned. Are you a cleric boy?" 
 
"I am." 
 
"Ah! There you have it. As men bridle horses and herd cattle, so you are the horse and the cow. Sons become their fathers and cleric boys become the friars with whom they serve. One generation begets the next." 

Lazarus dropped his head, considering the wisdom in the words before turning to the door again. "What is your name, sir, that I may know for whom I pray?" 
 
"I am a poor man in Christ. Pray for me as such." Straw shuffled. "I thank you for your generosity and company. Now, I must turn to my own prayers. Blessed is the name of Lord Christ Jesus, and blessed is the testament of the Holy Peter John of Olivi. Blessed are their names," the prisoner intoned, crawling away from the door. "Good eve, Lazarus." 
 
Lazarus called after him. "Poor Man in Christ?" Silence. "Poor Man in Christ?" Lazarus called out again. But the prisoner offered no more of himself. 

Thus, Lazarus left the cell and strode away, but in route to his room, no sooner had he quit the corridor than he heard a crackling noise emanating from a tunnel juxtaposed to the main causeway and positioned directly across from the passage that he departed. The sound, like splintering wood, echoed from deep within the Benion Tunnel, the more ancient of the many subterranean arteries. 

For as long as Lazarus recalled there was a standing rule like a law set in stone: that he could wander all of the tunnels of the catacombs with exception of the Benion. Ivan forbade him to step beneath its dangerous roof stones that suspended loosely enough to leak even after a moderate rain. Besides, since the Benion was but a dead-end that contained only sealed crypt doors with fused locks encrusted by centuries of rust, he had no cause to venture into it. However, Ivan had underestimated Lazarus’ dawning sense of independence, as devoted parents are wont to do — trusting and so turning a blind eye. 

Lazarus stood before the entrance of the Benion and listened to the dripping of water that echoed through its hollow bowels. Again he heard the disturbance, as it resembled the noise of popping planks that stressed themselves beneath the weight of a heavy burden. Curiosity bit him. The fruit of temptation took him. Independence drove him. Thus, he drew a breath, looked about, and stole his way down the Benion Tunnel. He dashed by its many crypt doors, offering them but a passing glance. At length, he reached the end of the corridor to discover the root of the commotion. The last crypt door bowed outward, marred with a jagged line of splinters that cut lengthwise across its vertical planks. 

Already, a gap separated the wooden door from its stony frame and its iron lock lay fractured. Wide-eyed, he stole a peek between the door and frame to discover a row of rectangular hollows, occupied tombs, four high, chiseled into the right wall of a large crypt. Within, a nearby table blocked all further view of them. A rusted iron crucifix hung against the rear wall, only half of it visible, and he could see even less of the gloomy room. 

He smelled the opening to find intermingling smells, centuries old, seeping from the tomb: the odor of decayed cloth, the scent of chalky bones, the musty fetor of fungus, and the sweetness of damp stone. Thoroughly taken in by curiosity, Lazarus slipped his fingers into the crack and pulled. The door scraped the floor as he forced it wider. New wood splintered… "BANG!" Instantly, the door exploded, showering shards of plank against the opposite wall. Arch stones above the door collapsed as the keystone surrendered all support. Higher still, a large section of wall and adjoining roof gave way to an avalanche that cascaded about him. In the midst of a roaring chaos, he dived into the far corner of the terminal wall as some of its masonry crashed onto the floor. 

Silence returned, save the sound of streams of water gurgling against flagstones. And when the dust and debris settled, Lazarus eased to his feet, dirty yet unharmed. He perked a pair of dog-like ears beneath his hood and searched for sounds. Falling water was as a pulsing roar, the slip of settling pebbles as boulders crashing into some deep ravine, and the soft scampering of rats’ feet were like thundering hooves. However, Lazarus’ attention remained fixed on the entrance of the Benion Tunnel, but he heard no creaking of a catacomb door, no clapping of monkish sandals on a stony stair — only the sounds of the distant prisoner in the passage of cells as he shuffled about in straw. 

Lazarus examined the wreckage around him. The terminal wall of the tunnel stood mostly unscathed, save a small hollow where the stones had since crashed beside him. The damaged section of the wall now offered what seemed to be a bottomless hole. Already, a musty breeze, three centuries stale, poured out of the opening. Then he realized that what had appeared to be the end of the Benion Tunnel was but a false wall — the passageway extended further. 

Lazarus peered through the opening, his hood fluttering before the wind-moaning hole. In every way save one, the continuing tunnel mirrored the unsealed section. It might have seemed as though the passage had been abandoned even before it was fully completed because, although crypts lined the tunnel walls, none of the hollows had been finished out with doors. He pushed between the loosened stones and stepped within. It was apparent to him that the crypts had never housed remains. The first and the second did not now house the remnants of any flesh, and corpses always tainted underlying stones with a rust-colored patina that even centuries can not remove. He continued down the tunnel to find all of the crypts unfinished. 

Whilst the air in the crypts remained clean, further down the corridor, the air confessed of death and intensified with the taint of ancient remains as Lazarus delved deeper. At the end of the tunnel, he found that the entrance of the last crypt was different from the others. It held a door, but it was sealed over by the remnants of a crumbling stone wall. From behind the door seeped the smell of decay. He pulled away loose stones, pushed open the door, and stepped within. Not a spec of light shined, yet in that unspoiled blackness, Lazarus’ hungry pupils swelled abnormally wide. Like orbs of a perfect nocturnal predator, his eyes peeled away the scales of darkness and saw all.

The crypt appeared as though it had once been used as living quarters, yet its odor was distinctly that of a tomb. Broken pottery, rotted cloth and dusty artifacts lay strewn about. Lazarus searched the wall recesses but found no corpse. Rather, the open tombs had served as storage shelves, holding debris of a strange miscellany. And another smell hung in the air — the faint pungency of ink. Lazarus crossed the room and stood over a narrow table and bench that had obviously once been used as a desk, its top marred with scratches, wax, and ink stains. On it, an inkwell still sat, crusted and empty. Something peculiar about the table aroused his attention as he examined its surface more closely, tilting his head in careful study. Yet neither the inkwell nor the stains confessed distinction. Whatever commanded his attention lay obscure yet he was certain of its existence. Only inches away from the table, he smelled about, but nothing surfaced. 

Then he backed away, centering himself over the desk, and there it lay. Lazarus wiped away a layer of dust. The remaining desk scratches took shape, and he found not random carvings but orderly symbols. They were not hieroglyphic pictures, but rather, geometric figures. The position and spacing of them drove the pronunciation — and the meaning — into Lazarus’ eye. In the recognizable pattern, circles and lines formed first letters, then words, and finally sentences. However, the inscriptions were neither French nor Latin, but of a language unknown. In truth, no man could have scribed the message on the desk, since its tongue was never born on earth. With some difficulty, Lazarus pronounced the words and discerned their meaning: 
Original 

“eca tinum mi turnum ruva fler
eca shuthi tularn zichum
am shuthi tular
am sha shrati ap
shratum sha am tulin”
  »»  
Translation

“This day, I give my brother a gift.
This crypt contains my writing.
In the corner of the crypt,
 four stones high -
the fourth stone is loose.”
He looked toward the corner of the crypt precisely four blocks higher than the flagstones, where he could plainly see that a narrow gap of missing mortar surrounded the edge of a worn stone. He slipped the stone from the wall, and from the remaining hollow, he extracted a thick roll of yellowed pages. He unrolled them atop the desk. The topmost page was a letter written in French, which read:
For Thee, 

In the twelfth day of Junius, in the year of our Lord, One Thousand Sixty and Four, I hereby scribe the last of many leaves. Heavy be my heart, for soon I shall know Death's condition. Its smell consumes me. In my perdition, I am pressed to wonder at that part of God that allows such sorrows and wickedness to prevail beneath Him. I cannot fathom it. In all my sight, I shall never understand. My faith has flown. The flame is smothered in my breast, and I am no more than Death awaiting itself. 

I should warn you of the Council. By troth of Council, I was offered a pact. Hitherto, the pact was this: using my translation abilities I would decipher the language of the Gatestone for them. In return, I would gain my freedom — such freedom as to leave the Abbey des Gardiens. I had no course but to agree. 

Two full seasons turned whilst I translated the passages, which they brought to me singly in my quarters. In that short span, of all my years, I lived in full content as a man of God. No longer did my confinement weigh upon me as a burden, for the Council adorned my quarters as if I would be a King. All was granted unto me, save the loosing of my chains, which remained about me, and guards remained posted at my door. 

I lacked nothing but my freedom, and gathered the dream as real as the cold fetters clasped about my arms. Natheless, near the middle of the second season, I fell into an unshakable sorrow, sufficient even to chase away the dream. From the language of the Gatestone, I learned the purpose of it. It vexed me so that I ceased to pray. My faith, I fear, is forever lost. I wish nothing more than death. For all God's design, I will never gather His methods, yet shall always know my place in Him. 

From that time onward, I ceased with the translation, thus enraging the Council. In response, the Council removed every furnishing from my quarters and placed me back into the horrible conditions in which I had suffered before my work for them began. I grew sickly. After a long space, I agreed to complete the translations under the agreement, but only with a reiteration of the promise of freedom. 

Three seasons have passed since I completed the work. For a time, I questioned my confinement. The Council Abbot spake only this reason — that I should offer my council to the priests for a further time. I have not set eyes upon them for nearly a season. I have since gathered that I am of no more service to the Council, as evidenced in part by the worsening condition of my quarters. In time, I have divined that they never intended to free me of this bondage, even from the first. 

These are my last words, as my ink well runs dry even now. To my greatest surprise, the Council Abbot came to my cell early this morn. He informed me that I would never be set free, as it was against the decision of the Council for I knew too much of the stone. Instead, the Council offered me absolution of my sins, a painless poison, and the promise of holy burial. 

Alas, I have but the space of a day to ponder this offer, as he will return upon the morrow. Yet again, I have no choice but to agree to the poison, lest I face the terrors of the sun. I leave with you, my brother, who can read this text, the Gatestone's inscriptions. May you fare better than I. May you learn from my life. 

Verily, I can only wander freely across the years with a memory of sweet sorrow. I lived a life that was not mine in this crypt, which was also not mine, but I also lived with a moment's dream that was wholly mine — a dream of freedom that proved more sweet than anything freedom itself could ever afford me. 

I am, 
Cleric Naramsin ~ Council Translator 
An icy breeze ruffled the pages, carrying with it a scent of decaying bones. Lazarus collected the pages from the desk and further inspected the crypt. On the far wall, in its lowest recess, a cloth lay draped over something wholly concealed. He approached. As Lazarus grasped the material, it shredded in his fingers like a sheet woven from spiders’ webs. Carefully, he peeled away the rotting cloth to reveal… 

"Ah!" Abruptly, he released the cloth as if it had bitten him. His breath left him and he fell backwards across the floor as a chill fell over him and his heart fluttered. Burning prickles bathed his body. Cruelly chained before him lay the remains of an adult grotesque — Naramsin’s bones. He had seen many corpses, yet never had he laid eyes upon another grotesque. Thick fangs lay anchored into its skull, and a ridge of bone centered hollow eye sockets, the ridge graduating higher as it disappeared behind the skull. Wing bones lay beneath the corpse. Lazarus stared at a larger version of himself — decomposed and wrapped in chains!

Lazarus attained a state of perfect horror, that all-engrossing and short-lived condition compressed between a scream and petrified silence. Were he not too alive, filled with a desire to learn and to go forth into the world unknown with Friars Ivan and Odino, his heart would have beckoned Death to still it. 

He leapt to his feet and bolted from the crypt with Naramsin’s pages. Like a bat from out of hell, he flew up the Benion Tunnel, dived through the hole of the false wall and leapt between the scattered stones. In a flash, he was back inside the untainted and familiar walls of his quarters, hiding beneath his bed coverings. In the lingering quiet, his mind raced with his heart. He hastily stuffed the pages between the folds of his mat, checked his hood laces, and buried himself deep in the bed. He felt dirty, defiled within. He longed for innocent dreams, dreams of anything save the horrible image of his own enchained remains. Never had he felt so alone, so deathly afraid, even. 

Together, the thumping of his heart and the tormenting of his thoughts cast him into a twisted nightmare that was not so much a terror as the waning of a too-charged mental state. In it, completely naked, he raced up the winding staircase toward the catacomb entrance. He raced to freedom, and as he ran, he longed to free himself from the tunnels and the collapsing walls of Death. Every thump of his heart was another step ascended, but the faster he climbed, the higher the entrance fled away from him, always looming in the distance. Stairs followed upon stairs and still more stairs, perhaps enough in number even to ascend into the heavens. And throughout the creeping eve, eternal as it may have seemed, the horrible dream repeated, over and again. 
***

The crimson glow of first light spilled over Gardiens Abbey, but with monks and squires confined to quarters and morning services set aside, the dim abbey grounds lay as lifeless as Naramsin’s crypt. Even so, within most dormitory quarters, a priest knelt at the foot of his plank bed praying for painless transformation. In others, shadows of impatience shifted within the stony frames of narrow windows, casting curious eyes over the courtyard grounds. The air was heavy with unease. 

Friar Ivan leaned against his cell window, peering down at ghostly robes that crossed the courtyard. He snapped a glimpse of a dawning sun and dug his fingers into the window frame. Below, the ritual commenced as Abbot Vonig escorted three burly priests to the bathhouse. 

Once within, the abbot instructed his friars. "You, latch the door and take your place at the window. The two of you, bring the thing. And be mindful of its teeth!" The abbot strode toward a stony table nearest the east wall. The top of the stand lay black as coal, outwardly charred by many prior fires. Together, two monks disappeared in the dim of the bathhouse whilst a third rounded the abbot and peered through a vertical crack between closed window slats that faced the direction of daybreak. Scuffling, groans, and hissing attested to a struggle in the rear of the bathhouse. 
"Careful!" Vonig yelled. He pulled a small flask from his robe and cast sprinkles of liquid over the table. He mumbled in prayer. 
The two monks returned with the grotesque, walking her forward as she fought against them. "The sun clears the wall, Abbot!" the priest by the window called out. Vonig affirmed this fact with a nod, mumbling still. The monks dragged her to the table. 
Vonig began to pray loudly. "Our Father who art in the heavens, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come…"
The grotesque braced her feet against the side of the table, struggling against her captors as she yelled at them. "Baut! Eca am sha tular!" 
"…thy Will be done, on the earth as it is in the heavens." 
She hissed at the monks, keeping herself away from the table as she thrashed about. The priests slapped leather restraints around her wrists and ankles. They yanked the tethers, throwing her off balance before dragging her over the tabletop, her wings slapping in their face. The monks positioned themselves on either side of the table, each holding a pair of straps that pinned her hands and feet to the stone slab. The struggle was over — she could not free herself. Sitting on her knees, she could only stare forward at the abbot. 
Abbot Vonig continued praying. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive our trespassers…"
The grotesque interrupted him with soft words. "Shat na cawt…hmm? Cawt?" 
Vonig looked up from his book to find her troubled face, tears streaming down her cheeks. She appeared strikingly more human than any grotesque that he had ever seen. Aside from her wings and teeth, she might have appeared to be nothing less than the perfect likeness of a terrified girl. Vonig tore his eyes away. "As we forgive…" Vonig choked on his words. He cleared his throat and continued, "As we forgive those who…" Again, his voice caught. He retreated from the slab and turned away from her before yelling to the priest at the window. "Just open the window!" 
The two monks leaned back on their tethers. She hissed at them. The third priest grabbed the wooden shutters but hesitated. He looked back at the grotesque, grimacing, and Vonig spotted tears welling up his eyes. "Be done with it, Friar!" Vonig scolded him. Instantly, the priest flung open the shutters and rays of sunlight filled the bathhouse. "Screech!" A piercing shriek carried over the abbey grounds as a cloud of ash boiled from out of the bathhouse window. 

The bathhouse door was flung open, and Vonig stepped out of the smoky entrance, rubbing his eyes as he hurried off to his study. Shortly, the remaining monks exited the building, carrying amongst them a stone statue with spreading wings, its posture frozen in a kneeling position and its upturned face revealing an expression of agony. 

Across the courtyard, the narrow frame of a second floor dormitory window outlined a tall priest with a ring of silver hair. He was weeping, his hand over his mouth. Beside the dormitory roof, yet another set of eyes gazed down at the monks and their statue: beady black spheres of a luminous raven perched atop the courtyard plum tree. It watched reverently as the three monks carried away the latest Gardiens grotesque, the last Gardiens ‘gift.’ 
***

Ivan stepped through the catacomb entrance. As he descended the staircase, he came upon Lazarus, who stood holding a lit torch and fidgeting. Ivan stopped on the steps. "Lazarus?"
"Friar, there is something I must tell you. It happened last eve."
"What happened?" Ivan descended quickly down the remaining stairs." What happened?" He rounded Lazarus and a corner to find catacomb torches already burning. "Why have you lit all the torches without me?" 
"There has been a mishap, Friar." 
"The prisoner?" 
"The roof has fallen in." 
"What? Are you hurt?" Ivan grabbed his arm and inspected him like a concerned mother. 
"No, Friar." 

"Show me!" Ivan took Lazarus’ torch and followed him into the Benion Tunnel, to its end. Ivan waved the torch on high, stepping through stones and inspecting the damage. Then he spotted the gaping hole in the wall and froze. "The tunnel continues?" He turned to Lazarus, his brow raised in disbelief. 
"It does, Friar." 
Ivan held his torch beside the hole and its flame leaned in the moaning breeze. "Remain here," Ivan stated, climbing through the hollow. 
"But I have already…" Lazarus caught himself in mid-sentence, but too late. 
Ivan looked back at him. "Have you been in here?" 
"Yes, Friar, but…"
"Then, we shall discuss your disobedience later." Lazarus dropped his head. Once through the hole, Ivan looked back at him. "Well, come on then, since you know the way." Lazarus leapt in after him. 

As Ivan illuminated each of the empty crypts, Lazarus trailed close behind him. But the boy fell back as Ivan neared the last crypt. "Friar, there is a… There are bones in there," Lazarus admitted, pointing to an open door, its entrance strewn with stones. 

Ivan stepped inside, but Lazarus remained where he stood. He perked his ears beneath his hood. He heard Ivan ease back the rotted cloth, and he heard Ivan’s breath stop short. He then heard the lingering quiet that followed, and when Ivan stepped out of the crypt, Lazarus studied his face in the torchlight. Ivan was pale and drawn, but he said nothing. He only looked at the flagstones between him and Lazarus as if lost in thought. 
Lazarus broke the silence. "Friar, he is like me. Did you see? And he wears chains." 
Ivan moved quickly past Lazarus. "We must go. Now!" Not once did he look behind him. 
"Friar, why is he in there?" Lazarus asked, falling in step behind him. 
"I expected you to remain in bed. Say nothing of what you saw. No more questions." The boy discerned anger in his sharp tongue. 
"Forgive me, Friar." Lazarus hastened his pace to match Ivan’s quick and steady strides. 

After they left the newly discovered section of the tunnel, Ivan had Lazarus help him to seal the hole with the previously fallen stones. Lazarus fetched him a trowel and replenished pails of fresh mortar and water. Finally, when Ivan felt certain that no other monk might suspect the wall to be false, he ordered Lazarus to return to his quarters and bade him remain there. 

Ivan was well aware that a restoration of the Benion Tunnel must include the raising of a fresh wall against the newly found false wall. If his fellow priests discovered the remains of the grotesque, in the ensuing chaos of rumor and ruckus that would invariably result, undo attention might fall squarely upon Lazarus. None must know, he thought, mulling over restoration plans as he strode out of the catacombs and toward the abbot’s office. After all, the age of the Benion Tunnel was no secret. Long ago, he warned Abbot Vonig of its eventual collapse, and now this terrible discovery had proved him all to right. 
***

The Abbey grounds bustled with monks and crown-shaven boys. The main gate bell rang in the distance. Shortly, a robed squire ran across the courtyard. Like Lazarus, like a burlap ghost, the boy wore a facemask with eyeholes cut in it. A complete hood covered his head. He flew past a monk who scolded him. "Migual! Running?" The boy slowed to a brisk stride. At the far end of the Abbey, he stopped before Friar Grate and bowed. 
 
The priest noticed him. "Migual, your hood is torn beside the eye hole. You might have Friar Ivan stitch it." 
 
"Friar Ivan stitches n-new hood. Friar, I may speak?" The boy’s slurred words denoted a severe mouth deformity. 
 
"Out with it, then." 

"Soldiers at the gate! From Avignon! Carriage with them — a priest in it! Red r-robe," the squire stammered. 
 
"What does he wear on his head, boy?" Grate asked, suddenly alarmed. 
 
"Wears white cap ‘round his ears. Another in his lap…is big. Red hat." 
 
"What in the name of…" Grate instructed the boy. "Hear me! Inform the abbot that a cardinal arrives from Avignon! Now, be off!" 
 
The boy bowed and was striding briskly away when Grate scolded him. "Migual! Run!" The squire took off around a corner as fast as he could move. 
 
The clanging of the bell continued as Grate strolled to the front entrance. He spotted a tall soldier with wiry black hair, thin mustache, goatee, and jade-green eyes standing in front of the gate. A heavy scar creased his cheek. Grate unbarred and swung wide the gate. The soldier spat on the ground before stepping around him. In passing, he shot a cold stare and grumbled, "Either you need a larger bell or better ears." 


Grate frowned, looking down at Captain Bourne’s spittle. Then he discovered Cardinal Blasi exiting a carriage. Blasi approached Grate, affixing his wide-brimmed hat over devilish eyes. Grate smiled quickly and bowed as he kissed Blasi’s outstretched hand. The friar held his bow as he spoke. "Your Eminence, Gardiens Abbey is truly honored." 
 
"And who might you be?" 
 
Grate arose. "Friar Maurice Grate, Your Eminence, caretaker of guests and overseer of visitations." 
 
"Very well then, Friar Grate. Escort me to the abbot." The friar turned about, and Blasi followed as the captain fell alongside Blasi, waving four of his men to follow him whilst he spoke. I have two hundred men, fourteen horses, and six wagons. I need them tended." 
 
Immediately, Grate waved a cleric boy to him as they walked. "Go to the stables and inform Friar Festoneau that we have guests: fourteen horses in direct need of attention." The boy tilted his shaved head and disappeared. Grate addressed Blasi. "Perhaps you and your men are hungry? If you wish it, we can open the refectory and kitchens immediately?" 
 
"Make it so." Blasi was curt. 
 
Grate continued. "And shall your party stay the eve, Your Eminence?" 
 
"Several days," Blasi replied. 

Grate stopped in his tracks. "Days, Your Eminence? But our abbey lacks provisions for so many men!" 
 
Blasi spurred him forward. "We shall discuss the details in due course, Friar. Firstly, the abbot." 
 
Across the courtyard, monks and squires gawked at the procession. All visitors were foreigners here. Blasi paid them no heed, but Bourne scrutinized everyone. His eyes had no manners — they fell everywhere without regard for whether the person upon whom he looked knew it or not. The party stepped into a building, and Bourne snapped his fingers beside the doorway. Two of the soldiers fell from behind him and stood at attention outside the door. Grate led Blasi down a hallway and to the abbot’s study. He knocked lightly on the door. 
 
A craggy voice replied from within, "Enter!" Again, Bourne snapped his fingers and his soldiers responded. They flanked and fell to attention outside the door. Grate, Blasi, and Bourne filed into the study to find Abbot Vonig with his back to them and facing a shelf of books. He turned slowly, his attention upon an opened book cradled in his hands. Then he looked up, suddenly surprised to find a cardinal in his office. He bowed quickly. "Your Eminence." 
 
"Abbot." Blasi replied in kind. 
 
Grate broke in. "Abbot Vonig, His Eminence, Cardinal…uhm…"
 
"Cardinal Masson," Blasi said to help Grate with the introduction. 
 
Grate continued. "His Eminence, Cardinal Masson, has come from Avignon to grace our abbey." 

"That shall be all, Friar Grate." Vonig dismissed him, returning the book to the shelf. Grate bowed and left. 
 
"Unfortunately, I bring ill news from His Holiness. Are you aware that your Upper Council Cardinals, Basiliste and Lean, have since passed on."
 
"I have learned of their deaths in recent correspondence," Vonig admitted. Bourne examined the room. 
 
Blasi put on a pleasant face. "Yet, sometimes in the gloom of despair we find a gleam of promise. Abbot, in light of this, I bring good news as well." 
 
"Ah?" Vonig smiled. 
 
"You have been appointed to serve on the Apocrypha’s Upper Council. Your devoted service to the Council has earned you considerable favor in His Holiness’ eyes. He expects you in Avignon." 
 
The abbot dropped his smile. "Upper Council? But I am a bishop. Only cardinals serve as Upper Councilmen." 
 
"Be that as it may, you and the Lower Council Abbot in Italy are now promoted to the Upper Council." 
 
"Domingus?" 
 
"Indeed, Abbot Domingus. His Holiness has summoned both of you to the Papal Palace — and without delay." 
 
"But what of the Abbey? Who shall oversee…" 
 
Blasi cut him off with a wave of his hand, and with a reassuring tone in his voice. "His Holiness is fully aware of what it guards. ‘Tis the very reason for my being here. ‘Tis also the reason for the heavy escort. The abbey is quite safe. His Holiness has instructed me to serve as the interim abbot until he can appoint a suitable replacement. Another escorted cardinal is en route to the Cancello Monastery even now and shall also serve as interim abbot there until an adequate successor is found." Blasi threw his hands behind his back and smiled. "Abbot Vonig, I commend you on your appointment to the Upper Council, and I might add that your years of dedicated service to the Apocrypha are noteworthy." 

Abbot Vonig sensed something amiss. Shortly before his death, Cardinal Lean had sent a letter to him. The cardinal told him that Pope Clement was still unaware of the purposes behind the Apocrypha Council and the role of its two monasteries, let alone of the Pope’s own duties as the Council’s overseer. 

Vonig questioned Blasi. "Eminence Masson, since there have been no Upper Council appointments since the death of His Eminence, Cardinal Lean, how did His Holiness come to be informed of matters concerning the Apocrypha?" 
 
"His Holiness has since inspected records of the Apocrypha’s archives," Blasi quickly countered. 
 
"But a fire destroyed its records. How might His Holiness inspect records that were burned beforehand?" 
 
"Perhaps not everything burned. I have no ready answer. However, you might question His Holiness with such details upon your visitation with him." 
 
Vonig narrowed his eyes. "If it pleases Your Eminence, may I see His Holiness’ orders of appointment?" 
 
"Indeed, you may, Abbot." Blasi pulled a letter from his vestments. 
 
The abbot popped the wax seal of the letter and read the orders signed by Pope Clement. Vonig refolded the letter and examined both halves of the wax seal. "Why does it not bare an impression of His Holiness’ insignia?" 
 
Blasi defended the document. "As you well know, the nature of the Council is secret. His Holiness insists that only cardinals shall govern the two Apocrypha monasteries. You must address Him with any concerns that you might have. And he does expect you, immediately." 
 
Vonig looked at Bourne, whose green eyes burned back at him. Vonig admitted to Blasi, his chest sinking, "I can not serve as an Upper Councilman. I am old and tired — my days are numbered." 
 
"Then you must inform His Holiness of your condition, Abbot. I merely deliver his summons." 
 
"I can not serve…"
 
Blasi interrupted. "The Chateau Mallow in Avignon awaits you. It shall be your new residence. You have until the morrow to collect your belongings. The captain shall see to it that your personal effects are properly stowed. And you might arrange a meeting with the resident monks to inform them about your good news and introduce me as the new abbot." 
 
"I shall, Your Eminence." 

"Abbot, I take it that you are not pleased with His Holiness’ decision." 
 
Vonig shared his concern. "One often ponders death in my years. I have a crypt in the catacombs, one that I shall never use now, I fear." 
 
"The details of your death can be arranged, Abbot. Firstly, you must report to His Holiness. I shall stay in the guest quarters whilst you remain as abbot. You shall see to it that the guards and horses are cared for?" 
 
"I shall. Perhaps I might assign you an escort to the…"
 
Blasi cut him short. "I shall find my own way, Abbot." 
 
"Indeed, Your Eminence." Vonig bowed as Blasi and Bourne made their way out of the study. Vonig turned to the window and stared blankly, the forged letter twitching in his feeble hand. He thought of Ivan and that deformed Lazarus boy. He mused over the crypt he ordered dug and set aside for himself. Most likely, he gathered, his remains would never return to the abbey that he served for so long. 

Vonig locked himself inside his office while Blasi acquainted himself with the grounds and facilities. Captain Bourne combed the abbey with troops, stationing guards in what he considered to be key positions. By nightfall, the captain transformed the abbey into what appeared to be an impenetrable fortress, with no way in but also no way out, and a watchful soldier at every corner. 

The following morning, immediately after services, Abbot Vonig calmed his concerned monks, informing them of his reassignment to Avignon. At midday, he boarded the carriage and mounted soldiers escorted him away. Blasi moved with haste. As the new abbot, he called for a meeting of only the Senior Friars of the abbey, only those who knew of the existence of the gatestone and the true purpose of the abbey as its guardian. His reason for calling the meeting was simple: to dissect the body of Lower Council Friars in much the same as was the standard practice of any church inquisition. And as a College Cardinal, Blasi was quite learned in the art of witch hunting. As he knew, the method of any inquisition was straightforward: to hold an assembly, introduce absolute authority, demand confessions of wrongdoing, and then divide the masses through their testimony against one another. 

In his meeting with the Senior Friars, Blasi instructed every priest to scribe a letter and deliver it to him by nightfall. In it, he expected three things. First, the priests were to list all abbey facilities and practices that might be improved. Although Blasi was quite indifferent to suggested improvements, the list served well to distract the monks from the following two lists, which were paramount to his ploy and the very reasons for the inquisition. The second of Blasi’s expectations was that the priests were to offer incriminating testimony on their fellow priests by listing all witnessed behavior that might have seemed ‘unbecoming’ of a monk. Third, Blasi expected them to write down personal confessions of wrongdoing. He informed the friars that all scribed confessions would remain confidential. 

Outraged, the Senior Friars could do little more than comply. Blasi’s exercise, however harsh it may have seemed, proved highly effective in that, much like the expected results of a grain thresher, the exercise separated the wheat from the chaff, or more to the point, the good seed from the bad. With the elimination of those good and upstanding monks, only seven priests of questionable conduct surfaced. Of the seven, Blasi crossed Friar Odino from the list for he did not desire to have an ‘obese drunkard’ participating in his opening of the gatestone. Blasi crossed out an Italian name as well, since he wished only Frenchmen to participate in what he understood to be a French cause. Thus, only five monks remained. 

Individually and in private, Blasi summoned the five monks to the abbot’s study. He repeated the same story to each of them: that he was under joint orders of Pope Clement of the Holy See and King Philip of France to use the gatestone as a weapon against the English. In conclusion, he asked each monk if he might be willing to assist him with driving the English from Crecy. 

Of the five monks on the list, Clodius and Greville agreed to help Blasi with the gatestone. However, they hinted strongly of duty reassignments as adequate compensation — as prospective overseers of the abbey catacombs. They desired the positions of Ivan and Odino. Blasi agreed to their reassignments only after they helped him with the gatestone. Of the three monks that remained, Friar Grate was not as quick to commit to helping him, but with a nudge and a threat, Blasi quickly convinced him. The remaining two friars blatantly refused to assist Blasi and warned him of likely dire consequences for disturbing the gatestone. Blasi expressed disappointment in their steadfast unwillingness and dismissed them from the study, nodding discretely at Captain Bourne, who stood just outside the opened door as they exited. Bourne then escorted the two friars into the countryside to rest alongside Abbot Vonig, their lips permanently sealed with dirt. 

Blasi felt as though he had pulled off the seemingly impossible. He had expended only three lives to gain control over Gardiens Abbey and its guarded gatestone, and he had secured three Senior Friars to assist him as well, all the whilst keeping his intendments veiled. 

In the subsequent days, Blasi secluded himself in the abbot’s study, pouring over once guarded abbey manuscripts, the torn pages that he removed from the Apocrypha’s archives, and the abbey’s cathedral schematics. Though absorbed with his greater mission to drive the English out of France, Blasi saw to it that the resident monks and squires continued their routines even as they conformed to Bourne’s ever-tightening fortress-like atmosphere. 

***

A leather-faced monk stood alone behind the Abbey stables. Many years as overseer of the stables had hardened his appearance. If not for his priestly robe, he might have seemed but an elderly farmer. Little remained of his thin brown hair, and the top of his head lay covered with brown spots to mark his many hot summers of outdoor duties. Nevertheless, Friar Festoneau was a Senior Friar and a member of the Lower Council. The stables and horses fell under his care, as did the cleric boys of the abbey who carried regular mail between Gardiens Abbey and a postal exchange in the town of Orleans.


With his hands on his hips, Festoneau watched a waning sun disappear behind the horizon. Overhead, the dying rays of daylight bathed high sweeping clouds in colorful hues that, altogether, seemed to flicker as a heavenly fire. In the chilly air of dusk, the blowing noise of a horse broke the silence. Festeoneau dropped his arms, huffed, and strode briskly around to the front of the stables. He expected a delivery of mail several hours before nightfall. 

As he rounded the corner of the building, the priest saw a robed figure with a lantern on high approaching the stables from out of the north gate of the abbey. Nearing Festoneau, the silhouette called out, "What keeps the mail?" 
 
Festoneau replied with his own question. "Have you seen my messenger boy?" 
 
"Indeed, some time ago, at the front gate with Friar Grate and the Migual boy. I gathered that he would be at the stables by now." 

Festoneau spotted a shadow near the front of the abbey, its distance closing quickly to the sound of galloping hooves. "The soldiers are everywhere," the shadowy monk complained, lowering his lantern. He stopped beside Festoneau and faced the approaching cleric boy. "They held me at the gate for the longest time. I say it now, Festoneau, there is more to these goings on than meets the eye. What abbey needs an army to govern its good intentions?" 
 
Festoneau threw his hands on his hips and cast a narrow eye at his galloping squire. The messenger reined in his horse. Festoneau grasped its bridle as the crown-shaven young man dismounted. "Now I must tend to my steed in the dark! You shall explain your belatedness this instant!" Festoneau scolded him. 
 
The squire snapped a quick bow and confessed. "Forgive me, Friar. I shall care for the steed, if you wish it. I dropped the mail pouch near the front gate. I had to search for it." 
 
"For half the day?" Festoneau questioned, leading the horse into the stables. Then he stopped and spun about. "Why does she complain to me? You rode her hard again, boy?" 
 
Again, the messenger snapped a bow. "Forgive me, Friar. I thought it best that I arrive before nightfall — as you expect my return. I left Orleans late in the day because the messenger from Avignon arrived late as well. But I did water the steed at the front gate. And she was fed lightly in Orleans." 
 
"I see." Festoneau slapped the horse’s reins about a tie post. The other monk lifted his lantern for better illumination. Festoneau continued. "As for your tardiness, I expect you to report to me at first light. A thorough cleaning of the stables is in order." 
 
"I shall, Friar." 

Festoneau checked the tied reins with a quick tug and patted the shoulder of the horse. Then he loosened the straps of the leather mail pouch and slid it off the horse before heaving the satchel to the other monk. "Here is your mail, but leave me your lantern." They swapped. Festoneau turned away and raised the lantern toward a high post hook. 
 
"Shall you require anything more of me, Friar?" the messenger asked. 
 
"I do," the priest answered, straining, busy with the lantern. 

"I have it!" the other monk complained. "What are you doing? Wait!" 
 
Festoneau turned to find a soldier slinging the mail pouch over his shoulder and marching out of the stables with the satchel as he replied, "My orders do not concern you, priest, merely the mail." 
 
Festoneau and his squire watched as the monk raced from the stables and called after the soldier, "Orders from whom? Bring it back! Wait!" 

Festoneau called the messenger with a beckoning wave of his hand. He lifted the hooves of his horse, examining the health of each as he whispered to his squire, "Hear me closely. I have yet another task for you. I expect you to hide in the stable this eve, in the loft. Do not reveal yourself to the guards. You shall leave for Avignon before first light." 
 
"Indeed, Friar." 
 
"You shall deliver a very important letter to His Holiness that requires his immediate reply. At all costs, you are to remain at his office until he reads it. Do whatever it takes, but mind your place before him. Do you gather my meaning?" 
 
"I do, Friar — whatever it takes and with due respect." The young man bowed slightly. 
 
"And I do not expect you to return without a reply, whether scribed or spoken. Very well," Festoneau said. "I shall return in the morn and expect you ready to ride like the wind. You shall ride Abbot Vonig’s steed this time." The messenger smiled, knowing the reputation of the stallion. "Up you go, then." The priest waved his squire into the rafters before retrieving the lantern and making his way back to the north abbey gate. 

The night wore on, and most of the monks and squires in the abbey dormitory had since retired for the eve. However, in Festoneau’s quarters, an oil lamp illuminated a quaint desk upon which rested a parchment addressed to His Holiness. Festoneau scribed his signature, slipped the quill into its inkwell, and blew dry the ink. He read over a letter that detailed the events since Blasi’s arrival at Gardiens. The aim of the letter was clear: To ask Pope Clement if he had appointed a replacement for Abbot Vonig with a cardinal from Avignon. He confessed to Clement that he feared the worst: persons outside the Council may have discovered the existence of ‘the relic’ that the abbey guarded. Festoneau carefully folded the letter. He heated a knife over the oil lamp and cut off a corner of a block of wax before sealing the letter with the melted clump. He blew dry the seal. 

Abruptly, the oil lamp flickered and the letter in his hands flittered as cold air seemed to fill the room. Festoneau turned his gaze to find a closed window. In the unnatural chill, he coughed and saw his breath produce a fog. The priest leapt from his desk and spun about, searching the dim angles of his quarters for Her. 

However, he found only a standing silhouette in the far corner. He stepped aside to allow the oil lamp to cast its rays and reveal the shadowy shape. His bones melted and horror consumed him as might a river of burning tar flowing over him. The spirit of the stone stood before him, thoroughly naked, with glistening black eyes, long red hair, and grinning at his supple soul. The priest knew Her as all of the abbey monks knew Her: the fornicator of centuries old, the greatest Evil of Adam, and the sublime Mother of all grotesques.


No!" Festoneau thrust the letter behind his back. 
 
"Now really, holy man. Have I not pleased you so?" Lucifael intoned in a choir of a thousand women. 
 
"I beg you, take leave of me." 
 
"Oh, but I can not, my lord," she said with a sneer. 
 
"I have given myself to God," Festoneau babbled. As did many of the abbey monks, even Festoneau had his own winged statue atop the cathedral, mounted there many years ago. 
 
"Is that what you call it? God?" she questioned him sarcastically as she approached. 
 
"He is your Lord and King. Leave me, devil!" 

Lucifael stopped before him and clasped her hands behind her as she asked rather innocently, "What of this leaf you hide from me, Festoneau?" 
 
The priest stood frozen, trembling. "In the name of God, leave His hallowed ground." 
 
She leaned around him as if curious about the concealed letter and Festoneau found himself staring at her full breasts suspended in the lamplight. "You like them, my lord? Do they please you?" she questioned in a seductive whisper without looking up.
 
Festoneau tore his eyes away. "Be gone, devil!" 
 
She rose and asked, "Be gone? You scribe a letter that summons me and then wish me gone?" A coy grin snaked across her lips and the letter burst thoroughly into flames. He snatched his hands away and the paper floated to the floor as a square of brittle ash. 

"Now, was that so terrible?" she asked, resting her arms loosely over his shoulders. He broke free and ran to the door, but the door did not open. He beat his fist against it and attempted to scream, but she waved a black-nailed finger and his throat fell silent. Again, he pounded on the door, yet no sound carried throughout the room. 

"Many seasons have passed since you last tasted of the flesh — and of me. Even now, I know the burning in your loins, but I shall save you from the pain of longing. Take your place on the bed, yet do recall that I shan’t lie beneath you." She waved her hand and returned his voice to him. 
 
"I shan’t!" he spat, retreating into the corner between the door and the wall. 
 
She stepped lightly across the room and helped him out of the corner, guiding him toward the bed as she consoled him with a whisper. "Lend me your seed once more, holy man. Only then shall I bid you leave." 

Festoneau pulled away, pressing his back against the wall. Lucifael cornered him between the desk and bed. She leaned in his face. "You still have spirit, my spry holy man. And am I not worthy in your eyes?" She adjusted the wrinkles of his robe and eyed him over with a leer of satisfaction. 

"I shan’t. Never again," he told her. In the narrow space between their faces, Festoneau touched his forehead and torso in the sign of the cross. Lucifael leaned back, her black eyes glaring. She grabbed the priest under his chin. Dog-like incisors formed in her mouth as she spoke. "My patience is wearing. I seek your permission only since you have a mind to give it. Do not mistake it with choice when it is dignity alone that I afford you." 

"But why do you keep making them? They are all dead, exposed to the sun and turned to stone." 
 
She chuckled. "Thousands die so that thousands might live. ‘Tis the nature of life and death. What do you know of anything but lust and guilt?" 
 
"Your grotesques are dead! All of them! They are but statues atop the cathedral!" 
 
She searched his eyes. "Enough idle words, holy man. Shall you lend me your seed or nay?" 
 
"You shall stand in judgment before…" 
 
She cut him off with wave of her finger and stole his voice again. He struggled to turn, but he could not pull away from her. 

She frowned upon him, narrowing a sable gaze. "As you wish. I never required your consent in the first place." She waved her hand over his face to reach deep into his mind. At once, the priest stiffened and shook, and his wide and watering eyes could only watch as his trembling hand reached for the wax-stained blade on his desk. "Indeed, my dear holy man." Lucifael bathed in his terror. "You shall deliver unto me that which is mine. Pick it up. Make use of it. I am your banished and wandering god who now commands you." 
 
She laughed as many women at once and her voice deepened by octaves to her every word. "Never lives a damon god dog nomad as evil’r even…" Abruptly, her head contorted to a crackling sound as it reshaped itself into a decayed jackal’s head. About her new snout, missing sections of skin exposed pitted bone. A rancid odor boiled from her head and ruined the air of the room. Then she clutched his shoulders, leaned in his ear, and whispered with a sigh, "…as I." Festoneau watched his hand lift the knife. Lucifael caressed his chest, but cocked her head like a curious dog as the trembling blade drew nearer to the priest. "Rest your soul, holy man," she consoled him with a choking stench of an animal’s breath. "That I may deliver you from the burning pain of Man." The wick of the lamp drew its last drops of oil from the nearly empty vessel, and its flame rose and fell, bouncing quickly as if consumed in a dance that might keep it alive. 

Outside the abbey dormitory and over the entire courtyard, no soldier saw the faint pulsing glow that emanated from the narrow window of the priest’s quarters. No monk awoke from his peaceful slumber. Thus time turned and the night burned slowly away.


Before daybreak, a wrenching of pitiful screams stirred the dormitory, and a growing assemblage of soldiers and sleepy-eyed monks poured down the corridor toward Festoneau’s quarters. They burst into his cell to discover his room in disarray, with overturned furniture, shattered personal affects, and shredded parchment that covered the floor and furniture like fallen snow. It was not the hundreds of pieces of parchment that caused the monks to flee the room as quickly as they had entered it. Nor was it the disorganization of the room that caused the stunned soldiers to fall back against their own ranks. It was that the walls and floor lay so thoroughly spattered with blood, the smell of the enclosure pungent with its iron-like odor. 

Before them, a sobbing Festoneau sat in the far corner of his room beside his overturned bed. He held a mallet in his robed lap that lay matted with clotted blood, and his lifeless other hand lay crucified against the bedstead, a blade protruding through his swollen palm. The priest discovered the throng at his door and scrambled to his knees, pounding the blade deeper through his palm and bed, screaming Scriptural passages of Jesus’ crucifixion. Sweat slung from his brow, and his eyes looked around the room as with the unfocussed gaze of a rabid dog. Soldiers dashed forward to arrest his hammer-wielding arm, and he crushed the face of one of them before they could save the priest from himself. Pinned and panting, Festoneau collapsed and the soldiers freed his crucified hand. 

Festoneau died that day, and only during preparation for his burial did several of his fellow monks learn that he used the blade on more than his hand. In the priest’s evolved madness, he had apparently castrated himself, but a thorough search of the room yielded nothing further that he had removed. Upon discovering this, Blasi ordered those monks who knew of the self-mutilation to remain silent and instructed them to scrub the remnants of Festoneau’s insanity off the floor and walls, and thereafter, to seal the room indefinitely. 

Thus, Friar Festoneau became the latest addition to the catacombs. Fortunately for Blasi, the dreadful distraction served well to hold the resident monks’ attention from his more sinister intentions.







Chapter 6

Bench tables placed end-to-end lined the periphery of the refectory hall. Behind the tables ran parallel rows of massive pillars with flying buttresses and ribs that spread out against the high vaulted ceiling as ungodly claws. A row of massive iron cauldrons were in the center of the hall, their hellish embers warding off a perpetual chill. Having finished their meals, a handful of monks remained in the hall, whispering the latest rumors surrounding daily confrontations between resident friars, squires and the unwelcome soldiers who stood guard seemingly at every door and in every corner of the abbey. Ivan lifted a bowl of fish stew and bread from the table and left the sparse gathering, stepping outside the refectory as a breathless Friar Odino nearly ran him over.


"Odino! I nearly dropped it, "Ivan scolded him. "Where have you been?!" 
 
Odino followed Ivan's critical gaze down to Ivan's sleeve, which was now soiled with spattered fish stew. Odino caught his breath. "Forgive me, Ivan. We must speak. Now." Odino led him to the outside corner of the building.
 
"About?"
 
"The new abbot intends to open the Gatestone!" Odino whispered. 
 
Ivan leaned back, incredulous, his eyes narrowing. "Into the wine a bit early, yes?" 
 
"You must believe me. I speak the truth."
 
"Odino, we shall leave the Abbey soon enough. I don't require spurring."
 
"Ivan! I'm not drunk, nor am I spurring you. I overheard his very words to this effect."
 
Ivan looked sidelong at his friend but dismissed his protestations. "Wonderful. Now perhaps I should bring Lazarus what remains of his food."
 
Ivan made to leave but Odino grabbed him tightly by the arm. "Ivan!"

"Odino?"
 
"These soldiers are not papal guards. They are not even from Avignon! Captain Bourne is of the Royal Guard. He takes orders from his Majesty, King Philip. I tell you, I overheard them speak!"
 
Ivan put a hand to his sleeve. "Kindly, release my arm." Odino complied. "Now share what you've heard," Ivan stated, rubbing his arm.
 
"I was underneath the bathhouse window. Inside, I heard Abbot Masson and the captain arguing about the provisions remaining to feed the captain's men. The captain threatened to leave the abbey, and thereupon, the Abbot promised that he would soon open the Gatestone. The captain gave him three days more, and the Abbot agreed."

"What?! You're in earnest, aren't you?" Ivan questioned, his face crumpled into a look of fear and astonishment. "Dear God. They've come to…"
 
Odino shook Ivan's shoulder, demanding his utmost attention. "And there is more! Clodius, Greville, and Grate are going to help him. And you know they are privy to the method for removing the altar slab. They've agreed to do this, Ivan!"
 
"Why would they agree to this evil act? It makes no sense."
 
"But it does. Clodius has courted the abbot for our positions in exchange for their service. The abbot has agreed that Clodius and Greville become the new overseers of the catacombs."

"But what use has the cardinal of opening the Gatestone? What good can come from…?"
 
"To use it as a weapon against the English. From what I heard, it seems as though he intends to summon spirits to send against King Edward's men at Crecy. I gather that even His Majesty, King Philip, is party to this terrible plan, but I suspect his Holiness knows nothing. It's a nightmare — all of it. It seems so unreal!"
 
Ivan mused. "Indeed it does. That explains why none of us are permitted to leave the abbey gates — and why there are so many soldiers."
 
"And the guards seizing the mail," Odino added.
 
Ivan rubbed his cheek. "Dear God, this is grave, horrible."
 
"What of Lazarus? He will have to report to Clodius. Remember him with Migual and the hood?"

Ivan recalled how, six years previous, Clodius had commanded Migual to remove his hood in front of the other squires. Abbot Vonig always permitted the deformed boys to wear hoods, but Clodius had taken the matter upon himself. When Ivan learned of it, he had flown into a rage, and if Odino had not been present to restrain his hand, he would have struck Clodius. Ivan had warned Clodius against touching the hoods he stitched for Migual, Thateus, and Lazarus, and bitter feelings remained.

"If the cardinal opens the Gatestone, there shall be no catacombs to oversee, or even an Abbey,” Ivan pondered aloud. “I must get Lazarus out of here — perhaps on the morrow's eve. Are you coming with us?"
 
"Yes, but how may we travel?"
 
"The horse cart is still beside the stables?"
 
"The captain has guards at the stables since Festoneau's death. We cannot get near the cart. And we would be fortunate to steal even a single horse without the guards giving chase as well."
 
Ivan stared off into the grounds. "It seems we have no recourse but to leave on foot." 
 
"The nearest village is Murat, and more than an eve's walk. The sun shall rise on Lazarus before we…"
 
"Remember the cave Friar Nicholas showed us some years ago? Mountain Mouth, he called it."
 
"Yes, it runs deep!"
 
Ivan glanced at the sky. "The moon should guide us. I shall ready Lazarus. See what you can scavenge in the kitchens for the three of us. And fetch enough — even a mere army of three travels on its stomach. Make haste, before the guards are served and nothing remains."
 
"Done."
 
"And three water bladders, the big ones. Bring it all to the catacombs, and be careful that you are not spotted with the supplies. Conceal them. And Odino, not a word to anyone, for Lazarus' sake. No one must know. I understand what Nicholas means to you, but you must not speak of our departure even to him."
 
"Not to worry. I know."

They broke away, Ivan marching toward the catacombs and Odino stealing toward the refectory kitchens. Only then did Friar Greville slip out from behind the refectory corner. He turned his beady eyes in each of their directions, and then scurried off to the abbot's office.

Ivan strode down the catacomb corridor and turned into a room. Lazarus stood beside a table, his back to Ivan, wrapping a fresh torch and laying it in a large heap of already prepared torches. "I've nearly all of them, Friar. I need more cloth to finish," Lazarus stated. He turned and faced Ivan. Two blank eyeholes fell on the bowl of stew.
 
"Leave your work. Come eat," Ivan stated. He turned and left, gesturing that the boy should follow, and Lazarus ran after him. They continued deeper into the catacombs, away from Lazarus' room, where Lazarus always ate.

"Friar, where are we going?"
 
"Come, son." Lazarus followed him, winding through tunnels. Ivan stopped at the door of the Baston crypt, a tomb dug at the order of, and christened after, Bishop Claire Baston, a former des Gardiens Abbot of three centuries prior. Ivan unlatched the door with a pop and a twist, and both of them stepped inside.


Ivan gave Lazarus the bowl and lit the crypt candles. In the east and south walls, seven high, mummies lay lengthwise in two-foot wall slots. A simple wooden crucifix hung against a smooth west wall. In the center of the room stood a meditation table of rough-hewn wood, and beside the door stood a narrow candle table. Lazarus set the bowl on the table and sat down upon a stool. Ivan approached and sat on a stool opposite him.
 
"Fish and bread. Yes, mostly bread, but you must eat. Little remains in the refectory."
 
"Yes, Friar," Lazarus grumbled more to himself than to Ivan. He had grown to dislike bread, the stale abbey staple, intended more to swell a stomach than quench a craving. It wasn't meat. Even a deformed squire boy does not live by bread alone, he mused secretly, adding an irreverent twist to the words of the scripture he knew by rote.

"You may address me as father now, Lazarus." Lazarus glanced up and found Ivan's smile. When in private, Ivan always permitted Lazarus to address him as father.
 
"Yes, father," he complied, plucking at the fish.
 
"We shall be leaving the abbey on the morrow's eve, son."
 
A burst of excitement exploded in Lazarus' gut and he searched his father's face to confirm what he heard.
 
"And yes, Friar Odino comes with us."
 
Lazarus leapt up, rounded the table, and threw his arms around Ivan. Ivan embraced him and chuckled. "Eat now. We have but little time." Ivan coaxed him back to his bowl. With fresh vigor, Lazarus tore into the fish.
 
"Fish bones are unforgiving, Lazarus," Ivan preached, as any attentive father might.
 
"Yes, father." Lazarus slowed and ate carefully, trying to quell the joyous whirlwind of emotions that surged within him, but to little avail.

"I want you to bring up water from the Well Hole after your meal. Your robes and hoods need washing…" 
 
Then a disturbance, like some cold wafting of air, interrupted Lazarus’ thoughts. He swung his gaze to the door, in the direction of the origin of the mental chill.
 
"They should be dry when we… What is it?" Ivan asked when he noticed the boy’s inattentiveness, his voice seemingly muffled and distant to Lazarus. Lazarus could feel something outside the door, something quite new yet instinctively familiar. A trance swallowed him, washing away everything but sight, sound, and smell. "Someone comes?" Ivan whispered. Lazarus' suspicions were correct. He heard the door crackle and pop, as if something quite large leaned evermore heavily against it. Ivan walked to the door and buried his shoulder in it. The door refused to open.

"Who is behind the door, Lazarus?" Ivan whispered.
 
"The door presses on its own."
 
"No, Lazarus. Use your ears. How many are out there?"
 
"There were no steps, no whispering of garments. And I hear no breaths. No one is out there," Lazarus spoke. Ivan huffed. "Father, I must confess a thing," Lazarus whispered.
 
"What is it?"
 
"The other eve, when the Gatestone screamed…" Lazarus looked down.
 
"Out with it, Lazarus."
 
"I, well…in my mind, I heard the Gatestone. It claimed to be my mother and said that it would come to see me."
 
"You spoke with it?!"
 
"Forgive me, Friar. I only wished…"
 
"Mother of God! Lazarus, you have placed us both in great peril." Ivan rubbed his face and paced the room.
 
"I did not gather any danger there…and you forbade me to speak and so I…"
 
"Speak no more of it. Clear your mind."
 
"Yes, Friar."

A buzzing like a locust broke the silence. Father and son both looked about the room. The shrill keening rose in volume to that of ten locusts, then a hundred, growing louder and louder. Lazarus sat down, cupped his hands over his ears, and dropped his head over the table. Ivan's wide eyes darted about the room. On the west wall, beneath the wooden cross, the stones began to bulge like the belly of a woman heavy with child. The cross clattered on the floor. The blocks heaved free of the wall, collecting themselves and gathering into an anatomical form. The aberration then assumed the shape-shifted likeness of a nude woman with flowing red hair and wholly black eyes. The locust-like introduction flew away, and the woman stepped forth with the same heinous grin that transformed Friar Festoneau into a self-mutilating lunatic.


Lazarus uncovered his ears and raised his head. Before him stood Mother Lucifael, and he could feel the truth being told. Lazarus found himself looking at the crimson circles of her breasts. And they stared back at him like wide and horrified eyes.
"Turn away, Lazarus!" Ivan commanded. Lazarus threw his head down upon the table again.
"Now really, Ivan. Am I so ugly? Have I not pleased you, my dear?" she asked in a voice of many women.
"Leaves us. Do not accost me here."

"Did you not tell the Eljo about his mother?"
"Have you no respect? He is but a boy. In the name of God, woman, be gone."
"Must you greet me so? Look at what I have given you?" They both glanced at Lazarus and then back at one another again.
"He belongs to God."
She smiled, bent over, and opened her arms in the boy’s direction. "Now, now. Come to your mother, Lazarus. You called upon me, and here I am, for you. Embrace your mother, son." Lazarus eased his head up and found her breasts again, suspended loosely and full and swinging gracefully beneath her.
"Lazarus!" Ivan scolded him.
Lazarus dropped his head and spoke to the food bowl. "She enters my mind, Friar. I feel her. She is not breathing — not alive."
"I beg you, stop," Ivan pleaded with Lucifael.
Lazarus shook his head and addressed the bowl again. "Why are you doing this?"
"Leave him be! He is but a boy!" Ivan bellowed.
Lucifael rose and countered Ivan. "You command nothing, beast. Hold your tongue, lest it forever lick out your eyes."

Ivan stepped in front of Lazarus and spat, "And you command nothing without Almighty God."
She turned her black eyes at him as if she would burn holes right through his body. "Do not test me, beast." 
Lazarus looked up again, looked past Ivan where he could see half of her nakedness. Like the grotesque, she had no navel. His eyes rolled down her pale belly and dropped between her thighs. She turned a bit, allowing him a full frontal display. Sin warmed him. His veins burned with it. She grinned.

"Unclean servant, in the name of Christ our Lord who binds you, be gone!"
Lucifael laughed. "Servant? Bound? Hear wisdom, beast. It was I who bound your Christ, I who tried and flogged him. It was I who drove the spikes into his hands and feet. It was I who split open his side, mocked him, and crowned him king with brittle thorns. It was I who tested him, and it was he who attested to my power. It was I who crushed him like a hapless insect into the pages of eternity, giving you the very faith you now claim. I am no bound servant, dear holy man. Attest to my power as Jesus did — as Lazarus does."

Ivan followed her gaze and found Lazarus staring at her again. "Lazarus!" Ivan scolded him and further blocked his view. Lazarus threw down his head, his hands over his mask.
Lucifael raised her face to the ceiling and filled the room with a thousand ghoulish laughs. Then she spoke. "My Eljo is far more a man than you, and he's no man at all."
"I command you, devil, in the name of the most holy Lord and Christ, leave this place of God!" Ivan yelled.

She then changed her voice, speaking as Ivan. "I am no more a man of God than a stone in these walls. Lazarus is but a product of my imprisoned lust — the sin of my unfaithful and deserting loin."
"Lazarus, cover your ears!" Ivan yelled over his copied voice. Lazarus did.
She continued to speak for him. "He reminds me daily, without words. Lazarus is drowning in my own guilt. When I see him, I see only myself. I force my faith on him, not for him, but for me. He shall suffer the pains of righteousness as my guilt should suffer them. In time, Lazarus shall drown completely, washing away my sins, and I shall be cleansed."
"Enough! In the name of God, be gone from us," Ivan bellowed.
Lucifael restored her voice to the chorus of female voices speaking at once. "Perhaps you should drown in your own guilt and leave Lazarus to drown in his."

From the mummy slots, from behind every corpse, a tide of rats washed into the room. Hundreds of them poured out of the holes, a boiling sea of black fur. A stench rose from their greasy diseased hair and sucked the breathable air from the room. The candle surrendered its flame and the crypt fell black. Lazarus' pupils flew wide and peeled away the layers of shadows only to discover his mother beaming at him, her shining black eyes even blacker than the darkness between them.

The rats spilled forth in droves. Beady eyes, gnashing cramped teeth, needle-claws and whipping gray tails covered every inch of floor space. Their filthy claws ticked and tacked across the floor like the clicking legs of a million scorpions. Their screeches melded as one as they writhed in a rabid mass. The rodents swarmed Ivan's sandals and climbed the inside of his robe. They clawed and gnawed at him. Ivan screamed, raking away whole clusters. He crumpled to the floor and the black ocean of pestilence drowned him, washing away his flesh. 

In a flash, the room fell silent with Ivan thrashing about on an empty floor. The woman stood over him, laughing. The illusion had vanished but the engulfing pain of tattered flesh remained with him. Lazarus struggled to help Ivan off the floor. Ivan rolled on his side and vomited. Lazarus rose and ripped away his mask. He stepped over Ivan and defied her, hissing, his ears laid back and his thick canines exposed. Her brow crumpled and she cocked her head at an angle, like a confused dog. Then she leapt forth, growling, and slapped Lazarus away, sending him crashing into one of the mummy slots in an unconscious heap.

She bent down and jerked his head up by a fist of hair. She whispered in Ivan's ear in the voice of many women, "Know to whom to attest your devotion. Heed this: In a field that is mine, the stone is not yours to wonder upon. I am not yours to wonder upon. The Eljo is not yours to wonder upon. And him that passeth by and meddleth with destinies not his is akin to one that taketh a dragon by the tail."

She dropped his head, stood up and continued her blasphemies. "Verily, attest your devotion to me, attest to my power, as did Jesus. I am Lucifael, Angel of angels, leader of legions, and with rightful claim to that which you can never understand. Were you not already mine, I would finish you here and now. Stay out of my affairs, beast." Ivan heaved and then spiraled into unconsciousness.

Lucifael turned, and in the hum of a thousand locusts, she melted through the wall. A silence lingered over the pitch-dark room, a deathly quiet befitting of any crypt.
***

Friar Odino shuffled across the courtyard with all the feigned nonchalance he could muster after stashing stolen provisions for roughly five days back in the monks' dormitory. He slipped into the side entrance of the building that housed the catacomb entrance. Down the main corridor, he heard soldiers enter the front entrance.
 
The voice of Captain Bourne barked hoarsely over the tramp of marching feet and clanking metal armor, "All three: the tall one, the fat one, and the squire with the mask! Search every tunnel, every crypt! If you find them, secure them in the bathhouse and inform me immediately!"
 
"Aye, Captain," a voice replied.
 
"Now, to the dormitory. You men, come with me."

Odino sank into the shadows of a deep arch as the soldiers split ranks. One column marched down a corridor leading to the catacombs. Bourne turned away with the remainder, who marched straight for Odino. Odino sucked in his gut, pressed himself into a corner, and held his breath. Soldier after soldier after soldier swept past him nearly close enough to count hairs and exited the building.


Odino scrambled away from them and slipped out of the side entrance, his eyes searching everywhere around him. He felt naked, or more precisely, like a shining swine walled in with two hundred hungry wolves. He stole into the night and secreted himself behind a line of evergreen shrubs directly adjacent to the abbey's outer wall, peering out from the tangle of branches at small patrols of soldiers that crisscrossed the courtyard. Panting, his breath forming a fog in the crisp air, Odino leaned against the wall stones and gathered his nerve as he struggled to still his weak knees. He had to find Ivan before the captain's men could capture him, and he had to keep Lazarus' hood on, but headmost, he had to catch a fat man's breath. It was a striking and even sobering notion — he was outnumbered and without cover and certainly out of time to do anything but huff and puff over what seemed a swiftly unfolding, full-blown tragedy.

Nearly thirty feet beneath Odino's sandals and deep within the catacombs, the door to the Baston Crypt was forced open. A wafting torch probed the darkness. "We have them! In this one," the torchbearer cried down the corridor. Lying on the floor, Ivan stirred as a stampede of boots converged. Soldiers poured into the crypt. Two guards hoisted Ivan up. 

"Where is the fat friar — Odino?" a soldier questioned him. Another discovered Lazarus' mask on the floor and gave it to the man questioning Ivan. Behind them, Lazarus peered from the burial crevice in the wall, peered over the corpse that was its tenant.
 
"Where is the boy? This is his mask, yes?" the soldier asked him. Quiet as a crypt mouse, Lazarus lowered his head and eased excess robe over his head.

Several men passed their torches over the room and found it empty, save for rows of mummies slotted in the walls. Ivan spotted a bit of fresh robe behind the mummy —Lazarus' robe — and saw it shift slightly. He silently thanked God that the boy was unharmed.
 
"I must have fallen. Do I bleed? Tell me, do I?" Ivan questioned them, drawing their torches back on him.
 
"No. Why are you in this tomb?"
 
Ivan rubbed his face and stumbled to the door. Two men clasped his arms. "I came to pray but fell instead. I could not find my way. It is unholy dark down here."
 
"What of this mask? Where is the boy?"
 
Ivan took the mask from the soldier and examined it before commenting, "Oh, he has many masks. That one is used up, a rag now." He tossed the mask near the wall where Lazarus hid. "Lazarus is confined to his quarters." Then he pushed his way through the soldiers as he walked to the door. "I beg you, I must get some air." The men stole one last glimpse around the crypt and reluctantly followed him out.

"Where is the boy's quarters?" the soldier asked.
 
"Down this corridor, veer right, and his will be the first room on the left."
 
"And where is Friar Odino?"
 
"He was in his cell, in the dormitory, last I saw him. I must check on Lazarus." Ivan pulled himself away from the soldiers. They grabbed him harder.
 
"My orders are to place you under arrest, Friar. You are to come with me."
 
"What?! Arrest me? And for what?" Ivan asked incredulously.
 
The soldier addressed the others, "All of you, continue the search. To the boy's quarters first." He turned to Ivan and spoke. "I find this as difficult as you do, Friar, but I follow my orders. Come peaceably and let's be done with it." Ivan willingly agreed. 

The man's voice ebbed like a distant echo as Lazarus lay petrified behind an equally petrified priest, the corpse of the former Abbot Clairese Baston, the very priest who sealed Naramsin in the Benion tunnel, hoping forever to bury the language and secrets of the Gatestone.
 
***

The sun rose and fell once more, and dusk again bathed the Abbey grounds. Two soldiers stood outside the front entrance of the bathhouse. Inside, Ivan paced in circles. He looked at the windows again. A boy could squeeze through them but not a man of Ivan's build. He sat on the edge of a stone bath and surveyed the guarded entrance, but there was clearly no ready means of escape.
 
One of the men entered the bathhouse and passed him by. He stopped at a raised platform at the rear corner of the building, shoved a wood cover aside and relieved himself. Over his shoulder, he questioned Ivan, "So why have you been arrested?"
 
Ivan snapped sarcastically, "I refused to hear your captain's confessions."
 
The guard chuckled, replaced the block over the hole, and returned to his post outside the door. He mumbled to the other guard who peered in at Ivan and laughed.
 
"P-s-s-s-s-t!" A hiss came from the back wall window. Odino's head filled the narrow hole.
 
Ivan rushed to the window. "Praise God. Odino, where is Lazarus?"
 
"Still in the catacombs, I gather. The guards have yet to find us."
 
"Odino, listen to me. Bring plenty of robes — arms full." 
 
"Are you cold?"
 
"Do it, Odino. Quickly." 
 
Odino disappeared and returned shortly, squeezing the cloth mass through the window.
 
"I'm behind the west wall shrubs," Odino hissed.
 
"Good enough! Go!" Odino slipped away.

Ivan draped one of the robes half in and half out of the small window. Then he opened one of the robes and stuffed its cavity, sleeves, and hood with the remainder of them. He untied his rope belt and fastened it as a belt around the dummy. He propped it up with its back to the guards, and then he strode to the rear of the bathhouse, where he slipped the wooden cover off the latrine and tilted back the entire platform. He crawled down into the foul earthen hole and eased the platform back over him, careful to reposition the wood block over the opening.

Moments later, he heard footsteps and the voice of the second guard questioning the makeshift mannequin, "So you refused to hear the captain's confession?" The soldier laughed. The guard lifted the wooden block off the latrine, and Ivan leaned back, peering through the hole as the guard prepared himself. Then Ivan grimaced as the front of his robe became warm and wet. "The soldier continued, glancing over his shoulder and back at the dummy, "Even the devil would never…" The stream stopped, and momentarily the guard jumped back. "Aye! He's gone! The friar is gone!" The first guard came running. The second pointed to the robe in the window. "He's escaped!"
 
"It's too small! He's hiding!" 
 
They scoured the bathhouse, tearing it apart as the guard who had discovered Ivan’s absence spoke. "I tell you he's escaped! The captain is already of a mind to see heads roll with those other two still at large! We waste time here!" Together, they bolted out the door and around the building. Ivan threw back the wooden latrine, heaved himself out of the hole and fled. 

Shortly, Ivan found Odino waving him into the bushes. Odino greeted him with a sour face. "What have you done. He cupped his nose and mouth. "Blazes! Did you have a mishap."
 
"Not the time, Odino. And yes, I've had many already." Their breaths fogged in the chilly dusk air.
 
"I should say you have."
 
"Would you like a mishap?" Ivan growled.
 
"Ahem. No." Odino straightened his face like a corrected pupil.

"What do you know, Odino? Tell me all."
 
"Ah, yes. The Abbot intends to open the Gatestone this eve. He is in the cathedral with Clodius, Greville, and Grate now. He has ordered the monks and squires sealed in the dormitory, and the captain has doubled the guards on all the entrances."
 
"Lazarus cannot be here when they open it. Who knows what should happen to him? Are you coming?"
 
"Indeed!"
 
"Then we leave for Mountain's Mouth tonight. The food and water — did you get them?"
 
"Ivan, the provisions are in my cell. I cannot get past the guards."
 
"Then we go without provisions," Ivan stated, looking up at the stars. "I shall fetch Lazarus."
 
"Perhaps the Well Hole. He would hide in…" Odino began.
 
"He's in the Baston crypt. Remain here." Ivan shuffled past him, stepped through the bushes, and darted to the side entrance of the building that housed the catacomb entrance.

Odino then heard irate screams coming from the far side of the building and peered through the thick screen of shrubs to observe the commotion at hand. Captain Bourne and many torch-carrying guards blazed around the corner. Bourne pointed everywhere, giving directions as he yelled. "Seal off the building! You four, over there! This group, around the other side! The six of you remain here! Secure all doors and windows! The rest of you come with me! Move!" Then the captain added, still yelling, but now more to himself, "You allowed his escape! Inept bastards!" A swarming mass of soldiers invaded the front entrance of the building while others secured the side entrance where Ivan had but recently himself entered the building.
Odino threw his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and beat his fist against the stones. This was a tragedy complete.


Ivan sprinted down the main corridor, yelling for Lazarus. Almost instantly, Lazarus rounded the tunnel corner that led to the Baston Crypt. They clasped one another in open arms in spite of Ivan’s soiled robes and the stink they carried.
 
Ivan tore Lazarus off and shook him by the shoulders. "Hear me, Lazarus! Do what I say! Do you understand?"
 
"Yes, father."
 
"We leave now! Don't stop and don't speak! Make haste and stay close to me!" Ivan released him, turned and raced back up the tunnel, with Lazarus shadowing close behind like a dwarf hunchbacked ghost. They rounded the corner to the stairwell corridor and came to an abrupt halt.

Before them, Captain Bourne descended the stairs with a mass of soldiers close behind. "Enough. The chase is over, priest."
 
Ivan stepped in front of Lazarus. It was hopeless. He dropped his shoulders. "We shall go peaceably." Ivan forced a smile, bowed and clasped his hands like a good friar.
 
"Indeed you shall. Now where is the fat one?"
 
"Friar Odino?"
 
"The same."
 
"I do not know of his whereabouts."

Bourne leaned into Ivan's face. "I should be with your abbot now. However, I find myself chasing two misfit monks and a hunchbacked squire about the abbey. You've come to annoy me. Now, since all the priests are in the dormitory, all accounted for save the fat one, and since I know that there were no priestly robes in the bathhouse before your arrest, I shall ask you once more. Where is he? I expect an answer."
 
"As I told you, I do not know where…"
 
Bourne turned slightly away, then spun back swiftly and slammed his fist into Ivan's jaw. Lazarus hissed.
 
"Lazarus!" Ivan stopped him. Ivan lunged forth, distracting all with a ball-fisted retort to the captain's jaw. The guards restrained Ivan while Bourne took the measure of his pains.

"Ah, a priest with fire in him." Bourne swiped blood from his curled lip. He ordered his men, "Move him aside. The boy sounds more like an animal."
The guards pushed a struggling Ivan back. Lazarus stepped back, blank eyeholes staring up at Bourne.
 
"I said we shall go peaceably," Ivan spat. "Only don't harm the boy! He is diseased!"
Several guards retreated. 
 
But standing resolute, the captain muttered, "I would like see his face." He commanded his nearest guard, "You. Remove his mask."
 
"No! You mustn't," Ivan yelled, heaving about.

The soldier grabbed Lazarus' hood and ripped it away. Horrified soldiers fanned out with a clatter of drawn weapons. "Hissss!!" Lazarus hissed at a retreating Bourne as his blue eyes went wide, his black hair flying about wild as snakes, his long ears pressed flat, and his threatening fangs daring any of them to step nearer.
 
"A devil boy!" one cried. Others muttered in awe.

"No!!" Ivan broke free and slammed the nearest guard against the wall. Several guards swarmed him, and he tossed them about like a giant gone mad. With the room in chaos, Bourne rushed Ivan and sunk a white-handled dagger beneath his ribs. Ivan heaved and stumbled back. He gasped aloud, "Run Lazarus! Quickly!!"
 
Lazarus witnessed the knife, the blood, and something terrible in Ivan's eyes. "Screeeech!!" Lazarus' hawk-like scream sliced the air. Deafened soldiers stood dumbfounded.
 
Ivan crumpled to the floor and moaned, "Run, boy! Now!" The catacomb entrance thoroughly sealed, Lazarus spun and flew down the main corridor and deep into the tunnels like a specter set ablaze.

The soldiers halted abruptly, lowering their weapons and exchanging dumbstruck glances amongst themselves. Some gawked at Ivan and Bourne. To Bourne, Ivan groaned, "He means no harm. His heart is with God. I beg you, leave him go." Then he rolled his head, sighed and cast a sleepy hollow stare toward nothing at all but a crack in the wall.

In the ensuing silence, Bourne lifted his gaze to find his men studying the dagger in his hand, its blade stained with the priest's blood. Quickly he wiped it clean, sheathed it, and arrested the silence. "Moving along." He turned and marched up the stairs, his men giving way like a parting dead sea. He stopped and addressed them. "Arrest the creature, and use no swords. I want that devil boy unharmed." His men stood about him, still as statues. "Now!"

His sergeant responded, "You heard the captain! Move!!" He took off into the catacombs. Soldiers retired their swords and poured in after him. The sergeant's echoing commands faded down the tunnel. "You three, down that way! Check those doors! You two, in there! Search every crack and crevice!"
 
On the stairwell, Bourne mumbled to himself. "No proper priest protects a beast." He summoned six of his soldiers. "You men, come with me. I trust you readied my troops in the courtyard."
 
"Aye, Captain,” one of them affirmed. “One hundred men await your command."
 
Bourne glanced over his shoulder at Ivan's corpse, narrowed his eyes and stormed up the stairs. "Let us be done with it."







Chapter 7

The crisp night air lay silent, save the fading screech of a distant owl. Stars illuminated the dim abbey grounds, and the faint glimmer of several oil lamps shone from two stories of dormitory windows. Across the courtyard, a row of stained glass windows also glowed, but brilliantly – the cathedral was alive.
 
Within the gleaming church, looming high overhead, an intricate, soot-stained fresco adorned its vaulted ceiling, sprawling over most of the upper regions of the cathedral. Beneath the painting, two rows of massive stone pillars lined themselves near the outer walls and ran the full length of the main wing. Together, they supported flying buttresses that soared skyward and disappeared into the ceiling. The same sturdy design existed in all four wings of the cathedral, and where the wings were joined stood a raised hooded altar. Dangling tapestries and draperies ornamented the carved wooden canopy of the altar, and the sacred centerpiece sat atop a solid rock slab in the center of the floor. On either side of the altar stone, thick leather tethers lay tied to closed iron loops that protruded from out of the stone foundation.
 
Cardinal Blasi stood before the raised altar, a pair of tall floor candelabras casting a flickering light over his shoulders. He mumbled to himself, thoroughly engrossed in the text of a stack of brittle pages that he now shuffled. His eyes poured over Latin passages of the Naramsin Translations that he had absconded with from the Apocrypha’s archives. Nearby, Friars Clodius and Greville quietly awaited his command. Aside from these three, and Friar Grate who busied himself with tying the last of several long leather ropes to the eight metal rings of the altar slab, the cathedral stood empty.
 
At length, Friar Grate approached Blasi. “The tethers are secure, Abbot — longest to shortest outside to inside.”
 
Blasi briefly tore his gaze from the worn pages. “What does that mean?”
 
Greville stepped forward and attempted to explain Grate’s statement. “On either side of the stone base of the altar are four hooks. Each of them calls for an attached rope. All of the ropes must be…”
 
Clodius sighed and interrupted Greville to provide Blasi with a more concise explanation. “The altar slab rests in two grooves in the floor. If the slab is not evenly pulled back, it shall catch.”
 
Blasi raised a brow but never looked up from his papers. “And if it does catch?”
 
Clodius answered, “Well, if it catches, then the tethers must be rearranged in opposing order, shortest to longest, with their loose ends crossed to the other side of the altar. Then the slab must be pulled completely closed before reversing the tethers again and reopening it.”
 
“Is it difficult? Involved?”
 
Clodius shrugged. “Only lengthy if not done properly, but it takes only the moment required to close and reopen the floor pit if done right.”
 
Blasi informed him; “Then I now charge you with the task of seeing to it that the slab does not catch.” Clodius stiffened as Blasi continued, “And, of course, I shall hold the both of you to account for any miscarriage.”
 
Clodius’ jaw dropped and he glanced at Greville, who was frowning at Grate’s subtle smirk. He squirmed before clearing his throat. “If I may, Your Eminence. We can offer no assurance that the slab shan’t catch.”
 
Blasi slowly lowered the pages and turned to him with narrowing eyes. And both Clodius and Greville found what appeared to be the very cold and determined stare of the Devil himself emanating from beneath the cardinal’s steely brow. Blasi’s blind eye burned through them, as if to see all of them at once.
 
Clodius quickly averted his gaze, looking instead toward the altar as he further pleaded with Blasi. “The altar has never been moved. We know only of the method of moving it through ancient abbey records. To presume that we shall succeed…”
 
Blasi cut him off; his words laced with growing impatience. “You are now standing before me rather than confined to the dormitory because you remain in my good graces. The both of you do wish to be the new overseers of the catacombs, yes?”
 
“Oh, indeed!” Greville exclaimed. “And we are humbly in your service.”
 
Clodius glared at Greville before responding. “Yes. However, if it pleases you, Your Eminence…”
 
“Then, you shall see to it that the slab does not catch, yes!” Blasi barked.
 
Clodius sighed in compliance. “We shall, Your Eminence.”
 
Abruptly, the outer, double doors of the oratory wing flung open as Captain Bourne led two columns of his strongest soldiers into the church and up the center aisle that divided long rows of terraced seats. The drumming steps of a hundred marching boots thundered through the oritorium. At length, the captain shouted for them to halt and the soldiers froze into position. And as his voice carried off, echoing through the vast enclosures of the church wings, a new silence fell over the cathedral. 
 
Cardinal Blasi and the three abbey friars watched as Captain Bourne approached. He stopped short of where they stood, scratched his goatee, and threw his hands on his hips. He passed a pair of green, probing eyes over the cathedral, mostly inspecting the altar with its attached ropes. Then he exchanged glances with each of the friars before turning to Blasi. “Shall we begin?”
 
Blasi turned his attention back to the Naramsin pages as he replied, “Soon enough, Captain. However, there are several pertinent and quite significant details concerning the altar. Friar Clodius shall now make you aware of them.”
 
Clodius took his queue and stepped forward. “Ah, yes, Captain,” he said. The monk explained the importance of pulling the altar slab evenly so that it did not lock itself into place to Bourne. Together they paced around the altar for nearly three minutes as Clodius informed Bourne of what was required of him. The monk continued, “Thus, the positioning of your men is of utmost importance, as they shall be hard pressed for space once we begin.” Bourne eyed the eight long tethers lying on the floor in a precise dovetailed arrangement and extending outward from the slab. “As you now know,” Clodius added, “the task of moving the altar is somewhat involved – truly more than one might gather from mere appearances. Nevertheless, I require ninety-eight of your men – no more and no less. Now, how many do you have at your ready?”
 
“Enough.” Bourne curtly stated.
 
“Indeed.” Clodius frowned and raised his chin high. “I see.” He scrutinized the disfiguring scar on Bourne’s cheek.
 
Bourne leaned forward and whispered, “Careful with your righteous eye, Friar, lest you force me to save face in front of my men.” Clodius glanced over Bourne’s shoulder to find two steadfast columns of the Royal Guard staring at him.
 
“Well, then.” The monk huffed and turned away, deflated. “Shall we arrange your men?”
 
“Position them as you see fit, priest,” Captain Bourne stated, pointing toward his soldiers with a slow swing of his extended hand. Clodius looked to Cardinal Blasi, who approved with only a confirming nod.
 
Thus, Clodius busied himself, positioning eight rows of soldiers on the leather ropes. Altogether, forty men secured the two outermost tethers, twenty-four gripped next outermost pair, twenty grasped the next innermost, and fourteen held the very innermost tethers. Bourne posted the last of his men – those not assigned positions on the tethers – outside the cathedral to guard each of its three entrances. All were in position; all were ready. And in the ensuing silence that enveloped the church, Clodius stepped behind the eight rows of soldiers, inspecting the alignment of each rank with respect to the position of the altar. Finally, he stepped away, looked to Friar Grate from afar, and nodded. Grate whispered to Cardinal Blasi, who looked up from his papers and signaled Bourne with a gesturing of his hand. 
 
In response, Borne turned back to his men and bellowed commands as he circled their ranks. “Every man pulls! Every row heaves as one! All rows keep pace together: a three-count pull and a three-count rest!” He stopped behind them and clasped his hands in the small of his back. “On my mark!” Taut ropes tensed further. “Heave!”
 
Ninety-eight soldiers strained, and eight tethers creaked, but the altar held its hallowed ground. Blasi scowled at Clodius. Greville squirmed. “Heave!” Again, the soldiers leaned back on the ropes as the grinding noise of six tons of sliding rock reverberated through the cathedral floor. “Heave!” The stone slab moved a few inches more. “Heave!” And still more. “Heave!” More. “Heave!”
 
Primed, and like a ship’s drummer over stroking oarsmen, Bourne held his rhythm. His soldiers were a choir of hisses and groans. And with Bourne’s every new call, the slab surrendered more of a dirty floor. On the opposite side of the altar from Bourne, Blasi saw a rectangular hole gradually fall into view, exhaling decades of vented mustiness. At length, with a deep pit thoroughly exposed, a resounding thump echoed through the church. 
 
“’Tis done,” Clodius informed Blasi. “The slab goes no further.” Blasi motioned to Borne as he stepped toward the opened pit.
 
“Release!” Bourne shouted, and the soldiers dropped the tethers, sweat glistening over drained arms. Several men collapsed to the floor whilst others bent over, panting heavily. Yet, most of the men stood tall, with heads thrown back and mouth agape, wheezing at a ceiling of painted angels.
 
Friars Grate and Greville lined the grimy outer edge of the hole with several tall candelabras, and Blasi inspected the now lit hollow. At twelve feet deep, the pit spanned sixteen feet by twelve feet. All four of its walls stood caked with a black resin that resembled a thin film of coal ash deposited on the interior surface of a well-used hearth flue. Still, even beneath the filth, Blasi spotted a similar feature engraved on the centers of every wall: etchings of crosses, each with three concentric circles enclosing the heart of it. But what captivated him – what quickened his heart and his breath nearly enough to send him into a fainting spell — was that which stood apart from outwardly charred pit.
 
A black and glossy, rectangular stone with well-defined edges and sharp corners rose from out of the center floor of the cavity. The glassy sides of the stone reflected beneath the candelabra firelight. The stone appeared as a standing block of highly polished onyx, seven feet tall, five feet wide, and three feet deep. Otherwise solid, the monolith possessed a single, flawless, unobstructed, two-foot hole, which cleaved the heart of the stone’s broadest face. Row upon row of engraved geometric inscriptions completely covered its exterior surfaces, even to include the curved interior of its gaping hole.
 
In his mind’s eye, Blasi considered the likenesses of the Apocrypha sketches with the genuine artifact that now stood before him. Thoroughly captivated, he paced around the pit, a glistening gleam in his one working eye. His expression was that of a man who was gradually grasping the staggering truth: beyond all doubt or disbelief, Hell was indeed real, and moreover, its tall stone door now stood before him. 


From afar, Captain Bourne called out to Blasi, “And what more should be done?”
 
“Ah, yes. We shall…,” the cardinal mumbled, ostensibly hypnotized by the image of the gatestone whilst memories of his dead brothers captured his thoughts, quickened his heart, and spurred in him an intense loathing of King Edward of England. And in that moment of memory and bitterness, he recalled the lasting voice of the spirit of Jean Jacques Blasi, saying to him; ‘They hide secrets, a weapon of a kind to destroy the English king. You must take charge of this weapon, Francois. You must release it against him.’
 
“Well?” Bourne asked with growing impatience.
 
Blasi broke his entrancement and barked instructions. “Friar Grate, once within, I shall require light enough to see. And you shall accompany me.” He turned to Bourne. “I require a tether and several of your men to lower me over the side.” Monks and soldiers busied themselves.
 
Shortly, Clodius and Greville convened beside Blasi, who now stood looking over the Naramsin pages. The cardinal turned and addressed Clodius before entrusting the stack of papers to him. “You know the importance of these parchments, so be careful with them. They are delicate. And do NOT drop them, as I have them in precise arrangement.”
 
“Indeed, Your Eminence.” Clodius took them from him. His hungry eyes rolled over the fragile pages, astounded that he held the ancient text in his very hands.
 
Blasi added, “You shall hand them down to me when I call for them.”
 
Borne strode alongside a soldier who dragged a tether toward the pit. Three soldiers followed. At the edge of the hole, soldiers lowered the rope over its side and helped to lower Blasi below the floor. Behind them, Friar Grate hurried forth with a small candelabrum of seven flames. Stopping short, his sandal slipped across the grime that lined the hole and he nearly plunged into the pit. There he stood, holding the light and dangling over the edge, with Bourne’s fist clenched firmly into the back of his robe. The captain yanked him to safety and hissed over his shoulder, “For a lively priest, you do taunt death.”
 
Within the pit, Blasi planted his sandals on the floor and released the tether. The cardinal wiped at stains on the front of his robe, yet the stubborn soot remained. He searched his dim surroundings before calling from below, “Friar Grate! Bring a torch!” The soldiers helped to lower Friar Grate into the hole. Blasi stepped nearer the wall, and with an upwardly reaching hand, waved to Clodius. “My parchments — give them to me.” 
 
Clodius compared the dirty floor to his clean robe. Instead, he gave the stack of papers to Greville. “Give them to him.” Greville glared at Clodius and took the papers. Greville lay flat on his chest, leaned over the edge of the grimy hole, and passed the pages down to Blasi. 
 
Taking them, Blasi called up to Clodius, “You wish to oversee the abbey catacombs, and yet, they are every bit as filthy as this pit. Perhaps I may reconsider your appointment to them.” Clodius only pursed his lips and looked elsewhere.
 
Once within the hole, Friar Grate raised his arm and took the candelabrum from one of the soldiers, wincing as beads of hot wax rolled down the underside of his forearm.
 
“Bring the light,” Blasi called to Grate as he approached the gatestone. 
 
As the friar illuminated the polished face of the gatestone, the cardinal inspected its many rows of distinct but indecipherable etchings, which were neither French nor Latin in origin but nevertheless arranged in flowing presentation as a scribed language unbeknownst to even the most literate scholars of the age. Notably, the etchings were not hieroglyphic pictures, but rather, geometric figures that Cardinal Blasi had since recognized from collections of texts once hidden within the Apocrypha’s archive. Blasi gestured for Grate to remain where he stood. The cardinal stepped further away from the face of the gatestone and centered himself before the engravings. The flow of symbols seemed to form a pattern – rows of circles and lines that might suggest an ordering of inscriptions that begged instant pronunciation. Yet, like the many times that Blasi studied the identical symbols in the Apocrypha’s books, even to the degree that he felt near to mouthing the apparent sound of them, all that surfaced was the recurring frustration that he could not. He dropped his gaze to the pages in hand, wondering how a mere abbey cleric by the name of Naramsin had successfully translated such cryptic inscriptions into Latin. 
 
Blasi’s papers fluttered and Grate’s flame flickered in a cool breeze, which abruptly spilled over their sandaled feet. Together, they cast an upward glance to find Clodius, Greville, and Bourne staring down at them. Blasi dismissed them and strode toward the gatestone. He cocked his head, peered through its hole, and saw only the dim, far wall of the pit. He placed his fingertips against the gatestone face to find it unexpectedly frigid. Again, he retreated to his former distance and stared at the monolith, rubbing his chin, lost in thought. 
 
Bourne cleared his throat noisily, as if to convey a growing impatience. Blasi replied to the noise, but without acknowledging it with a glance, “This is not an amusement, Captain. Some endeavors require delicacy.”
 
Bourne huffed, threw his hands on his hips, and paced near the edge of the hole. “A damned fool rock, it is,” he grumbled. 
 
Only then did Blasi casually turn his head up at Bourne and narrow his eyes. “A rock? Is that what you gather it to be?”
 
Bourne affirmed his claim. “A rock.”
 
Blasi gave Grate the stack of parchment and approached the part of the pit floor directly beneath where Bourne stood and called up to him. “Perhaps you might loan me your dagger, if but for a moment?”
 
Bourne clutched a sheathed bone-handled blade that hung on his hip. “And why?”
 
“Since I wish to share with you a thing about this ‘mere rock’ – as you so easily call it.”
 
Standing a short distance from the captain, Greville leaned into Clodius’ ear and hissed, “He carries a weapon into the House of God!”
 
Bourne unsheathed his blade. With his thumb, he wiped away a faint smear of Ivan’s blood from its polished surface. Clodius, upon seeing a knife within the sacred confines of the church, narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, but he said nothing. Bourne nodded his head to Blasi. “Very well,” he agreed, tossing the blade into the pit. The dagger clattered on the floor beside the cardinal. “Scratch your blessed stone and show me the magic of it.”
 
Blasi shook his head as he retrieved the knife. “Oh, I shan’t scratch it. Still, I might direct your full attention to this blade.” He stepped away and neared the gatestone. Then he bowed slightly and cast the knife through its center hole. Bourne listened for the dagger to fall out of the other side of the hole, but there was no sound, as if it had vanished. He circled the side of the pit but saw no knife on the pit floor. Clodius and Greville followed, both perplexed. Finally, Bourne informed Blasi, “I have seen better feats of magic in His Majesty’s Royal Court. Now, if you would; kindly return my blade.”
 
Instantly, a flash of light bathed the cathedral ceiling as Bourne’s dagger plunged toward him, slicing through the left sleeve of his shirt and piercing the toe of his boot before sticking solidly into the stone floor. Bourne fell backward on his rump, his boot still anchored in place. He looked at the dagger, now lodged between his toes, its handle coated with a thin layer of frost. He inspected his torn sleeve to find a thin red line that beaded up on his forearm. Then he searched the ceiling of the church to find only its mural of warring angels and demons and weeping kings.
 
With brows raised and mouths agape, Clodius and Greville stared at the fallen blade. Blasi stood in the shadows of the pit, oblivious to what had occurred outside the pit. He replied to Bourne, “Unfortunately, it cannot be returned, Captain. The blade is no more.”
 
Bourne broke the dagger off at the tip and pulled it out of his boot, grumbling beneath his breath. “Try that again and I shall forget you are a cardinal.” A soldier rushed forward and extended an assisting hand. Bourne grabbed it, and the man hoisted him quickly to his feet. Then the captain whispered to the soldier whilst returning his blunt dagger to its sheath, “Sergeant Armond, ’tis a time to encourage the men. You know what I expect. Now, see to it. Make haste.” Armond snapped a bow and darted toward the cathedral doors. Bourne passed a probing eye over the ceiling as he called after him, “And fetch my helmet! Armond halted and gave another quick bow before dashing away.
 
“The blade has fallen up here!” Greville informed Blasi.
 
Bourne warily approached the edge of the pit to find Blasi looking up at him, arms crossed. “Is it still a rock, Captain?” Bourne gave him only a disquieted stare. Blasi turned and instructed Clodius. “See to it that the tethers on the altar are reversed, and position the captain’s soldiers on the opposite side of the slab to reseal the pit. Clodius nodded and stepped away, but he stopped and looked to Bourne for approval. Bourne nodded and dismissed him with a petulant wave of his hand. Greville then repositioned the tethers as Clodius realigned the soldiers.
 
Within the pit, Cardinal Blasi had since turned his attention to the gatestone. When Clodius had the last of Bourne’s men positioned on the tethers that Greville had reversed, the cardinal retrieved the Naramsin Translations from Grate and instructed the monk to hold the candelabrum just so, high enough for him to read the written verses without blinding him from seeing all of the gatestone’s face. The sudden sound of a soldier’s sneeze carried through the cathedral’s interior and Blasi cast an upward glance at Bourne. “I require silence, Captain.”
 
“Not a sound!” Bourne instructed his men.
 
An unsettling silence followed, broken only by Blasi’s clear and measured voice as he began reciting from the pages in his hand: “Et erit fugerit a voce formidinis cadet in faveam et qui se explicuerit de fovea tenebitur laqeuo –”
 
Time turned whilst Blasi circled the gatestone, reading aloud the Latin verses of Naramsin. Friar Grate hung on his sleeve with the candelabra on high. At length, Blasi stopped pacing and faced the monolith. He then recited the last of the selected verses. “Formido et fovea et laqueus super et qui habitator es terrae.” Then he lowered the pages and studied the stone. A minute elapsed – then two. Finally, Blasi and Grate stepped forward to examine the unchanged face of the statue.
 
Well into the third minute of silence, Bourne called down to Blasi, “Shall we now pretend to see an army of ghosts, Your Eminence? Or might your stone be drained of its magic after the jester’s trick with my blade?”
 
Blasi looked up and addressed Bourne’s subtle smirk. “Captain, the whole of your life is but a moment to this stone.”
 
Bourne crossed his arms and replied with a scoff, “As is your life, the same, even to a pebble.” Soldiers chuckled. “Silence!” he scolded them.
 
Clodius and Greville stood apart from Bourne and his men, the two friars conversing quietly betwixt themselves. “I must confess,” Greville whispered to Clodius, “in all my years as an Upper Council Priest, and with all I read of the records and depictions of the stone; never once could I bring myself to believe that such a thing truly existed beneath this altar. I only feigned to hold a faith to it. And I am certain that most of the Upper Council Friars felt and did the same as I, only out of fear of harsh reprimand.”
 
“Now, we know,” Clodius replied, nodding in the direction of the pit.
 
“But did you truly believe it to exist – that our abbey protected such a stone?”
 
Clodius raised his chin. “Indeed, I did.” He cleared his throat before his admission. “However, I gathered the stone to appear differently than the scriptorium sketches.”
 
“How so?” Greville asked.
 
Clodius folded his arms and deliberated, stroking his chin before answering. “Well, the stone seemed too perfect in its depictions. Only Heaven knows, but I gathered it to appear more common – even as a rudimentary relic of another age.” He held a pointing finger on Greville as he stared into the distance. “More so, I saw it to resemble a likeness of those large standing stones in England – those ancient rocks arranged in a circle, if you might recall.”
 
“Yes, I do recollect them,” Greville responded, nodding toward the floor. Then he turned to Clodius. “And what of the woman spirit of the stone, with her black eyes and red hair? Do you believe that she exists, as Abbot Vonig and others claim – that she is the mother of the grotesques?”
 
Clodius winced, as if Greville’s line of questioning suddenly pained him. “How could you doubt her? Not only does she exist, but she presents herself in the flesh, cold and pale yet as alive as you or I. Heed my words, Greville. The mother of the grotesques is real.”
 
Greville shook his head. “I know not a single sign of her in all my many years at the abbey. I have never dreamt of her as others have claimed.” He turned to Clodius, his brow raised. “Have you seen her?”
 
Clodius nearly choked as he gasped, “You shall never call my faith into question, Greville! Mind your tongue with me!”
 
“Oh, no. I never presumed that you… Well, never that,” Greville exclaimed. “I wondered only if you may have laid eyes upon her. Forgive me.” Clodius rolled his eyes and looked to the darker regions of the cathedral, perhaps searching for the spirit that he so perfectly recalled. Greville cleared his throat and turned his attention to Bourne, as the captain quickly circled the pit. 
 
Bourne approached two soldiers who knelt near the edge of the hole. The loose end of a coiled leather rope lay between them. He tapped one of them on the shoulder. “Withdraw the tether from the hole and fix a loop on the end of it, wide enough for the cardinal to fit his foot.” The growing sounds of footfalls drew the captain’s attention to the oratory wing of the cathedral, where his sergeant, Armond, and a group of soldiers hurried toward him. Along with a spare helmet, the sergeant carried a pair of ready crossbows in each hand. The four men who followed with him carried only a single crossbow. All were equipped with a flat leather quiver of bolts strapped against their thighs. 
 
When the ninety-eight soldiers who stood on the altar’s tethers spotted Sergeant Armond and his small company of armed men, they grumbled amongst themselves, rolling their eyes in dissatisfaction. Altogether, they knew what not to do – abandoning posts or defying orders would be an unforgivable and irreversible act. Consequently, the soldiers’ overall tone changed, as it always did when their captain found grounds for exercising greater caution and employing greater sentences for disobedience.
 
Clodius approached Bourne as he scolded him. “Captain, your blade can be forgiven, but not these men carrying crossbows! This is the House of God! You cannot allow…
 
Bourne spun around and snapped his fingers at both Clodius and Greville, who stopped in mid-stride. “The two of you!” He pointed toward a far wall of the cathedral, at a pair of massive stone columns. “Assume your places over there, behind those pillars and against the wall, lest you catch a stray arrow – by chance, of course.” Bourne glared at them.
 
Clodius scowled as he considered the captain’s veiled threat. The two monks quickly stormed away, stepping past the row of columns and finding their place beneath a large stone-carved crucifix that hung against the wall. And there they stood, with arms crossed in contradistinction to Christ’s spread arms above them, brooding. 
 
Bourne turned to Armond and retrieved the spare helmet. As he fitted his headgear, he whispered to the crossbowmen, “You know what I expect – no exceptions. But no harm comes to the priests. And if one of you should happen to injure the cardinal and his parchments, then I shall see to it that your feet are lopped off and fed to the dogs.” Bourne searched their eyes and the bowmen fidgeted, but the sergeant remained steadfast. The captain addressed him as he pointed to an unobstructed area near the opening of the oratory wing. “Position your men precisely there.”
 
“Aye, Captain.” Armond snapped a bow and addressed the men. “Follow me.” Bourne watched Armond lead the soldiers away, and in a flash of his mind’s eye, the captain mused over the young but seasoned sergeant who seemed to resemble a version of his former ambitious self.
 
However, the ninety-eight soldiers at the altar tethers saw Armond and his lone squad of crossbowmen in quite a different light. They watched the sergeant position his small rank on bended knees, weapons at the ready and aimed squarely at them. They looked on as he gave instruction to his crossbowmen, all the while passing a pointing finger over the lot of the ninety-eight soldiers. They saw him gesture in the direction of each of the three cathedral entrances. They eyed him as he rounded the backside of his newly positioned squad and leveled a pair of crossbows at the backs of the kneeling bowmen before nodding to Captain Bourne. Likewise, they found their captain replying to his trusted sergeant with a similar nod. Still, they knew the routine — and the ninety-eight men were now thoroughly encouraged to obey every command given them.
 
“It moves!” The voice of Grate shouted from within the pit. Bourne approached the hole for better inspection.
 
Within the hollow, Blasi stepped closer to Grate, who held the candelabrum near the etched face of the gatestone. In the deathly quiet of a lingering moment, the friar whispered, “There.” Grate pointed to the glassy black surface, at the cast reflection of the tall, still flames of the candelabrum he held high. “Can you see the image of the fire’s reflections, how they bend?” And although no breeze fell over him, Grate shivered from a sudden chill that seemed to fill the empty space of the pit. He glanced over his shoulder to discover that the pit walls now glistened completely with water droplets that had suddenly condensed against its dirty surface.
 
“Remain still,” Blasi barked. He passed his fingertips over the cold face of the gatestone; it stood firm and was still quite solid. Yet, even so, the cast image of the candelabrum’s firelight swayed as if the mirror image of the flames was passing through rippling water. “Indeed, it does,” Blasi mumbled, inspecting the surface more carefully. Then he leaned away and quickly retreated several steps away from the gatestone. “What is this?”
 
At a safer distance, Blasi and Grate bore witness to an unnatural unfolding of events, as row after row of the gatestone’s etched inscriptions, vanished. From right to left and from top to bottom, line after line of inscribed symbols appeared to wash away, leaving in their place a smooth surface of sable and shimmering stone. After every inscription had faded from view, when all of the gatestone faces fell smooth as black glass, creeping sheets of iridescent ice crystals fanned out to envelop the now frosty statue. The lingering chill in the air abruptly turned into a bitter cold as the priests noticed that their breath was a dense fog. Quickly, they withdrew to the wall of the pit and watched the once rigid surfaces of the gatestone begin to heave and roll, swelling and contracting as if the entire ice-coated block breathed in many places as once. A deep rumbling noise accompanied a steadily rising vibration beneath their sandals, and the two of them briefly exchanged flush and drawn expressions before searching the trembling floor.
 
Outside the pit, against the far cathedral wall, Friar Clodius stood beside one of many massive columns; and with folded arms and a highbrow demeanor, he complained secretively to Friar Greville. “In the privacy of the abbot’s study, the cardinal personally selected you and me to assist him. This very moment, we should be in that pit with His Eminence.” Clodius shook his head. “If truth be told, I should be down there in Friar Grate’s stead. I am much more versed in the stone’s lore than him!” He huffed. “Yet we stand here, against the wall, apart from all meaningful goings on, like a pair of meager squire boys.” He winced in apparent disgust. “And that captain tries my patience like no other.” Clodius sighed and leaned his shoulder against the column. “Hear me now, Greville, if I were not so attentive and considerate…”
 
Clodius set his jaw and looked at the column upon which he leaned. He gently placed his hand against it, then both hands, and then his ear. He remarked, “Greville, rest your hand on this pillar. Greville?” Clodius looked over his shoulder to discover Greville standing much further away from him than he had initially gathered. Greville leaned against the church wall with his one hand raised and lightly touching the base of the wall-mounted crucifix. “Come, quickly!” Clodius waved to Greville.
 
But Greville did not leave the wall. “It moves!” he called out to Clodius, lowering his arm and pointing to the carving. Clodius left the pillar and approached him. Greville cupped his ear in the direction of the crucifix, gesturing for Clodius to listen more closely. “Hear how it trembles!” 
 
Clodius leaned forward, tilted his head, and heard a faint but quick and persistent tapping of the statue as it vibrated against the wall stones. “The pillar trembles as well,” Clodius replied, looking over his shoulder at the column that he had just left. At once, both priests cast an inspecting eye over the floor.
 
Greville spoke. “The wall, the pillar, now the floor – perhaps the entire church trembles?” 
 
Clodius raised his gaze toward the ceiling’s fresco. He commented beneath a crumpled brow, “’Tis not good for the mural.”
 
Clodius examined the sprawling, elevated painting. At its center, high above the cathedral altar, the full portraits of three kings lay enclosed by a ring of bluish flames. Further outside the ring, and completely encircling it, were images of warring angels with swords, shields, breastplates, and helmets. Like an aerial army, these angels appeared to defend the three kings from a gathering of winged demons, all of which possessed grotesque features similar to those of the various stone statues that lined the upper terraces of the outer cathedral roof.
 
Greville whispered to Clodius, “Pray tell, what should happen if he is not the man that he claims to be, if instead he is in league with Evil?”
 
Clodius winced and turned slowly. “And, to whom do you refer?”
 
“The cardinal,” Greville exclaimed. “What if he intends more than to summon spirits against the English? What if he is the Devil, himself and has come to the abbey only to open the stone and let loose the tide of darkness that is behind it?”
 
Clodius backed away. “Have you lost your balances? You speak heresy! In Heaven’s name, he is an Avignon Cardinal!”
 
Greville continued, “And I am a Lower Council Friar, yet I am not familiar with those passages that he recited. Can you recall them?”
 
Clodius leaned into Greville’s face and scolded him. “He is not a Council Friar, but a Council Cardinal – with the full translations of the stone in his very hand! Would he not be more versed than either of us with regard to the stone?”
 
“Still,” Greville pressed him. “Are you familiar with any of the passages that he recited?”
 
Clodius grabbed his arm and growled in his ear that the vibration in the floor of the cathedral was certainly the result of galloping horses outside the church. Then he released Greville and threatened him. “Do not try my patience! I shall hear no more of your heretical accusations concerning our new abbot. Now, collect your wits or you shall cost the both of us our rightful places as overseers of the catacombs!”
 
Greville dismissed Clodius with a petulant sigh before he looked away. The rebuked friar crossed his arms and glared at the soldiers at the altar tethers, who now stared down at the trembling floor. Some of them whispered with expressed concern, and all ranks wavered slightly with fidgeting soldiers. 
 
Bourne stood with three soldiers near the edge of the pit and cut a stern gaze over his nervous ranks before shouting to them, “Still yourselves! Silence your tongues, or the next man shall make lovely passion to my lashing post!” He turned. “Armond, be at the ready; weapons trained!” He spun back around. “All of you shall keep your attention on me, not on one another, the floor, or the priests – only on me!” Nearly a hundred soldiers froze like poised statues, their eyes fixed on the captain. The only obvious movement, occurred directly below Bourne’s boots, on the floor and in the pit. 
 
Within the hole, Cardinal Blasi retreated to the wall and groped for a dangling rope, but he found only a slippery, cold surface that now stood covered with condensation. Friar Grate passed the candelabrum over the wall’s glistening sheen as he searched for the tether. Instantly, the flames of his candelabrum leaned away from the wall and in the direction of the gatestone. Grate raised his head, searched the upper edges of the hole, and noticed that, like the light that he held, all of the candle flames of the surrounding floor candelabrums also leaned toward the center of the pit.
 
“Captain! The tether!” Blasi shouted, wiping a handful of black grime onto his robe and complaining beneath his breath. Then he stole a quick glimpse over his shoulder at the bulging gatestone. “Now, if you would!”
 
A soldier quickly lowered the rope as Bourne instructed Blasi. “Slide your foot inside the loop of the tether.” Blasi had just grabbed the rope, when…“PHSSS!” The sudden sound of a deafening blast of air ushered forth an unrelenting hiss that resembled the rupturing of a volcanic vent. The two priests threw themselves against the wall. Grate’s candelabrum struck the pit floor and its flame extinguished. Blasi lost the Naramsin Translations, the stack of pages scattering over the pit. Quickly, he scrambled across the floor on hands and knees to retrieve the fallen pages while keeping a wary eye on the gatestone and the hole at its center, which now filled itself with a roiling black fog. The churning darkness billowed and fumed before spilling out of the gatestone as a dense cloud. Blasi grabbed the last stray page and lunged for the wall as the heavy mist crept over the pit floor and concealed his feet with its absolute darkness. It appeared as if the entire pit floor had vanished, wholly consumed by the blackest of shadows.
 
Blasi grabbed the tether as sheets of ice, dark with soot, slid down the wall. He raised his sandal and fought with the loop at the end of the rope, frantically searching for a foothold. The black mist rose level with his hips. “Pull, dear God! Lift me out!” He stuffed the Naramsin pages in his teeth and clutched the rope.
 
Grate screamed as he high-stepped through the caustic cloud. “It burns! ’Tis fire!”
 
Bourne’s voice commanded from above, “You two, pull the tether! You, fetch another! Move!”
 
“Now!” Blasi screamed through clenched teeth. The soldiers began to hoist him out of the hole even as blood blisters surfaced on his legs. Grate leapt atop Blasi and the instant tug of additional weight sent one of the two soldiers screaming headlong into the pit, penetrating the mist with a disgusting thump. The remaining soldier cried out as the quickly slipping tether scorched the insides of his hands. Together, the priests slid back into the waist-high cloud.
 
“Damn you, Cardinal!” Bourne screamed as he grabbed the tether to replace his fallen soldier. He summoned another six men. “On this tether! Now!” Soldiers scrambled and the rope tightened at the same moment that Blasi shoved Grate away from him. The priest stumbled backward and disappeared beneath the heaving mist. Alone, on the rope, Blasi slid up the pit wall. Soldiers pulled him to safety even as they threw a second tether into the hole. Blasi rolled on his back and clutched his thighs. Dark stains seeped through the pressed parts of his clothes. He stiffened from pain and gasped for breath, the pages still in his clenched teeth. A soldier knelt over him and reached for the hem of his robe.
 
“Do not touch me!” Blasi cried, grimacing.
 
Clodius yelled from afar, “What is the matter with you, Captain? Get Friar Grate out of there! He shall die!”
 
Bourne spun about and bellowed to Armond, as he pointed to Clodius. “If that man moves or speaks, drop him!”
 
Still within the pit, Grate scrambled to his feet. He stumbled about, groping and coughing, blinded by the corrosive mist that now rose evenly to his chest.
 
Bourne bellowed, “Inept bastards! He cannot see! Move that tether closer to… Give it to me!” He yanked the rope from his soldiers, circled the side of the pit, and threw it down the hole as he called to Grate. “This way. Yes, walk to the tether. Keep coming. I am here!” Grate found the rope and latched himself to it, still choking on the burning mist. “Pull!” Bourne shouted to the line of men behind him. All of them leaned back on the rope and Grate slid up the pit wall. Only half way to safety, Grate’s skin peeled off his arms, sticking to the wall of the pit like wet tissue. Flesh rolled out of his clenched fists and he slid down the rope, tumbling back into the mist. 
 
Bourne saw that the end of the rope had no loop and barked, “Bring me the other tether!” Once more, Grate leapt to his feet, now with only his chin above the mist. Like the skin on his arms, his ears were also now missing. Now deaf and blind, he ran frantically around the pit, strafing its walls in search of a rope. He fell and then stood again. Bourne readied himself to throw the other tether, yet stopped. He did not call after the priest — he could not. He did not even recognize the moving red globe as a man’s head even as Grate cried out in terror, the tone of his voice now dreadfully changed by the acrid mist.
 
And if ever there was a succession of screams to be seared into the lasting memory of even seasoned soldiers, they now filled the cathedral and echoed in the assembled soldiers’ skulls. From their vantage point, the ninety-two soldiers at the altar tethers were unable to see the ghastly occurrence that unfolded on the floor of the pit. They could only stand and listen to the disturbing pleas of the desperate priest, whose cries were those of a man burned alive. Soldiers’ eyes watered as their hearts raced and their breaths quickened. Even so, they remained steadfast, awaiting any order that may come their way.
 
The last of Grate’s screams faded to a little more than gurgling sounds before the heaving mist finally claimed him. Bourne marched quickly over to Blasi, who now lay on his side, writhing in pain as he shuffled the pages, searching for order in their verses. Bourne bent over and growled at him, “A man just melted like a candle in that damned…whatever it is that you summoned forth!” Bourne leaned closer to Blasi. “Is that your blessed army of ghosts – a black mist? Hear me well, Cardinal. I lost a man at your hands and I shan’t lose another! You shall get up from here and fix what you have done, or I shall have my men pull the slab over the hole.” He turned to the six men he had called from the tethers and ordered them back to their former positions.
 
“You can not do that!” Blasi protested, wheezing. “I must recite the proper passages in order to close the stone. But we cannot close it until the spirits emerge and I summon them against the English at Crecy!”
 
“Then do it now! Recite the verses! Send them off and I shall pull the slab over it!”
 
“There are no spirits to summon. Give them more time. The mist is not them!”
 
“How can you be sure? Have you ever seen a spirit?”
 
“I have not! Yet, I have seen many mists!
 
“And I have seen and heard enough!” Bourne yelled. “I intend to pull the slab closed – verses recited or not!”
 
“Hear me, Bourne,” Blasi howled in pain. “Pulling the slab over the pit shan’t close the stone. Even if you cover the stone, it shall remain open beneath the slab. Only the proper verses shall close it!”
 
“Either you find those verses of yours or I shall be the verse that pulls that damned slab closed!”
 
“You must NOT! You cannot hurry the stone – or me! For the sake of God, Captain, look at me! I can hardly catch my breath for the pain!” He turned back to the pages, shuffling them with trembling fingers as he read over them. “A moment more, I beg of you,” he groaned, tears rolling down his cheeks and nearly mad from the burning in his legs.
 
“I do not have a moment, Cardinal! That mist rises even now! When it spills out of the hole, then I shall have lost my chance to close the slab. My men are in place and the moment is mine. Now, either you…”
 
“WOOSH!” 
 
Bourne turned toward a sudden blast of air coming from the pit. “Hold your positions,” he yelled to his men. The captain inspected the dimly lit hole, but all surrounding floor candelabras’ flames were now extinguished and he could see little. An icy breeze emanated from the hollow. On the hood of the altar, tapestries fluttered in a continuing wind.
 
“No! Catch them!” Blasi screamed, groping for scattered pages that were blowing across the floor. But several of the papers were now caught in a windy draft and being drawn into the pit. He rolled upright, pressing a disheveled pile of pages against his chest. “Captain, how do you expect me to… This wind… I cannot arrange…”
 
Bourne interrupted him, calling over his shoulder; “If you fail, I shall place you under arrest, and you shall return with me to Paris to tell His Majesty about this abomination that the Church has secretly kept.”
 
Blasi moaned as he staggered to his feet. He stumbled away from the pit, grimacing as he carried the pages away from the windy hole.
 
Bourne called out as he edged closer to the pit. “Guards at the doors, you shall be my torchbearers! Take leave of your posts and fetch additional replacements from the courtyard – seven armed men to secure the outside of each of the doors that you now guard. Inform them that any man who attempts to enter the church is to be cut down! Now, be off!” Immediately, guards scrambled and three cathedral doors slammed. Bourne looked over his shoulder. “Armond, keep your eye on all that moves!” He turned about. “Men at the tethers, be ready to pull as one – on my mark!” Then, with his broken dagger drawn, Bourne carefully approached the hole.
 
Across the cathedral, Greville wiped tears from his cheeks, drew a deep breath, and looked up from the floor. He turned to Clodius, questioning him, angrily, “Now that Friar Grate is dead, do you believe that the floor still shakes from galloping steeds outside the church?”
 
Clodius narrowed his eyes at him before crossing his arms and propping his shoulder against the column. “Watch your tongue, Greville. Short of allowing myself a shot in the back, I could do nothing to save Grate. And why did you do nothing?” Clodius shook his head and continued, “Besides, we never insisted that he climb down into that pit. The choice was his alone, and he did it only in an attempt to get into the good graces of the cardinal. Now, control your sniveling and lower your voice, lest you cause the both of us to be shot!” Clodius coughed and turned his attention to the pit. A moment of silence ensued between them.
 
At length, Greville whispered, “Something happens within the pit. All of the candelabra flames have gone out, and I feel a steady breeze.” He looked squarely at Clodius. “We should slip out of the church whilst the guards are not at the doors and the captain has his back to us.”
 
“See, there?” Clodius inconspicuously pointed across the cathedral as he coughed again. “We would not make it safely, even to the doors.” 
 
Greville looked over Clodius’ shoulder to find Armond staring squarely at them. Greville whispered quietly to Clodius, “But he shan’t watch us indefinitely. Perhaps he might look away if we sit ourselves down on the floor?”
 
Clodius succumbed to more of the persistent cough. From out of the corner of his eye, Greville studied the unattended front of the church, searching for a convenient path of escape then by tracing the outer wall completely. Behind them, he noticed the stone cross on the wall, upon which hung the sculptured likeness of a crucified Jesus – the hanging statue swayed like a slow-moving pendulum. Greville stepped away for its closer examination before exclaiming, “See it move?” Pointing toward the rocking crucifix, he looked to Clodius, who was waving a hand before his face and coughing still. Only then, in a new angle of light, did Greville spot a thin sheet of dust drifting down from above the upper edges of the column and settling over Clodius. At once, both priests looked up, searching for the origin of the dust.
 
“’Tis loose mortar,” stated Clodius. He stepped away from the pillar, cleared his throat, and searched the high ceiling before looking back at Greville. He saw that the other friar had his hand over his mouth and his eyes were wide as he stared at the ceiling mural. Clodius followed his gaze to the highest point in the ceiling, where he saw the likenesses of the three painted kings. The figures appeared to have their heads turned in a different direction than previously, indeed to be staring downward, directly at the two of them.
“It cannot be,” Clodius mumbled, holding his brow. “’Tis but a mural. The lighting, or perhaps the dust, makes it seem to move.” Both priests retreated beyond the row of columns and toward the wall of the church. 
 
Greville whispered, “Dear God, what have we undone?”
 
Three cathedral doors opened and slammed shut again. Bourne knelt beside the pit, peering into its dark depths as six soldiers with twelve torches surrounded him. Beneath dancing torch flames, their hair and clothes fluttered in a steady breeze. With the hole now illuminated, Bourne leapt to his feet. “Fall back!” he shouted, waving arms to his men as he retreated several steps before stopping at a safe distance to view the surprising new form of the gatestone, which now dominated the space of the hole.
 
In the flittering torchlight and frigid breeze, fog formed on soldiers’ breaths. Bourne examined a churning column, a small, stationary tornado that stood in place of the gatestone as upon the pit floor, standing only slightly higher than the level of the cathedral floor. The top of the black, whirling column was as wide as its base; and though its center seemed hollow, the noticeable void was too dark to see within. However, near the edge of the pit where there was more light, Bourne noticed that the inky mist, which once threatened to overflow the edges of the hole, now began to recede as it sank lower against the pit walls, deeper into hole, as if gradually drawn in by the whirlwind. And in the dissipating mist, the pit floor fell into view, revealing the sprawling, lifeless silhouettes of a priest and a soldier. Bourne summoned his torchbearers. In the rising winds, glowing embers sprang from torch flames. Bourne held his dagger drawn and ready as he eased closer to the pit. 
 
The men stopped near the edge of the dim hole. A soldier held his torch high and pointed downward. “Captain, they still live!” Bourne watched the shadowy figures roll onto their backs. Together, the two silhouettes seemed to take turns rolling toward the base of the whirlwind, moving more quickly as they neared it. The captain was about to call for tethers when he realized that they did not move on their own. The corpses slid across the floor and the whirlwind swallowed them up.
 
Instantly, thumping sounds resonated from out of the steady hum of the whirlwind, dull thuds, like large clumps of mud bumping repeatedly against one another. Bourne stepped back. He stared at the nearest wall of the vortex as black and uneven shapes emerged, enveloping its outer edge and appearing to chase one another through the rotating column. The smooth edges of the black whirlwind gave way to a bumpy surface of dark and irregular forms. Then a single piece swung out, still attached to the whirlwind. Round and round, the protruding part circled alongside the column, loose and fully extended. In that moment, through the faint blur of a whirling motion, Bourne recognized the flying thing as a limp and swinging arm, and only then did he discover that the entire column had transformed into a tight collection of blackened, spinning body parts.
 
Bourne dropped his dagger and it clattered against the floor. He tossed up his hands in apparent defeat and addressed a nearby soldier. “His Majesty assured me that I would enjoy my stay in the company of good friars at a peaceful abbey, that there would be plenty of food, blessed abbey wine, an occasional boar hunt, and perhaps even a bonfire roast to amuse my men.” Bourne grabbed the soldier’s vest and thrust a pointing finger at the whirling column. “What in the hell is THAT?” Bourne shoved the speechless soldier aside, marched away, and paced in a circle, holding his hair out of his eyes as he scanned the furthest regions of the cathedral. “Enough of this! Cardinal? Armond, where is the cardinal?”


Across the church, Sergeant Armond wiped a watery eye on his arm. Beneath his breath, he cursed the fine sheet of dust that steadily drifted downward from above, settling over him and his small rank of crossbowmen. “I do not see the cardinal, Captain,” Armond called out, blinking his eyes as he repositioned his two crossbows on the backs of his men.
 
CRASH! A large stone fell from out of the ceiling, shattering against the floor only a few feet in front of the squad. Two of the crossbowmen leapt to their feet. Armond lunged forward “Do not force my hand,” he growled, pressing a crossbow into the back of their necks. “Take your positions.” The men returned to their knees, leveling their weapons on the soldiers at the tethers. Armond fell back, both of his bows trained on them, but his eyes were elsewhere – on the two friars across the cathedral – lest he lose sight of another priest and further disappoint his captain.
 
Clodius and Greville shifted nervously as they stared in the direction of the church doors. At once, they turned to find Armond instructing one of his crossbowmen, and the kneeling soldier swung his weapon toward the friars. “He shall shoot us!” Greville exclaimed, grabbing Clodius tightly by the robe.
 
Clodius scolded him; “Perhaps he may – on account of you!” He shoved Greville away. “Since you cannot contain yourself, a crossbow is now leveled on the both of us.” He huffed, raising his nose to the ceiling in visible disdain.
 
“But we are not safe in here!” Greville complained. “The arch-stones are falling…
 
“Mother of Jesus,” Clodius suddenly mumbled, gawking at the ceiling. “It can not be real.”
 
High above the altar, unseen by all but the two priests, the three kings of the mural appeared to come alive, thrashing their heads, their faces contorted with expressions of extreme agony. However, the moving images of them suddenly froze into place, fixed once more but with mouths agape and eyes wide, but they were still staring down at Clodius and Greville. And in that moment, their frozen faces began to crackle and burn away, releasing a cloud of dissipating smoke and a shower of charred paint flecks that drifted toward the floor like black snow. Only then did the soldiers look up, searching for the origin of the ash that settled over them.
 
Clodius coughed and waved his hand before his face, attempting to clear away a fine mist of falling dust. Then he searched for the cause of sharp, popping sounds, like those from overheated rocks fracturing in cold water, and he found cracks radiating throughout the face of the massive pillar that towered beside him. He stepped away from the column, inspecting it from a distance, observing a shower of dust that spiraled down around its curved surface. Abruptly, the crevices widened and large chunks of stone fell away from the column, crashing to the floor with a deafening noise to command the instant attention of all eyes in the cathedral. As pieces of the pillar broke free, through the dust and falling debris, Clodius noticed that the crumbling of the column was not random, since an exposed section of deeper, unbroken stone appeared as the smooth surface of the side of a gigantic stone-carved leg. 
 
As rock rained down, it became clear to the monk that a towering statue was gradually being revealed beneath the falling shards of rock. The colossal figure was that of an armor-clad giant clutching a long sword, its other hand pressed beneath a stone block that supported the cathedral roof. With a skirt of thinly layered armor plates, it stood in Spartan battledress reminiscent of that worn by ancient Roman warriors. Curved plates covered its lower legs and upper arms, and its full helmet was round on all sides, with the higher-most part of its headgear converging upwards into a dull point. Betwixt its broad lips lay sharp tips of rows of jagged teeth, and a single cyclopean eye was in the center of its forehead.
 
Greville scurried past the row of pillars and stood cowering against the exterior wall of the cathedral. He tore his gaze away from the towering Cyclops statue to investigate a peculiar movement that he perceived out of the corner of his eye. There against the wall, directly beside and just above him, hung the carved crucifix, with its stony likeness of Jesus – it was moving. Greville stared at the Jesus-like figurine as its chest quickly rose and fell as if struggling to breathe. The monk moaned to himself and backslid down the wall. Overwhelmed, he curled himself into a ball, only to weep and pray that he might awaken from what seemed a terrible dream, waken to find himself suddenly in the tranquility of his dormitory room. 
 
Clodius screamed at Bourne as he pointed up at the new Cyclops statue, “See it, Captain! For the sake of God, have you gone mad? Your soldiers are nothing against it! We must leave, now!”
 
But Bourne’s back remained turned to Clodius. The captain shouted commands to a soldier at the altar tethers who had since released his rope and fell out of formation. “Do not leave your post! Return to the tether, now!” Instead, the soldier fled, dashing toward the cathedral door. As quickly, the captain spun about and yelled, “Armond!” Instantly, crossbows popped, bolts flew, and the man stumbled to the floor with several shafts planted in his back. He writhed, choked, and died. Only then did Bourne address Clodius, jabbing a pointing finger at him, “Silence, priest. SI-LENCE!”
 
Bourne turned and raked his blowing hair behind his ears. He marched toward his torchbearers. “Approach the hole with me! Shield your flames from the wind! Gather together and keep the torches lit, each flame lighting the next!” He neared the edge of the pit. In the faint illumination of leaning torch flames, he saw cracks forming in the pit walls and climbing upward and over the uppermost edge of hollow’s perimeter. The fractures radiated from the gatestone, through the higher cathedral floor, even to spread beneath his boots. Bourne stepped back. Within the pit, the whirling funnel moaned, growing louder as it appeared to gain speed. Within its moan came the climbing tones of many screams that represented a massive gathering of unfathomable suffering – as if this were a roaring choir of a thousand tortured souls.


Bourne howled, “Where is the cardinal?” But his eye lay fixed upon the black, spinning monstrosity of compressed body parts now before him. Then he commanded his torchbearers, yelling over the noise as he shoved soldiers away from the pit, “Fall back! All, save the three of you – hold your light on it. You two, I want more torches in this church! See to it! And you, take your place on the tethers!” Then he called out to Armond, “Be at the ready!” And bellowing to all of his men, he circled behind them. “On my mark; we close the slab! Align yourselves evenly as before! Pace yourselves the same. And if I see even one of you raise your head against me…” But the captain shut his mouth, turned slowly in the direction of the pit, and stared at a smooth, crimson shape that rose slowly from out of the center of the swirling column of dark flesh.
 
Across the cathedral, Clodius abandoned Greville and fled toward the church doors. A bolt from a crossbow struck the rock wall, sparks exploding within arms-length of Clodius’ face, abruptly convincing him to fall back and reconsider his escape. He retreated to Greville, who still lay cowering on the floor. From afar, he spotted the crossbowman reloading and re-leveling his weapon on him. Clodius eased himself toward Greville, now keeping a wary eye on the giant Cyclops statue, its head turned downward, appearing to study the priest with its one unblinking eye of stone. Clodius consoled Greville with a pat on his shoulder. “Collect yourself. You must be strong if I am to help you escape.”
 
Greville sat up and wiped his eyes. “Yes, out of here. I wish… I… Yes, we shall leave.” Greville’s glassy eyes rolled about, appearing to search for something, somewhere in the church that he was unable to find, but his eyes seemed to be discovering everything at once too, as if he were seeing it all now in a very different light. He mumbled, “I am tired. I should go back to the dormitory and rest myself for morning services.”
 
“Indeed.” Clodius agreed. “And you should. ’Tis time to leave; that you might find peace and rest – for morning services.”
 
Greville looked up at Clodius, but his attention fell over Clodius’ shoulder and toward the distant ceiling. His blank stare lay fixed on whirling images of the sprawling fresco. He saw winged demons slaying angels. He saw flying devils penetrate a circle of blue flame, their swords on high as they beheaded three faceless kings. Dazed, Greville smiled weakly and nodded, as if accepting the horrific happenings against the ceiling.
 
Clodius slapped Greville. “Look at me! We leave now! When I see that the moment is right, I expect you to run quickly for the cathedral doors. Do not slow or stop! Keep your eye on nothing but the doors. I shall be right behind you. Do you understand me?”
 
“Yes, I must have fallen, but I am still able. Shall we now leave?” Greville asked, extending his hand for Clodius to help him to his feet. A crashing sound came from behind them and both priests turned to see that the large stone crucifix had fallen from the wall. The remains of it lay strewn over the floor as a heap of shattered fragments. Of all the scattered shards, none represented a recognizable part of the former sculpture of Jesus, since every broken piece belonged only to that which was once the carved, stone cross. 
 
Their hands clasped together, Clodius began to pull Greville to his feet, when… “HISS!” From behind Clodius came a sharp spitting noise like that of an irate cat. Clodius spun about just as Greville jolted backward, and both monks hit the floor. They froze where they sat, wide-eyed and stunned, their robes fluttering in the breeze as they stared into the face of what any holy man would conceive to be an unspeakable abomination. Before them stood the stony figurine that was previously affixed to the carved cross. Now it stood, detached, and as high as perhaps a small dog. Its body resembled that of a jackal. However, aside from needle-like teeth, its head remained unchanged, and in keeping with the prior likeness of the carved Jesus, complete with thorny crown. And unlike its front paws, which stood apart, upright and unobstructed, its rear paws lay backward against the floor, both of them appearing to be nailed together and attached to a large remnant of the former stone cross. The grotesque statue crawled toward them, dragging its backwardly twisted hindquarters and still-attached chunk of rock. Clodius and Greville scrambled away from the encroaching stone figure.
 
“ROAR!” A booming voice from the looming Cyclopes carried over the interior of the cathedral, briefly drowning every sound. Clodius found the giant staring at him with its one great eye. The statue released his hand from the ceiling, raised an enormous sword with the other, and began to step down from atop the cornered base of the column. Both priests leapt to their feet and scrambled for the wall. The stony giant slammed its sandaled foot against the floor of the church, sending cracks through the flagstones. Roof stones and dust showered the moving statue. Abruptly, the unsupported section of the cathedral roof collapsed, and in the thundering chaos, a massive column of debris fell atop the giant. The Cyclopes shattered beneath the sudden force, and the entire mass crumbled to the floor in an avalanche of grit and stone. A massive plume of dust rolled over the floor even as the wind swept it up, thoroughly dispersing it everywhere and making it impossible to see more than a few feet. On the floor, the stony jackal figure scurried about whilst dragging the broken piece of cross behind it. It dashed toward the center of the cathedral and dived into the partially closed pit. Hell spread throughout the cathedral, sparing no sacred icon in an ever-worsening nightmare. 
 
“HEAVE!” Captain Bourne shouted. Soldiers tugged and tethers stretched as the altar slab slid further forward, grinding against the fractured floor. In the howling wind and churning dust, the men were nearly deaf and blind. With a third of the pit covered beneath a slowly encroaching slab, ever-widening crevices in the floor hissed with spewing mists of freezing fog. A man cried out with what seemed only half a shriek. Immediately, Bourne spotted an empty place in the ranks and a large fissure in the floor that spewed forth a column of mist and ice crystals. He darted through the ranks and leapt over spreading cracks in the flagstones, but he was too late. He could not even locate his soldier in the deep crevice that seemed to descend even to the depths of Hell. He screamed to the rest of the idle men, who now held pairs of flameless torches, “Circle behind the formation at once! If one of us should fall, take that position at once!” He turned to the far wall. “Armond, be ready to assume command!” As the men dropped their torches and scrambled away from the pit, Bourne straddled the floor crevice. He latched himself to the tether in place of his fallen man, and as he did so, he warned all of the soldiers on the ropes, “We pull as one and die as one!”
 
“HEAVE!” Bourne cried. Bluish knuckles gripped ropes. Shivering men hissed and groaned. Again, the altar inched forward. Hailing ice slung out from the whirling column, pelting every soldier. The men were wet and dirty, some grimacing beneath frosty beards, and all of them bore the same expression of fear and desperation as in the heat of a raging battle.


“HEAVE!” Through the quickly dissipating brume of dust that once engulfed the entire cathedral, the captain kept his eye on the evermore-revealing remains of a glistening Friar Grate as it continued to release a succession of luminous apparitions from its throat. One after another, they flew from out of the corpse’s mouth, each escaping more quickly than the one before it – until the corpse’s throat flapped and belched with such intense repetition that it split lengthwise. Abruptly, the whole of the monk’s head and neck burst open, flush with its shoulders and in every direction, seemingly as a quick-ripening, fleshy bloom. A brilliant column of streaming spirits spewed forth from the headless torso that remained, screaming and throbbing upwardly. The higher regions of the cathedral swarmed with glowing translucent forms. Everywhere, apparitions disappeared and reemerged from the ceiling, walls, and floor – the entire cathedral flickered with an unnatural radiance.
 
The altar slab slid in short bursts as the massive stone rolled over the obstructing corpse of Friar Grate, and with every heave of the heavy stone, the skinless torso bent further backward until the tremendous weight of the stone cracked the corpse’s spine. The body flipped and folded sharply sideways. In this gruesome and unnatural angle, the flapping remains of its head tore away, only to be swallowed by the roaring black column beneath. Abruptly, the exodus of throat spirits ceased, but its flared neck hole continued with a guttural groaning – in tune with every thrust of the altar slab. A few more heaves, and the twisted remains disappeared beneath the sliding stone. At length, in a moment that might have seemed eternal, the deafening roar began to subside, the winds calmed, the dust began to settle, and a reverberating thud shook the cathedral floor. With the altar slab now locked in place, Bourne and his men had finally covered the pit. A low rumble continued through the floor, attesting to the whirling column of blackened body parts still raging beneath the altar capstone.


Although Cardinal Blasi had managed to open the gatestone sufficiently to release an army of spirits, he failed to recite the remainder of the passages that would send them against the English at Crecy. Hence, the aimless specters circled the ceiling before vanishing through the stones. One after another, the glowing forms left the cathedral, until the interior of the church fell dark as a devil’s eye. In the ensuing silence, soldiers panted, coughed, and sobbed.
 
“Damn you, Cardinal!” The voice of Bourne bellowed through the lingering darkstill, quickly lost in a trail of overlapping echoes.
 
***
 
Outside the church and across the abbey grounds, Odino peered through the evergreen shrubbery. His knees nearly gave way to a wave of nausea as he watched four soldiers carry Ivan's limp remains out of the front entrance of the catacomb building. They carted the corpse to the bathhouse, where they positioned it beside the outer wall. Odino choked back tears, his mind fixed on Lazarus. He studied the soldiers who stood clustered in the courtyard, their attention completely turned to the church. The men pointed into the air, at luminous apparitions that emerged through the cathedral roof. The yellow glowing forms circled the church steeples as they chased one another amongst the high terraced rows of stone grotesques. Altogether, they swarmed like pigeons that sparred and vied for places to roost.
 
Unable to locate Lazarus inside the catacombs, Bourne’s soldiers returned aboveground and stepped out into the courtyard only to discover a haze of glowing spirits darting about the upper reaches of the cathedral. Hypnotized by the surreal spectacle unfolding before them, the guards gathered with their comrades-in-arms, their backs to the row of shrubs where Odino hid. The monk saw his chance. Odino broke from the bushes and slipped through the side entrance of the catacomb building. He raced down the long hallway, rounded a corner and pressed his ear to the iron-strapped wooden door of the catacomb entrance. Then he eased open the door, finding it unguarded from within. Still unnoticed, he shuffled down the dimly lit stairwell and sped through the corridors, turning this way and that, descending deep into the earth and down an unbroken passage that led to no place but the Well Hole.
 
Upon reaching the Well Hole, Odino thrust a torch into the dark hollow and whispered, “Lazarus?” The room lay empty, offering only the gurgling sound of an underground spring that passed through a wide ditch in the floor. Odino stepped within and shuffled to the far end of the room, where he grabbed one of many wooden water pails that lined its wall. He approached the ditch and tapped the pail against the rock floor. “Lazarus? Where are you? ’Tis Friar Odino.” Then he passed the torch over the trench and searched beneath the water.
 
Odino slammed the pail on the floor. It shattered as Odino bellowed, “Lazarus, come forth!” Instantly, the surface of the underground stream ruptured with a drenched Lazarus, who had hid himself in a small cavern beneath the floor – an air-filled pocket created by centuries of erosion. Fortunately, only five souls knew of its existence: Lazarus, Odino, two deformed squires named Miguel and Thateus, in whom Lazarus confided his trust, and a burly, silver-haired monk who now lay by the bathhouse, forever silenced.
 
“Is father…?”
 
“Yes. Ivan has passed, Lazarus. He is now in Heaven,” Odino replied, swallowing hard. “But there is no time for our grief. We must leave in haste!” He tossed the remnants of the pail aside, clasped Lazarus’ outstretched hand, and hoisted him out of the water. Lazarus pulled the dripping mask from his rope belt and wrung the water from it. Odino took it from him and tossed it into the stream. “No need for that. Your world has turned…differently.” Lazarus watched as the swift current swept away the mask. The face cowl slipped through a worn hole in the wall, forever lost within the dark waters beneath the earth. 
 
They fled the Well Hole and raced up the winding tunnel. Before them, the heavy monk thrust a blazing torch into the unfolding darkness, and behind them, a trail of smoke lingered against a chiseled roof as a trail of water from Lazarus’ dripping robe trickled deeper into the tunnel. Reflections in the boy’s wide pupils might have appeared as a pair of glowing yellow disks in the light of the wafting torch flame. Lazarus quickened his stride, and his wet robe whipped and popped as he fell alongside Odino. He questioned him. “Why does the gatestone scream, Friar?”
 
Odino stopped abruptly and leaned against the wall to catch his breath before turning the torch on a pair of blue eyes. “Scream? How does it scream?”
 
“I hear it in my heart – the sound of it. Even now, it comes from over there.” Lazarus pointed toward the highest reaches of the tunnel’s rock wall.
 
Odino considered Lazarus’ claim and realized that the boy was pointing in the direction of the cathedral – toward the very heart of the melee that he could only guess was going on inside that great edifice now. The monk scolded him. “I shall hear no more of that evil-speak, boy! Now be silent, lest we be heard!” Again, they raced up the tunnel.
 
They hurried through the maze of catacomb passages. At length, Odino ducked into the boys’ quarters and barked hoarsely, “Come out of that wet robe!” He slumped against the side of the entryway. “Have you fresh clothes?”
 
“I have those beneath my bed.”
 
“Then on with them. I cannot bend down there to retrieve them for you! Have you another hood?” 
 
“I only had the one you took from me, Friar.”
 
“It matters not. Disrobe and clothe yourself, quickly.” Odino peered without the room and up the main corridor, yet saw nothing but blackness. With Lazarus now in hiding, no one had bothered to replace the catacomb torches. Nevertheless, Odino stood guard, listening for subtle sounds, watching for the distant glow of a probing torch.
 
Odino turned to see Lazarus kneeling beside his bed, quietly weeping over a wooden box that lay filled with clothes.
 
“What is it, boy?” Odino hissed.
 
Lazarus placed his hand on the edge of the box. “I have a hood – a new one. And two more – one marked for Miguel and another for Thateus.”
 
“Get on with it, Lazarus! ’Tis not the time!” Odino rushed forward with the torch, pulled the robes and masks out of the box, and laid them atop the bed.
 
Lazarus wiped his face, leapt to his feet, and quickly disrobed. Odino passed the torch over the bed whilst he separated clothes with his free hand. The boy paced in a circle, clutching his chest, unclothed and shivering. In nearly every way, Lazarus’ thin-framed body seemed as normal as that of any human boy of his age, aside from his having no hint of a navel on his stomach. However, the greatest difference betwixt Lazarus and the other squire boys was not a hunched back, as was supposed by the abbey residents – squires, friars, and abbot alike. In appearance, his spine lay perfectly aligned as those of any fit boy. The most conspicuous distinction by far was that Lazarus sported a pair of folded, membranous wings of flesh and bone. 
 
Lazarus spread his wings and briskly shook the water from them. He refolded them into a hunch on his back and turned around to find Odino with clothes draped over his forearm, frowning as beads of water trickled over a crumpled brow.
 
“Forgive me, Friar,” Lazarus offered with a lowered gaze.
 
Odino nodded toward Lazarus’ bed. “Use your bed coverings to dry yourself.” Lazarus did so and Odino held out his arm. “Now, clothe yourself.” As the boy dressed, Odino showed him another full set of clothes draped atop the bed, including a robe, a loincloth, a hood, and two pairs of foot mittens. “The night air is cold. You shall wear both dressings, one atop the other. Make haste and be done with it!” Odino patted his shoulder, rushed back to the doorway, and stood guard as Lazarus busied himself. “Hear me, Lazarus. We shall be leaving the catacombs. However, there are many soldiers on the abbey grounds who shall do all in their skill to check our escape. The cover of darkness is ours, but we cannot be seen or heard – and we must move like the wind.” Odino stifled a cough and looked to Lazarus. “Do you understand me, boy?”
 
“I do, Friar. Yet, perhaps we might hide ourselves in the catacombs, only until the morrow,” Lazarus suggested, his voice trembling. The monk spotted an expression of grave apprehension on his face just before the boy slipped the mask over his head. Clearly, Odino realized that Lazarus knew little of a world outside of the catacombs, save what he might have gathered from books from the abbey scriptorium. Lazarus tightened his hood laces and added, “The soldiers would not find us down here. I know of a hollow wall within the Benion Tunnel…”
 
Odino stepped across the room, grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and shook him. “No! You must take charge of yourself! The catacombs are no more. There are no more torches to light or stub out, no more winemaking, no more cleaning of walls and floors. From this moment forth, the only orders to obey shall come directly from you. And you shall live or die by such orders! Make no mistake, Lazarus!”
 
“I shan’t Friar, but…”
 
“No exceptions, Lazarus. Your very life depends upon it!” Lazarus dropped his shoulders and head, and stood silent. Odino released him and sighed. “What is it, now?”
 
“But, I am afraid, Friar.”
 
Odino knelt before him. “And you had better be!” The priest pointed toward the ceiling. “Those men up there shall kill you if they catch you. Fear is the very condition to keep you alive. Fear is good.” He shook the torch. “Fear is your friend, never to be tested or betrayed.” Odino pulled the second mask from the bed. “Now, place another hood over the one you have on, and lace a third pair of foot mittens over the first two, forthwith!” Odino stood quickly and returned to the doorway.
 
Lazarus hastily dressed himself as Odino lectured him. “You are no longer a boy, but a man, yes?”
 
“Yes, Friar,” Lazarus grumbled, securing a second mask over the first and grabbing another pair of foot mittens.
 
“Then, recall my name. What is my name?”
 
“Your name is Friar Delon Odino, Friar.”
 
“’Tis not! Understand this well – the boy called Lazarus is no more. He has grown into a man. He speaks and carries himself in every manner as would his father.” Odino slapped an open hand against the wall stones and Lazarus jolted, quickly turning the dark eyeholes of his mask toward the monk. “You are now Ivan! Ivan you are. Now, answer me again, only this time, as would Ivan. What is my name?”
 
“Odino,” Lazarus answered curtly, continuing with his foot mittens.
 
“Well done,” Odino replied with a brief smile. “This eve you become your proud father. You shall find strength in him – within yourself. He shall guide you in spirit ‘til the end of your days. And he shall forever be with you.” Odino patted his own chest. “Here, in your heart.” Odino looked down as he felt a small object concealed beneath his robe. “Ah, yes. He insisted that you have this, should something… Well, here it is.” With his free hand, the priest pulled a leather rope necklace from around his neck, and dangling from the thin strap was a miniature wooden cross, which Lazarus immediately recognized as Ivan’s prayer cross. Odino strode over to the boy and draped the necklace around his head before tucking the cross beneath his robe. “There. You are now Ivan. And Ivan never cries, does he?”
 
Lazarus looked up at Odino, his blue eyes shimmering in the torchlight through a pair of holes in his mask.
 
“No, Fri… No, Odino,” Lazarus answered. “I am dressed.”
 
“Then, let us be off.” Odino patted his shoulder. “And whatever befalls us, always remember that you must get out of this abbey and far away. Should the soldiers catch me, you must not look back or falter. Alone, they shan’t kill me, but if they catch you, then they shall slay the both of us: you for who you are, and me for encouraging your escape.” Odino narrowed his eyes. “My life is in your hands. Do not fail me.”
 
Lazarus rubbed a small object concealed beneath his robe and set his shoulders back. “I shan’t…Odino.”
 
Odino tossed the burning torch atop the bed and the flames quickly engulfed the coverings. Smoke billowed against the rock ceiling and spilled into the corridor. Lazarus remembered Naramsin’s letter and its many pages of scribed symbols. He dived forth and shoved a probing arm into the mattress straw but found no papers. Odino pulled him away. “What in blazes are you doing?”
 
“I had a parchment roll in there!” Lazarus exclaimed, pointing at the burning bed. “’Tis gone.”
 
“Leave it go.” Odino turned Lazarus’ head away from the flames and looked squarely into his eyes. “You have everything you need. Now, listen to me. Should we be discovered, you are to return to the Well Hole and hide yourself in the cavern beneath the floor as before. The darkness and smoke shall cover you, yes?”
 
“I shall,” Lazarus replied.
 
The monk nodded, wiping fresh beads of sweat from his brow. “Off, we go then – like the wind,” he hissed.
 
Odino listened near the doorway before escorting Lazarus quickly up the dim corridor. Behind them, the glow of a roaring fire faded and the features of the passage fell into dark shadows. Odino guided himself through the black tunnel, as he oft times did during late night pilgrimages to the wine cellar. He slid his fingertips against the wall and felt for memorable markers that might let him know precisely where he walked. Lazarus strode closely behind him as he marched up the center of the passage, and in his swift and steady gate, touched nothing. In the darkness, the commanding walk of the boy could have appeared identical to that of his father’s, long-stepping heel-pounding strides that seemed to move the very earth beneath him. Together, the monk and squire rounded a bend and moved hastily toward a distant glow at the terminus of the corridor.
 
At length, the tunnel opened into a tall enclosure with wide steps that led upward toward a stone landing. Atop the landing, an unguarded iron-strapped wooden door marked the entrance of the abbey catacombs. A flickering torch struggled to keep the last of its flame near the foot of the catacomb steps. From it, a glowing red ember floated to the floor and died. Odino shuffled up the stairwell, climbing half of the stairs before discovering that Lazarus no longer trailed him. He stopped and spun about to find the boy standing beneath the waning torchlight and looking intently at the floor. The priest huffed and shuffled down the stairs. Only then did the priest understand the reason for the boy’s distraction. Lazarus stared at the floor and examined a sprawling stain of blood that flowed through Ivan’s veins mere moments ago.
 
“Not now!” Odino grabbed his arm, and together they dashed up the staircase. The monk eased the catacomb door ajar and listened. He heard only silence. He flung open the door and charged into the hallway, but before he rounded the corner, he glanced over his shoulder to see the boy standing motionless at the threshold of the door. Odino understood that Lazarus must have been seeing himself standing on the edge of a great abyss and looking downward into it. But there was no time. Odino retreated a few steps and waved Lazarus toward him. “Now!”
 
Lazarus caught a deep breath before charging through the doorway. He sank himself into Odino, his fists clenching the monk’s wall of robe.
 
“Well done. Now, stay close.” Odino tore him away. Although Lazarus said nothing, Odino heard the quickness of his breath and envisioned a wide-eyed expression of terror concealed beneath an otherwise unrevealing mask. Abruptly, a door slammed in an adjoining corridor and the voices of approaching soldiers grew louder.
 
“Be strong, Lazarus!” Odino exclaimed, shuffling the burden of his weight down the hallway. “Make haste,” he hissed at the boy over his shoulder, making sure that Lazarus was close in toe. They moved as swiftly away from the noise as stealth would allow.
 
The two of them burst out of the side doors of the building and concealed themselves behind a row of tall evergreen shrubs that lined the abbey wall. And there they remained, motionless, as the chilly air and the faint light of a dawning moon cast a notable fog over quick breaths. They heard voices of arguing soldiers accompanied by occasional shouts of command in the direction of the cathedral. Sounds filled the night air: the blowing of horses, stomping of boots, slamming of doors, and clinking sounds of metal – the courtyard was alive with the noises of a bustling army. Odino tugged on Lazarus’s robe and gestured for him to follow. Together, they sidestepped through the cramped space behind the hedgerow, sliding their backs against the wall as they went. They quietly inched their way toward the south gate of the abbey, the voices of conversing soldiers growing louder with their every step. Odino placed his finger on his lips, motioning Lazarus to remain silent.
 
The monk carefully parted the shrubs to find four soldiers standing inside the courtyard grounds, well away from the opened and unguarded abbey gate, their backs to him and looking up at a cloud of glowing apparitions that swarmed above the distant cathedral roof. Again, he tugged at Lazarus before parting the end of the hedgerow and stepping plainly into the clearing. As the soldiers remained staring in the direction of the cathedral, Odino pulled Lazarus from behind the shrubs and shoved him so briskly through the gate that the boy nearly stumbled and fell. Nevertheless, the two of them slipped safely into the darkness, and in a fortunate turn of fate, the very same Evil that caused Lazarus to hide for his life, lest the soldiers find and kill him for what he was, now served to distract the soldiers and permit his escape.
 
Like shadows moving beneath the dim glow of a dawning moon, they flew down the hillside and toward a field of short dry grass that lay marked with rows of rocks and crosses – the abbey cemetery. The two of them darted over mounds and through headstones until they reached the far end of the graveyard. Odino hid himself behind a head-tall boulder, snatching Lazarus from view of any patrolling soldier. And there they hid from all. Odino leaned against the rock, gasping for air. Lazarus stood near him, glancing almost everywhere at once. He searched the grass, the headstones, the distant hills, a rising red moon, and a wide-open sky of countless stars — his first glimpse of the world outside the abbey’s walls. “I do not like it,” he remarked. “The world is too big.”
 
Odino caught his breath and sighed. “And it shall grow bigger still before the eve is passed.”
 
Lazarus spun about and asked, “More vast than even now?”
 
The monk slumped his shoulders and moaned. “This shall never work. I must fetch the provisions.” He looked at the boy. “I know of an unguarded path that shall provide safe passage in and out of the dormitory, and I should be able to escape the abbey unnoticed again, so long as those gate guards remain distracted.”
 
“But we have escaped. We are safe!”
 
“No, Lazarus. We are more than a day’s trek from the nearest village — and still half a night’s journey from the nearest shelter that might afford you adequate cover from the sun – and we have no provisions for the coming days save the robes on our backs.”
 
“But we might find provisions along the way,” suggested Lazarus.
 
“If only the world was as kind. Unfortunately, we shall find no such provisions. The only means of a ready fire and the only fresh water available to us remains hidden within those walls,” Odino declared, nodding toward the south gate of the abbey. “And the last bit of food between here and Mountain Mouth is now concealed inside the dormitory, since I gathered all of what remained of the kitchen’s stores.”
 
Lazarus looked westward. “Mountain Mouth is a cave, over there,” he stated, pointing in the direction of its dark horizon.
 
“’Tis, indeed,” Odino replied. “And that is where you must be for now – safe from the sun. You recall the cave, yes?”
 
“I do. My father told me about Mountain Mouth. And Friar Nicholas described to me how he found it.”
 
“Do you believe that you can lead me precisely to it, and in only half an eve?”
 
“Oh, yes! I can take you to it! Friar Nicholas said that, if I walk precisely west without straying, then I shall walk directly into Mountain Mouth.”
 
Odino heaved a sigh of relief, well aware that Lazarus had something of a divine sense of direction that was perhaps as infallible as that of any migratory bird. And he was confident that Lazarus would not allow himself to stray more than a stone’s throw from the westerly path, even if pressed to walk its direction for nights on end. Odino turned toward the abbey and mumbled, “At last, this may work to our favor. I should fetch our provisions whilst the soldiers remain distracted.”
 
“But the soldiers shall catch us!” Lazarus exclaimed, grasping a fistful of Odino’s robe.
 
“No,” the monk replied, turning as he pulled the boy’s hand away from him. “I must go, alone. We can not risk your capture.”
 
Lazarus patted the boulder. “Then I should remain here, behind this rock?”
 
Odino shook his head. “You can not. If you remain here, patrolling soldiers may happen upon you. And if I should be delayed, you may not find time enough to take cover from the sun.” Odino looked east and eyed a brilliant swollen moon. 
 
Lazarus searched the darker western edge of the cemetery before turning back at Odino. “Then, where must I hide?”
 
“Not here. Mountain Mouth,” Odino answered. “The journey is but half an eve. Time is on your side, and you know how to find it, yes?”
 
Lazarus dropped his head. “Only if Nicholas spoke true, but…”
 
“Nicholas speaks true, Lazarus. He has shown Mountain Mouth to your father and me. We were there when he declared its name.”
 
“But we should leave together – you and me. And on the morrow, you may return to the abbey and fetch provisions, yes?”
 
“No, Lazarus. The journey is a demanding one, across many hills and valleys.” Odino wiped a sweaty brow on his sleeve. He laid a trembling hand against his stomach and shook his head. “I am not fit to walk there and back again. I am a burden even to myself – even without toting a heavy sack of provisions. If I do not die from the bitter cold, and I do as you might suggest, returning on the morrow, then how shall I slip past the soldiers without the distraction of what is happening in the cathedral this eve and the gate guards are back at their posts?” Odino pointed past the boulder and over the abbey wall. “Look there, atop the cathedral, at those things that this new cardinal has released from the gatestone.” Lazarus looked at the church’s roof and steeples, its upper regions now illuminated beneath a gathering swarm of formless apparitions. Odino continued, “They are spirits of a kind, and I feel quite certain that they mean to do more than amuse us with their spectacular display. No, their presence and movements reveal to me that a far greater evil is yet to unfold over this abbey. I know not what, but even now they appear to gather as an army of spirits. See how they move and collect themselves in rows between the roof statutes. One truth is certain, my boy. We shan’t be here when they come to organize themselves. Thus, I must move now, whilst the soldiers are distracted by them, and by the new smoke of the catacombs. The time to fetch the provisions is now, when it can easily be done.”
 
“But they shall catch you! I know that they shall,” Lazarus complained, again pulling on the monk’s robe.
 
Odino placed his hands on his hips and leaned back. “And let us suppose that they do catch me. What shall they do with a captured monk; ask for forgiveness? Lazarus, even soldiers honor their Lord. They shall do nothing to me, if only for what I am – a man of the cloth and a servant of God. Now, most importantly, you must carry yourself to the safety of Mountain Mouth before the eve is out. I shall meet you there with the provisions.” Lazarus released Odino’s robe and dropped his head. “And besides,” Odino added, “If they try to capture me, then I shall beat the lot of them with a goat and send them on their way!”
 
Lazarus looked up and shook his head. The monk felt that a smile, if only perhaps a subtle one, now lay concealed beneath the boy’s mask. The boy turned away from him and stared into the distance.
 
Odino knelt before Lazarus and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I expect you to be strong, as would your father. You carry his cross with you, and you shall make him proud, yes?”
 
“I shall, Friar,” Lazarus grumbled.
 
Odino scouted the grounds for signs of soldiers. “And you are certain that you can walk precisely west?” 
 
“I can.” Lazarus was curt. “But you already know this, Friar.” A tinge of aggravation lay in his voice.
 
“Yes, I know.” Odino patted his shoulder and pointed west. “From where we stand, you shall walk precisely west for half the eve and Mountain Mouth is yours. Do not be seen or heard along the way. Avoid everything but your straight and narrow path to the cave. Do you understand?”
 
“I do, Friar.”
 
“And should it happen that you cannot reach the cave before first light, you must cover yourself from the sun. If nothing more, scrape a hole and bury yourself with dirt and rocks.” Odino leaned forward and shook the boy firmly by his shoulders. “This is very important, Lazarus! The sun shall kill you! You shall die! I have seen it… ’Tis an unsightly and painful death! Your flesh becomes stone, through and through, even as you scream! And there is no undoing it. The sun shall be the death of you, Lazarus – no life afterward.”
 
Lazarus said nothing. Odino released him. For the monk, the boy’s silence and rigid stance seemed adequate reply.
 
“Now, I expect you to walk away from this place – only evil remains. Never look back, and do not falter for any reason.” Odino straightened the boy’s robe. He scouted the grounds again before nudging the boy on his way. “Do you understand?”
 
“I do, Friar.”
 
Lazarus walked toward a black westerly horizon. He kept a forward gaze as he called out, “And you shall come after me?”
 
“I shall be with you shortly,” Odino assured him. “Now, keep silent! Off with you! You are Ivan, now!”
 
The boy stiffened his shoulders and marched deeper into the cemetery. Odino watched from afar as the robed silhouette blended with the black of night. Eventually, the figure disappeared into the shadows of a nearby valley. A moment passed and a westerly wind spread over the countryside. Only when Odino felt certain that the boy had traveled far enough away did he slump over the boulder. Beneath him, moonlit teardrops blotted the stone’s face. Odino wept for Ivan, and since Ivan could not weep for his terrified Lazarus, and because Lazarus pretended to be the ‘Ivan’ he was not ready to be, Odino also wept for Lazarus. He wept for himself as well, since he could never be the ‘Ivan’ that Ivan was to Lazarus.
 
Odino, feeling to be but a fat monk on a large rock in the midst of nowhere, seeing himself to be but a fruitless spec of a man overwhelmed and drowned away, heaved upon secreted sorrows in the midst of a sprawling graveyard of long deaf ears.







Chapter 8

An unusual condition loomed over the abbey grounds, revealing itself through cast shadows, which looked too tall, wide, or twisted for the objects that cast them. The objects themselves appeared much further away than they actually were, and the soldiers’ torch flames seemed to flicker too slowly or even backward. Other movements seemed equally amiss, and the new condition also presented itself through lesser revelations, like the shouts of men, which were as muffled calls beneath water, and a persistent ringing in the men’s ears as they repeated themselves in conversation. The horses were also continuously spooked as if the skittish beasts stood upon a shaking earth. Then there was the peculiar odor – not as pungent as eglantine, but rather, noxious, with the taint of intoxicating mushrooms. A deep breath of the new air might easily confuse the senses as would a dizzy spell, and the scent was as perceptible as the smell of a coming storm, however foreign to any lingering memory. Truly, an unnatural state loomed over the abbey, as ghastly as the newly opened gatestone that brought it about.
 
A litany of cries carried from the far end of the courtyard, and a lone soldier ran toward the dormitory, crossing beneath its windows. An oil lamp soared from out of an upper story casement and struck him to the ground. A second guard immediately happened upon him. He raised the stricken man to his feet and ushered him away from the building. The culprits, two squire boys, leaned out of an upstairs window, pointing toward their quick retreat.
 
En masse, ranks of soldiers moved beneath raised torches, encircling the dormitory entrance to prevent the congregation of priests from escaping. A Senior Friar with a white beard forced his way through the robed prisoners and shook his fist, preaching to the very tall sergeant-at-arms. “If you are a servant of the Lord, then you shall stay your weapons and allow us passage!”
 
The sergeant screamed a reply. “Return to your room, Friar!”
 
The monk held his ground, still ranting, “Consider the work of God and his servants rather than the orders of your captain! Only we can make straight what you men have made crooked. Guard your steps on these holy grounds and move aside, that we may right your wrong!”
 
The sergeant yelled over the priestly protestations, “Return to your rooms! Blood shall be shed, otherwise!” Yet, the contretemps betwixt soldiers and priests continued, as friars spilled out of the doorway, pressing themselves even deeper into steadfast ranks.


“Seize that priest!” a soldier called out, pointing toward the corner of the dormitory at a robed and hooded silhouette. The shadow spun and fled. Two guards gave chase, diving into the shrubs. Leaves whipped and branches snapped to the grunts and groans of a fierce struggle.
 
Friar Nicholas tore his way through the robes and growled in the face of a guard, “Do not consider we friars incapable.” He grabbed the guard’s vest and yanked him close. “Leave us, and our abbey!”
 
The unmoved soldier hardened his brow. “You seem quite sure of yourself – an unarmed priest against an army?”
 
Nicholas glared at him, preaching, “If a host encamps against us, our hearts shan’t fear; and if war rises against us, in this, we shall be confident.”
 
“Confident? Or Foolish?” the guard questioned him. “Your words may seem right to you, yet you had better listen to good advice.” The soldier leaned into Nicholas and the friar winced. “Do not force my hand, priest.” Again, Nicholas winced and looked down at the knifepoint the man pressed against his stomach. “Step back inside and live to pray another day!”
 
“Soon enough, you shall beg for those prayers, soldier,” Nicholas advised him, retreating behind a wall of robes.
 
“Weapons at the ready,” bellowed the master sergeant. Wielded swords and long knives flashed in the torchlight. “Close ranks!” As one, the soldiers converged on the dormitory entrance, driving the friars back into the building. They barricaded the doors, after which, the sergeant assembled a row of guards before them. Then he aligned the remaining men around the perimeter of the entire building to form a wall of torch-bearing sentries to guard its many windows.
 
Across the abbey grounds and in front of the building that housed the catacomb entrance, nearly twenty soldiers huddled in the courtyard amongst torches. Having long since surrendered all hope of finding Lazarus in the crypt tunnels, they abandoned their search and gathered to inspect the upper regions of the cathedral. Glowing apparitions swarmed the campaniles, diving betwixt the many rows of grotesque statues. Most of the young men were fresh additions to Captain Bourne’s company of His Majesty’s Royal Guard. An older silver-haired soldier stood amongst them, and unlike the others, the commanding officer’s attention lay elsewhere. As a young guard held a torch, the elder man examined a curled stack of brittle pages. Finally, he turned to the guard, questioning him. “And these parchments were inside the devil boy’s bed?”
 
“Aye, we found them hidden within the bedstraw,” the guard replied. “I knew not that you read.”
 
“I can,” the old officer stated. “Somewhat.”
 
“Then what does it read?”
 
The officer repositioned the papers, moving them further from his face, as he squinted beneath the torchlight. “The first page appears to be a letter written by an imprisoned cleric who was a translator of sorts.” He dropped his gaze to the bottom of the parchment. “By his mark, he called himself, Naramsin.”
 
“And what do the other pages read?” the younger man asked.
The officer shook his head. “I cannot read the writing. All of the other pages contain a kind of foreign writing – nothing I have since read.” He shuffled through the remaining pages. “And the symbols seem all the same, however, different. Perhaps they are not even words.”
 
The young guard leaned into the elder man’s ear, whispering, “I know the reason for your not being able to read the words. ’Tis the tongue of the Devil himself, I tell you!”
 
The officer leaned away and narrowed his eyes. Then he quickly rolled the pages, rebuking him. “You cannot even read, yet now you claim to know the markings of the Devil?” 


The younger soldier defended himself, pointing to the roof of the cathedral. “How might you account for those flying spirits, if not by the devil boy and his secret spells of devil-speak?”
 
A nearby guard defended his claim to the officer. “He speaks true! They can only be spirits from the very pit of Hell itself!”
 
Thoroughly frustrated, the officer turned and asked him, “Have you ever seen a spirit, son?”
 
“No,” the man admitted.
 
The officer gripped the man’s arm. “Ever been to Hell, son?”
 
The man replied, “I… No. Yet, everyone knows…”
 
“Then how can you stand there and tell me that we see spirits from Hell?” The old soldier released his arm and planted his hands on his hips before looking upward. “For my own part, I have never seen the likes of spirits, devils, or hellfire; but I am not going around lying and trying to scare everyone. The truth be told, none of us knows what it is we witness here.”
 
The doors burst open and the soldiers turned around to find two choking guards stumbling toward them. The guards collapsed onto hands and knees, gasping. The soldiers encircled them, rescuing their burning torches from the ground where the guards had dropped them. Between coughs, one of the guards informed them of a raging fire deep within the catacombs. He caught his breath and looked up, adding, “We could not find it for the smoke.” Beneath the torchlight, the soldiers saw streaks of tears down soot-covered cheeks.
 
Again, the younger man addressed the officer as he pointed toward the door. “And how might you account for tunnels of stone that burst into flame, if not by the demon sorcery of the devil boy?”
 
Soldiers rushed past the officer, in search of the fire, and when the younger man turned to follow them, he grabbed him by the arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. He took the torch from him, saying, “I shan’t stand in the dark whilst you chase flames, boy.”
 
“Do you not wish to search for the fire?”
 
The phlegmatic officer chuckled. “Perhaps you might give them a moment to return, blind and choking. And if one of them is able to hold a breath long enough to find the fire, he shan’t have considered what he might do then, not even relieving himself on the flames before fleeing the smoke.” He shook his head before gesturing toward the door. “But do join them, if it otherwise pains you.”
 
The young man dashed through the doorway. The officer turned to the two men still choking on the ground. “Well, do you not wish to follow the rest of them?”
 
One of them struggled to his feet and replied, “We remain here.”
 
“You learn quickly when pain is your guide,” the amused soldier remarked before drawing a deep breath. “Then, join me. I seek water and plenty of pails.” The three men strode toward the refectory in search of the abbey well.
 
The sergeant-at-arms left the dormitory and marched quickly toward the bathhouse. As he neared the front of the building and converged on several soldiers, he called out, “Have you secured a confession?” The sergeant stepped between them and torches parted to reveal a short and dirty, one-armed soldier, his right limb missing. At his feet, a sobbing Thateus sat on the ground, his back against the bathhouse wall. The man turned, wiping blood and hair onto his pant leg from his fingers. He answered the sergeant in a craggy voice. “They have yet to reveal the whereabouts of the devil boy. However, they are near to breaking, sir.”
 
The sergeant noticed a torn and muddy face cowl on the ground near his boots. Then he surveyed the area and spotted a guard standing apart from the rest of the men, face drawn with a troubled expression. At his feet, another deformed cleric boy lay broken and nearly naked. If not for the steady fog of Miguel’s breath, the boy might have been a small corpse. “Your light,” the sergeant commanded, taking a torch from the nearest soldier. He squatted before Thateus, inspecting his grotesque appearance before offering, “Tell us where the Lazarus squire hides and you may return to the dormitory.” Thateus only wept. His head swayed as if it were too heavy for him to hold upright. “Very well,” the soldier said, standing and turning, before informing the one-armed man, “Do not be moved by his looks. He is only a boy, and boys can be broken.” Soldiers sighed and shifted in place, reflecting on the awkward moment with its painful and dragging passage of time. He questioned the soldier with the missing arm. “The Captain remains in the church?”
 
“I have not seen him,” the man answered. The sergeant cut a path through the guards as he spat, “Find a balance! I expect confessions – not dead boys. And do not lay a hand on the monk.”
 
Looking about, the one-armed soldier asked, “What monk, sir?”
 
“He is on his way,” the sergeant replied, halting beside the unconscious and exposed Miguel. He ordered the guard to cover him, and the man quickly removed his own vest, wrapping the boy. With a nod of approval, the sergeant disappeared into the darkness of the courtyard.
 
At the north corner of the abbey, armed soldiers stood guard over the side entrance of the cathedral like a row of statues. TINK! A small stone bounced off the helmet of one of the guards and he peered into the darkness. THUNK! A larger rock struck another soldier’s helmet, knocking it lopsided. He lunged forward, grabbed the handle of his sword, and searched the shadows for the culprit.
 
“A stone-thrower,” the first guard whispered.
 
“And I shall cut him down to size,” the second sentry growled, releasing his weapon and falling back into ranks.
 
CRASH! A massive section of the cathedral’s upper ledge broke free and exploding debris sent the men flying. When the avalanche subsided, they lay on the ground, bruised, stunned, and staring dumbly at the roof.
 
A ranting Captain Bourne burst through the cathedral doors. He passed a torch over the unguarded entrance, finding his soldiers scattered on the ground. The men leapt to their feet and collected themselves, rushing back to their posts, even as two disheveled friars exited the church. Bourne moved away from the door and stepped between the fallen stones – the largest of them could have easily crushed a man. Clodius and Greville followed him. The captain raised his gaze to find a wide span of the roof’s ledge missing. At length, he returned to the row of soldiers and grabbed the arm of the tallest guard, questioning him. “Did I not order you to secure these doors?”
 
“Forgive me, Captain. The church nearly killed us just this moment.”
 
Bourne shook him. “Damn the church stones! Did you allow the cardinal to pass?”
 
“Indeed, sir. You stated that no man enter these doors. The cardinal came out, by your orders he said, to fetch another friar for assistance.”
 
The captain clenched his teeth and growled squarely in his face. “I gave no such order.”
 
Clodius rushed forward. “Captain, did your men notice the cardinal carrying pages with him?”
 
Bourne released his grip. “Answer the friar.”
 
“Yes, many papers.”
 
Greville dried his eyes, finally gathering his wits about him. He rubbed the back of his neck, contemplating the curious actions of Cardinal Blasi. “Then he went to the dormitory to fetch a friar? Captain, we were quite available and capable of assisting him.”
 
“Did he leave for the dormitory,” Bourne asked.
 
“No, sir. He walked toward the north abbey gate,” the soldier admitted, pointing in its direction. “He appeared injured – in need of assistance, as he said.”
 
Bourne shoved the soldier out of formation and slammed him against the wall of the entryway. “You bleeding goat! The sergeant-at-arms has the friars contained within the dormitory! The only building outside the abbey wall…” The captain caught himself and turned to Clodius, narrowing his eyes. Beneath the torchlight, the friar watched the blood drain from his face. Bourne released the soldier and shook his head to a dawning possibility. “He would not… Certainly, not a cardinal.”
 
He stepped toward the door and yelled into the interior of the cathedral, “Every man, assemble yourself on the grounds under the command of the sergeant-at-arms!” As a hundred wet and dirty soldiers poured out of the church, Bourne pulled three of them off to the side. “You men shall accompany me. Ready your weapons.” He turned to Clodius and jabbed a finger into his chest. “If I do not find this cardinal…” Bourne then dashed toward the north gate of the abbey, three soldiers on his heels. He stopped briefly at the gate, questioned the guards who stood there, shook his torch, and shoved a concierge to the ground before rushing out of the abbey. At length, he slowed to a brisk stride and caught his breath as he neared the horse stables.
 
Within the barn, skittish horses blew and stomped, gnawing at their bits and tugging against fastened reins. “The Captain approaches,” exclaimed one of several soldiers responsible for securing the horses and stables. Men scurried about the stables, assuming their posts, and the eldest soldier fell to attention beside the entrance of the barn.
 
“Arrest the cardinal!” Bourne called out, closing in on the soldier.
 
“Captain?” the soldier questioned him.
 
“Is he not here?”
 
“No, sir.”
 
Bourne stopped and cast a puzzled look back toward the abbey.
 
“He is already underway, Captain,” the soldier added.
Bourne spun about. “Certainly, you did not allow him to simply leave!” He ran into the stables and passed his torch about, inspecting the interior.
 
The soldier followed him. “He rides to the village of Murat – to fetch the friar as you ordered.”
 
“I gave no such order, you imbecile!” Bourne slapped a barn post and stared at an empty space between the rows of hitched horses. “Where is my steed?”
 
The soldier hesitated with reply. “His Eminence, uhm… The cardinal claimed that you wished… He said that you ordered him to take yours, as it was the more reliable steed.”
 
Bourne shoved the soldier backward. “Of course he would say that!” He scanned the faces of the other stable guards. “And he would be true to presume so, as it is your captain’s steed!” He shook his head, almost chuckling in disbelief. “You gave him my very own mount?”
 
“He is a cardinal of the Holy See, Captain,” the guard replied. “Were we not here to assist His Eminence?”
 
Bourne drew a deep breath. “Indeed, how forgetful of me,” he said with a nod before turning to the other men. “Make ready, four steeds – the fastest and best rested.” He singled out four men. “You shall give chase. Capture the cardinal and his papers. Ready yourselves to ride.” The men converged against the wall of the barn, relieving themselves as their Captain gave further instruction over gurgling sounds. “There is only one road that leads out of this abbey. I want the two of you who are smaller to move like the wind and slow for nothing until you have reached Murat. After which, you shall you double back, and only walk your steeds in the shadows, quietly searching the road and thickets for the cardinal.” He tapped the two larger soldiers on the back. “You shall take the slower of the steeds and ride steadily toward the village, and you shan’t outpace the two who go before you – you know what I expect. I want the cardinal and all of his papers returned to me without harm, even to his smallest finger.”
 
“Aye, Captain,” they rejoined, collecting themselves and readying their horses.
 
Bourne pulled off his helmet, pressed his hair back, and glanced at the empty space where his horse was once tied. He turned back to the elder guard, fire in his eyes. “And of all the horses in these stables, the cardinal had you believe that he was to take only one steed – mine – and fetch a supposed priest from Murat?
 
“Forgive me, Captain,” the soldier replied, averting his gaze from the burning stare. “Had we known…”
 
CRASH! Bourne spun about and slammed his helmet against the soldier’s head, knocking him to the ground before tossing his helmet on the unconscious man’s chest. “Not me and a cardinal! Not me and a saint!” Bourne roared. “Not me and God! Your orders come from me, alone – only me!”
 
A mounted soldier spurred his horse forward. “Shall we be off now, Captain?”
 
“Make haste!” Borne shouted, waving them onward. The four horsemen bolted out of the stables, the thundering hooves of their mounts fading into the night. In the lingering silence, an outwardly stolid Bourne leaned against a stable post and peered into the heavens to find a round moon, and he could not help but see it as a perfect impression of Friar Grate’s skinless face.


Bourne left the stables with his three soldiers. No sooner had he entered the abbey gate and ordered the men to join existing ranks beside the cathedral, than a soiree of soldiers and priests converged on him: Clodius, Greville, the tall sergeant-at-arms, and the older, silver-haired officer. Bourne questioned the tall soldier. “I gather that the priests’ dormitory is secure?”
 
“’Tis, Captain. And the fat friar is in my custody – in the bathhouse.”
 
Bourne nodded, slapping him on the arm. He turned to the old officer. “And what of the search for the devil boy?”
 
“We turned every tunnel, crypt, and crawlspace – no sign of him. What is more, a fire now burns in the tunnels. I have gathered pails beside the abbey well,” the man offered, pointing in the direction of the refectory. “Shall I quell the flames?”
 
The captain studied the ground before answering. “No, let it burn.” He looked squarely at the officer. “I want the catacombs sealed and guarded. If he hides in the tunnels, then I shall smoke him out.” Bourne snapped his fingers, pointing to the south abbey gate. “Take your remaining men and search the cemetery. Turn every stone. Clear every tree. If you do not find him, then you shall position several sentries in the shadows and secretly guard the grounds.” Bourne drew a deep breath and nodded, saying aloud, if only for self-affirmation, “Soon enough, he shall be pressed for a place to hide himself.”
 
Clodius stepped beside the soldier and cleared his throat. The officer responded, slipping Naramsin’s roll of brittle pages from beneath his vestment. “There is this, Captain,” he offered, giving the roll to Bourne. “Before the fire, we found these papers hidden in the boy’s bed.” He passed a pointing finger betwixt Clodius and Greville. “These friars consider them to be meaningful – perhaps even helpful.”
 
Bourne cut a sharp eye at Clodius. He handed his torch to Greville and unfurled the parchments as he ordered the officer to begin his search of the cemetery. “I shall be in the bathhouse. Bring the devil boy, if you find him.”
 
“Yes, Captain.” The old soldier dismissed himself with a quick bow.
 
Bourne ordered the sergeant-at-arms, “Take the men from the cathedral. Bring them to the dormitory and redouble your ranks.”
 
“Aye.” The tall sergeant nodded, taking his leave.
 
Beneath Greville’s torchlight, Bourne scanned Naramsin’s letter whilst the sergeant rounded up a hundred soldiers and marched them across the courtyard.
 
Finally, Clodius spoke. “If it pleases you, Captain, we wish to share a word with you.” Bourne only nodded, continuing to read.
 
Greville shook his head, adding, “I never realized it in these many years, and I should have at least suspected it, that Lazarus is a grotesque. Ivan hid him in the catacombs, always keeping his face covered, because the sunlight would have killed him.” He leaned away and glanced upward, toward the rows of statues on the roof of the cathedral. 
 
Bourne grabbed Greville’s hand and briefly steadied the torch over the pages as he read the last of Naramsin’s letter. Then he quickly re-rolled the pages, narrowing his eyes at Clodius. “During my stay at your abbey, you have become my single and foremost distraction.” Bourne slapped the parchment roll in his hand, repeatedly doing so as he considered hearing even one more word from the tiresome friars that he had grown to detest.
 
Clodius stiffened. “I beg of you, Captain. Those parchments are very old and delicate. Perhaps I might be tasked with their safekeeping?” Clodius reached for the roll of pages but Bourne snatched them away, scowling. He slid them into his vest, and in a gentler tone, proposed an agreement. “The two of you may accompany me to the bathhouse and share what you know of the papers. However, in exchange for my audience, I expect your complete assistance in the bathhouse. I intend to extract a confession from the fat friar concerning the whereabouts of the devil boy.”
 
Clodius glanced briefly at Greville and nodded. “And we shall assist you, Captain.”
 
“The fat friar,” Bourne stated, “again, what does he call himself?”
 
“Delon,” Greville offered. “Delon Odino. He is also a Senior Friar and well aware of the gatestone.”
 
 
Clodius added, “And the grotesque, the devil boy that you seek, answers to the name of Lazarus, Captain.”
 
“Odino, it is,” Bourne remarked, popping his knuckles as he marched toward the bathhouse. “Now, tell me about these papers.”
 
Greville lit the way as Clodius informed Bourne of what he held. “Those papers were scribed by a grotesque nearly three-hundred years ago. From what I gathered of the first page, this grotesque translated the markings of the gatestone in their entirety. Now hear me, Captain – hundreds of Senior Friars have since assembled countless bindings in an attempt to decipher the markings. As we are also Senior Friars, even our own bindings lay in the scriptorium amidst an undisclosed collection of works. In all of the history of this abbey, no friar has ever translated the markings, or so we thought. We now find that a single grotesque seems to have succeeded where hundreds of us have failed. What is more, Lazarus is a grotesque. He is able to read and scribe in several languages, as I have seen. And your men found the papers in his possession. With that said, I am now certain that the markings on the gatestone are of a language that only a grotesque can decipher.”
 
Bourne halted and turned. “Do you know why I am a captain of His Majesty’s Royal Guard?” In astute animadversion, Bourne answered his own question. “I see things for what they are, or for what they could be, and never for what they are not.” Clodius stepped back and stared at the scar on the captain’s cheek as he continued. “You say that the devil boy is a grotesque and that only a grotesque can decipher the markings. However, the cardinal had neither the ears of a cat nor the teeth of a dog, and he demonstrated himself to be quite capable of commanding that stone with his very own papers. And since I recall his words to be Latin, I am certain that either you are wasting my time with tall tales of grotesques or this cardinal has translated the markings when all of you priests have failed. Now, which is it?” 
 
Greville shook his head. “I saw the cardinal’s pages. They were as old as the pages in your possession, Captain. Why would he scribe his words on pages as delicate and brittle?” Greville turned to Clodius. “I think not. As an Upper Council Cardinal, he has unfettered access to the Apocrypha Archive.” Clodius nodded. “Could it be that the translations in his possession were also scribed by this Naramsin Cleric?”
 
Bourne pulled the rolled pages from his vest, unfurling them as he asked, “Then, with these pages, you have the means to close the stone – even without the cardinal and his pages?”
 
Clodius answered, “Yes and no, Captain. With those pages, I may have the means to close the gatestone; however, if my suspicions are correct, I shall require the presence of the Lazarus grotesque to serve as my translator. Bourne fumbled through the pages, seeing only hieroglyphic-like markings. His mood darkened. “Precisely, Captain,” offered Clodius, raising a dignified chin and presenting Bourne with a curt smile. “The pages contain only markings – no translations. You must deliver the grotesque to us before we can proceed. And it remains to be seen if that will occur.”
 
Bourne bit his lip, hastily re-rolled the pages, and tucked them beneath his vest. Lunging forward, he grabbed two fistfuls of Clodius’ robe and yanked the friar toward him. Greville stepped back, his startled gaze fixed on the burning green of the captain’s eyes as he chastised Clodius and his chicanery. “You seem eager to portray me as some sort of foolish audience – hanging on every word of your slowly unfolding tale!” He tightened his grip and pulled the petrified friar even closer to his beard, until Clodius felt the droplets of spittle and the hot breath of his every word. “Or perhaps you gather me as something of a pathetic character in a story that you wittingly drag on, even at the death of my patience! Which is it?” He shook him.
 
“Indeed, not!” Clodius gasped, pleading with him. “Forgive me, Captain. I wish only to assist you!”
 
Satisfied with the friar’s subservience, Bourne released him. “And you shall.” Clodius adjusted his robes whilst Bourne openly reviewed his plan of action with Greville. “Since I have the markings of the stone, I shall now interrogate the fat friar, find the devil boy, and have him translate the words required to close the stone.” Bourne turned to Clodius and advised him with a pointing finger, “From this moment onward, you shall tell me only what I must know and not a word more and not a word less – lest I forget that you are a man of the cloth. Do you gather my meaning?” 
 
Clodius nodded, and the two friars briefly exchanged glances before hurrying after Bourne, who now stormed toward the bathhouse. The captain rounded the front corner of the bathhouse to the bellowing voice of Odino, calling out from within the building. “They know nothing, I say! Leave the boys go. Come in here and do the same to me and I shall break off your one good arm!”
 
“Enough,” Bourne barked. The one-armed soldier released Thateus and rushed forward, snapping to attention as the squire boy slid down the wall. Several guards quickly appeared from behind the far corner of the bathhouse and presented themselves as ready men. The captain glanced at Thateus and Miguel before interrogating the soldier. “What actions are these, and by who’s orders?”
 
“We extract confessions, sir, to learn of the demon boy’s whereabouts.”
 
Bourne took the torch from Greville and shoved it into the soldier’s hand. Abruptly, the voice of Odino carried through the interior darkness of the building. “There is nothing to extract! Untie me and I shall extract your other arm. ’Tis all you can muster with that bird-legged limb of yours, beating on a young squire!” The one-armed soldier only rolled his eyes, ignoring Odino’s words of ridicule as he informed the captain that his orders came from the sergeant-at-arms. Bourne cast an obvious stare betwixt the two beaten squire boys before replying. “From the appearance of them, you know as little as you did when you began. Yet, if you wish to kill them under the pretext of extracting a confession, by all means, continue.” He gestured toward Thateus, then toward the guards. “Perhaps every man before you would care to witness your exacting methods.”
 
“I…uhm… I do not gather that they are willing to confess, Captain,” the soldier admitted.
 
Bourne leaned into his face and growled, “Then perhaps they do not know of his whereabouts? What think you?”
 
“Aye, Captain,” replied the soldier, snapping himself to more rigid attention.
 
“Then get these boys back to the dormitory!”
 
The soldier turned with the torch, briefly stooping over Thateus before standing again as he realized that he had no available hand to lift the boy to his feet. Greville sneered and Clodius glared at him. Bourne ordered soldiers to carry the beaten boys to the dormitory. He positioned the rest of them outside the bathhouse entrance, then whispered to the one-armed man, “You are my torchbearer. You shall learn the proper method for extracting a confession.” He escorted the guard into the building.
 
Shadows fled and the probing flambeau revealed a red-faced and dirty Odino, his hands tied behind a wooden column in the center of the bathhouse floor. Bourne approached the monk and studied him. The left sleeve of Odino’s robe was torn away and he stood with only his right sandal on, the other foot bare. “Please forgive my men if they treated you harshly. In the midst of pressing duties, they are sometimes remiss in common proprieties.” He patted Odino on the shoulder. “The moment that I get you back to the dormitory and into fresh clothes, I shall have those responsible for your mistreatment severely corrected.”
Odino growled. “Perhaps you might correct them as you did Friar Ivan?” 
 
Bourne clenched his jaw, and the two of them locked eyes in the torchlight. He circled the bound monk, carefully inspecting him. Odino spotted Clodius and Greville stepping forward from out of the shadows. “What are you sniveling robes doing in here? Do you not have catacombs to oversee?” Clodius looked down his nose at Odino with a patrician’s haughty stare.
 
Bourne stepped into Odino’s face. “My concerns do not rest with you. I wish no further harm to befall the priests of this abbey.” He pointed to Clodius and Greville. “See? Your brothers of the cloth are free to roam the abbey.” Greville crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders in a matter-of-fact gesture. Odino glared at the captain, knowing that he had his soldiers imprison the priests and squires within the dormitory. Bourne continued, “I shall cut your bindings this very moment. However, for this I require a small deed on your part. I seek a squire boy who answers by the name of Lazarus. Tell me of his whereabouts and I shall send you on your way.” Bourne leaned close and whispered to the bound monk, “I give you my word as a captain of His Majesty’s Guard.”
 
Odino mocked him with his own whisper, “Go ask his father of his whereabouts!” He spit on Bourne’s beard. The captain drew back his fist but dropped his arm just as quickly. He wiped his cheek and waved, summoning Clodius and Greville. The two friars approached, and noticing the rolled pages in Bourne’s vest, Clodius’ greedy eye lay fixed on them even as the captain spoke. “I shall allow you some time in the lone company of friars so that the gentility of priestly reason might prevail.” Bourne snatched the torch from the guard and gave it to Greville, adding loud enough for Odino to hear, “Whilst he still has teeth in his head.” He departed the bathhouse, leaving the three friars to themselves.
 
Clodius addressed Odino with a cajoling smile. “We have had our differences, and for my part, I ask that that you forgive me.”
 
“Forgive?” Odino asked, incredulously. “‘’Tis by your very hand that Ivan is dead and that I am bound to this post! And what of the fate that you have bestowed upon Lazarus?”
 
Clodius glanced at Greville before defending himself. “’Twas the captain who ordered your arrest.”
 
“I am well aware of your intentions,” Odino exclaimed. “You have been working the cardinal against Ivan and myself in an effort to safeguard your places as overseers of the catacombs!” Clodius huffed, taken aback. Odino looked over his shoulder, eyeing the latrine that Ivan had used to feign his escape. “Clodius, I plead with you. As servants in Christ and brothers of this abbey, untie me – allow me the chance to free myself. You know that, in turn, I would offer you the same.”
 
Greville pointed toward the entrance. “The captain is just outside, and I do not wish to be bound alongside you!”
 
Clodius agreed, adding, “There is no ready means of escape.”
 
“There is a means, Clodius. You can help me without your appearing to have taken part in it. I can assure you…”
 
“Enough,” Clodius exclaimed. “The captain shall release you when you confess to Lazarus’ whereabouts. I speak for every friar in this abbey when I ask you to end this foolishness.”
 
“Do you expect me to forsake him?”
 
“You forsake all of us, including yourself! The captain slew Ivan for crossing him. Do not repeat his mistake. Now, tell me where Lazarus hides!”
 
Odino dropped his gaze, outwardly defeated. He studied the floor and smiled weakly. “Perhaps you speak true. If you give me your word as a man of God that you do not intend to harm the boy, then I shall take you to him.”
 
Greville stepped forward, but Clodius grabbed his sleeve. “Do you take us for fools, Odino? The captain is quite willing to release you, after Lazarus is in his custody.”  
 
Odino eyed the bathhouse entrance before whispering, “I cannot forsake Lazarus — the captain shall kill him. However, promise me that you will take him out of the abbey and I shall tell you where he hides. Lazarus’ fate is in your hands!”
 
The two friars exchanged glances. Clodius agreed. “Very well, then. I give you my word that Lazarus shall leave the abbey grounds. Now, tell me of his whereabouts.”
 
Odino nodded, whispering to the unprincipled friar, “You are a good man, Clodius. I am in your debt. Lazarus hides in the…” He looked at the doorway and mumbled the rest of his words.
 
“Again, if you would,” Clodius remarked, approaching. “Where is he?”
 
Odino leaned against the post and whispered, “Lazarus hides…” He slammed his foot into Clodius’ chest. The priest flew backward, rolled across the floor, and clutched his chest. Greville ran to the aid of his wheezing mentor.
 
“I am no Judas Iscariot!” Odino growled. “I have safeguarded Lazarus. I shall never forsake him or his father – for anyone – particularly for soldiers and their puppet priests!”
 
“Captain,” Greville screamed. “Captain!”
 
Bourne and his men barreled through the doorway, surrounding the two friars. The Captain looked at Odino, who only shrugged. “So much for priestly gentility,” Bourne grumbled. “Another friar with fire in him, I see.” He ordered Greville to help Clodius out of the bathhouse. Then he ordered two of his men to secure Odino’s legs. Odino kicked at them, and the Captain called upon more soldiers. Only when the friar was successfully bound did he step forward. “I shall give you one more chance to redeem yourself. Where have you hidden the devil boy?”
 
“What is a devil boy?” Odino asked. “I have never seen the likes…”
 
Bourne slammed his fist into Odino’s chest. He replied to the coughing priest, “Again, where is the devil boy?”
 
“I have seen no devil boy in all of my days…”
 
Odino’s jaw cracked under the thrust of another fist. Blood and spittle flew.
 
“Again, the devil boy?”
 
“I forgive you, Captain,” Odino remarked with a slur. “May the Lord show you…” Odino doubled over under the force of another blow.
 
“The devil boy?” Odino raised his head, forced a smile, and winked at him. Bourne’s blood boiled.
 
Thereafter, Odino suffered the unrestrained wrath of a captain who had experienced more inexplicable horrors, unforgivable blunders, and utter foolishness in his brief stay at the abbey than in all of his days as a soldier. Yet, after the burning pain had passed, after the blood pooled where it did not belong, Odino did not fret as much. After his eyes swelled closed and he could no longer predict the next blow, he was no longer tortured with anticipation. After the ringing in his ears had silenced the screaming voice of the captain, there was peace. And after his ribs cracked to the flash of the pleasant memories of his past in catacomb  with Ivan, Lazarus, Miguel, and Thateus, he needed no teeth to smile. After all, life had been good to him.
 
“Wake!” Bourne yelled, throwing a pail of water on the tied and kneeling monk. Odino gasped and leaned back on his heels.
 
Greville rushed to his side and clutched his arm. “Odino, by the Grace of God, tell the captain.”
 
Odino propped his weight against the friar as he groaned. “I call for Last Rights. Fetch Friar Nicholas. I give my confession only to him.”
 
“No more priests!” Bourne exclaimed, hurling the pail and shattering it against the wall. “You answer only to me!”
 
Clodius, still holding his chest, approached Bourne. “Captain, if I may. We are bound to provide Last Rites if called upon. ’Tis our abject duty to comply – a rule divinely ordained by His Holiness and strictly enforced by such orders of the Holy See. We cannot deny him a last confession, and by the priest of his choosing.” Clodius whispered, “I beg of you, allow him this one request, and in his absolution, I shall learn from Friar Nicholas where the grotesque hides.”
 
Bourne only glared at Clodius as guards parted from the bathhouse entrance and a winded soldier forced himself passed them. The man approached Bourne, caught his breath, and spoke. “If I may, Captain. Your immediate presence is required at the church.”
 
“For what purpose?” Bourne asked, scowling.
 
The soldier scanned the curious faces around him before leaning into Bourne’s ear and speaking softly, “’Tis, vital, Captain.”
 
Bourne huffed, turned, and tapped Clodius on the chest. The friar looked down at bleeding knuckles as the Captain addressed him. “Allow the priest his rights. Upon my return, I expect to know of the devil’s whereabouts.” Clodius agreed, and Bourne turned to the nearest guard and pointed to Greville. “See that he is escorted to the dormitory. He is only to fetch the priest – Nicholas.” He secured a torch and followed the soldier out of the building. Immediately, Clodius pulled Greville close to him and whispered, “Upon your return, learn from Nicholas of Lazarus’ whereabouts. I must follow the captain.” Greville nodded and departed with the soldier as Clodius stole into the shadows, trailing Bourne from afar.
 
The captain rounded the corner of the cathedral and the soldier pointed toward the perimeter wall of the minster, where a row of men sat on the ground beside their boots, nursing their naked feet beneath a circle of torchlight.
 
“It happened only moments ago, Captain.” The soldier escorted Bourne to the side entrance of the church before pointing to the doorway. “See? There. The burning mist escapes.”
 
Bourne neared the entrance and inspected a black fog steadily seeping from its threshold and concealing the ground. He squatted and passed his fingers through the roiling brume, quickly withdrawing blistered fingertips.
 
The soldier remarked, “Indeed, Captain. And it smells of Death.”
 
Bourne smelled his fingers as he backed away from the fog. He surveyed the cathedral. “Soldier, I want you to make haste to the dormitory and inform the sergeant-at-arms that I call for a third part of his more rested men to convene at the abbey well. Pails lay beside it. The men shall draw water, collect dirt, and mix pails of mud. I want every crack and crevice sealed. Bury the entire church if need be.”
 
“Aye, Captain.” The soldier nodded and bolted away.
 
Beneath his torch, Bourne examined his painful fingertips and considered the torture that Friar Grate must have suffered. The sound of footfalls turned his attention to a quickly approaching guard. The man halted, caught his breath, and addressed him. “’Tis urgent, Captain!”
 
“What, now?”
 
The soldier pointed to the roof of the cathedral. “The statues move!” Bourne briefly glanced upward before narrowing his eyes at him. “If you permit me, they can be seen against the light of the moon.”
 
“Show me,” Bourne replied. As the guard escorted Bourne around the opposite side of the cathedral, the captain warned him, “And they had better be moving, lest I move you.”
 
“They move.” The soldier was curt.
 
With every bizarre event that Bourne had experienced since his arrival at the abbey, another ghastly discovery seemed little more than one more cliché added to an ever-worsening list of surreal events. “I was convinced, you might say that.”
 
Friar Clodius peered around the dark corner of the refectory, his keen eye fixed on Bourne and the guard as they circled the cathedral. The captain joined several soldiers who gathered openly to inspect the upper regions of the church. The men pointed upward, and Bourne aligned himself in a direct line of sight with the moon. Clodius slipped through the bushes for a better view of that which captivated their attention.
 
Cradling a book, a crucifix, and a corked flask, Friar Nicholas raced out of the dormitory. A strip of ornately designed cloth draped his neck like a scarf, its frilled ends whipping in the wind. As the young friar plowed through a line of unsuspecting torch-bearing sentries, Greville and his soldier escort hurried after Nicholas, calling ahead to allow him free passage. Nicholas reached the bathhouse and shoved his way past soldiers, all the while screaming at them, “He is a priest – a man of God! How could you allow your captain…?”
 
Nicholas stepped inside and froze. In the flickering light of a soldier’s torch, he did not recognize the robed and bloodied heap that lay crumpled against the base of the bathhouse post. He eyed the kneeling guards who held a friar’s head steady, pressing a wet cloth against a pair of red and swollen eyes. Nicholas rushed forth. He placed his materials beside the injured friar before looking him over. “No,” he remarked, his eyes welling up with tears. “There has been a mistake. This is not him.” He turned and stared at the floor, laughing and crying in his bereavement. “This is not…”


Nicholas leapt atop the nearest guard and beat his head against the flagstones. The remaining soldiers swarmed over him and pulled him away.
 
“Nicholas! No! There is no time!” The gurgling voice of Odino promptly quelled the rage in the young friar, and he fell limp and sobbed. Then he gathered his materials before scolding the soldiers. “Last Rites require the decency of privacy!” The soldiers looked at Greville, who gave them a solemn nod before retreating to the bathhouse entrance. The men followed Greville’s lead, stepping out of the building. 
 
Odino whispered to Nicholas, “Come closer, boy. There is something that you must know.” The young friar held his ear to the lips of the broken monk. As Odino spoke, Nicholas’ eyes widened.
 
He pulled away, stared at Odino, and asked, “Lazarus is one of them?”
 
“Hold your tongue,” Odino whispered, briefly glancing at Greville through eyes nearly swollen tightly shut before continuing. “I require a task of you.” Nicholas listened intently, occasionally nodding of his head. Odino fell into a coughing spell and propped his head against the post. “Now, give me your word that you shall see it through, Nicholas.”
 
The young friar wiped tears from his face. “But you shall die! What you ask…”
 
“I am already dead!” Odino interjected. “Now, swear your promise to me!”
 
Nicholas stole a deep breath and sighed. “Thy will be done, as you wish.” 
 
With trembling fingers, the priest adjusted the ornate cloth that lay around his neck. He kissed it before lifting a flask of blessed oil from beside him. Then he uncorked the bottle and paused to look at Odino. Between coughs, the monk struggled to present Nicholas with a comforting smile, even though he could not see his young apprentice except as a shadowy outline in the torchlight. Nevertheless, Nicholas knew the veiled pain and determination behind his mentor’s gesture. He tilted the flask, and with his thumb, he lightly marked a sign of the cross over Odino’s forehead, lips, and heart. Then he opened a book of Scriptures. 
 
Odino prayed, “Forgive me, Lord, in my past transgressions against Thee.” As he continued with his confession, Nicholas leaned over him, murmuring Latin passages of Last Rites.
 
At length, Nicholas opened his eyes and addressed Odino. “In Christ’s Name, absolved you are, Delon Odino des Gardiens.”
 
Odino coughed and said with a wheeze, “Let us get on with it, Nicholas.”
The young friar stole a glimpse over his shoulder to find a curious Greville, leaning forward into the doorway with his torch. Nicholas secretly poured the oil out of the flask. He lifted the metal cross, bit his lip and stifled the choking of his breath as streams of tears streaked his cheeks. Then he positioned himself behind Odino and firmly grabbed the hand that lay open for him. Nicholas slipped the sharp edge of the cross against the adjoining flesh of the monk’s fingers, and with a quick swipe, he sliced a deep gash. Blood poured down Odino’s fingers and Nicholas directed the warm flow into the flask.
 
Greville rushed forward and cast his light over them. “You must not untie him, Nicholas!”
 
“I do not untie him.”
 
Greville noticed the flask. “Blood-letting is not a part of Last Rites. You shall kill him!”
 
“Mind your own, Greville! ’Tis part of his final request.”
 
“Final it is, if he wishes to die.” Greville shrugged, benumbed by all he had witnessed this day as he retreated to the bathhouse entrance.
 
With the flask nearly filled, Nicholas quickly corked it, slid the ornate cloth from his neck, and wrapped Odino’s fingers tightly together. He rounded Odino and whispered, “’Tis done, Friar.”
 
“Indeed, it shall be done,” replied a swollen-eyed Odino. With a persistent smile, he turned his head as if admiring pleasant scenery.
 
“Odino?” Nicholas laid his hand on the monk’s shoulder and gently shook him.
 
Odino nodded and replied, “He is a bird in a cage, Ivan. Another world awaits him.”
 
“Odino?” Nicholas shook him again.
 
The monk continued, “Oh, indeed! Lazarus shall not know what to make of it. I shall teach him to ride a horse.” He wheezed with laughter. Nicholas leaned back and wept. A concerned expression fell over Odino’s face. “What shall we do about the horses? Soldiers guard the stables.”
 
The crying young friar kissed Odino on his cheeks. “Go with God, my friend.”
 
“He has never seen a horse,” Odino remarked, smiling. “He shall ride like the wind!”
 
Nicholas clutched the warm flask and rose to his feet, leaving the bound Scriptures beside a bound Odino. The young apprentice stood and cried, now as blind to his surroundings as was his dying mentor. He did not weep because Odino’s thoughts were preoccupied with Lazarus instead of himself. Nor was he distraught by the notion that Odino was no longer aware of him. He cried because the purest part of him was dying alongside Odino.
 
The piercing noise of a battle horn blared over the abbey grounds. Nicholas wiped his face and turned to see Greville step out of the doorway as guards abandoned their posts, bolting toward the call-to-arms. A mounted soldier nearly trampled Greville and he stumbled back into the building.
 
Nicholas addressed Odino, bowing deeply, “Thy will be done, my friend.” 
 
He turned and strode quickly toward the doorway, but Greville blocked his way. “Where are you going with that flask? You cannot leave the bathhouse!”
 
“CRACK!” he slammed his fist into Greville’s jaw, sending him and his torch flying against the wall. The young friar bellowed as he stormed out of the building, “Odino is done! Ivan is done! And I am done with all of this!” Nicholas dashed toward the dormitory with the warm flask and the last memories of his holy mentor.
 
The courtyard churned, as silhouettes of running soldiers poured through the south abbey gate, abandoning their cemetery search. A line of fire marked the grounds as a procession of torch-bearing sentries streamed from the dormitory and toward the cathedral. Men shouted, armor rattled, and horses’ hooves thundered to the relentless tune of a calling horn — a massive formation of martial coordination now dominated the monastery. 
 
Greville awoke, stirred, and slapped at his smoldering sleeve. Beside him, in the corner of the bathhouse, a swirling column of flames engulfed a heap of robes that Ivan had used in his escape. He staggered out of the building, choking. Clodius grabbed him. 
 
“A fire rages!” Greville gasped, rubbing his jaw. “Nicholas has escaped.”
 
Clodius pulled his arm. “It matters not! Come with me!” The two friars left the orange glow of the bathhouse doorway and stole into the darkness, sneaking around the shadowed side of the refectory before diving behind the cover of its juniper shrubs. They parted the bushes and watched soldiers assemble themselves into rows of unbroken ranks that encircled the entire perimeter of the cathedral. Horses carted munitions wagons through the north abbey gate as overlapping cries of stern command carried over the guarded grounds.
 
“Why do they assemble?”
 
Clodius ignored Greville’s question, patted his shoulder, and pointed toward the base of the abbey wall. “The Captain has placed a stone atop the scrolls – just there, behind the soldiers. Do you see it?”
 
Greville strained his eyes. “But there is no cover. We shall be caught!”
 
“You shan’t, if you make haste.”
 
Greville spun about. “Me?” he asked, incredulously.
 
“Keep yourself against the base of the wall and darkness is your cover. The soldiers watch only the cathedral.”
 
Greville gasped. “’Tis you who seeks to acquire them!”
 
Clodius snatched a fistful of Greville’s robe. “We have little time! See? There!” He pointed to the cathedral roof. Greville looked up to find a hundred stone statues writhing like a nest of sleepy snakes. The statues gathered near every edge of the terraced ledges.
 
“Dear God! They move,” Greville exclaimed, marking the sign of the cross over him.
 
“Indeed!” Clodius shook him. “We must flee the abbey – and with those pages. Now, fetch them whilst the moment is ours. Move!”
 
Greville tore himself away from the officious friar. “Have you since forgotten Ivan’s fate at the hand of the captain? I shan’t be slain over a roll of papers!”
 
“Very well,” Clodius spat, raising his chin. He spun and started down the backside of the refectory, grumbling. “When I find a buyer for them, do not expect some sort of compensation or compassion!”
 
Greville called after him, “And when the Captain reams you with his sword, do not expect compassion or Last Rites!” Clodius dismissed him with a petulant wave and disappeared into the darkness. Greville turned and parted the bushes to see a torch-bearing armored horseman galloping from around the far corner of the cathedral. Captain Bourne slowed the horse and held his torch over the heads of busy soldiers collecting munitions from a slowly passing cart.
 
“Pikes and spears, hear me now,” Bourne exclaimed to rows of men that encircled the church. “You shall keep low to the ground – well beneath your points. Brace your weapons against the earth and ready your swords in your lesser hand. Those of you with long knives, unsheathe them and stab them beside your forward foot. On my mark, you shall flash your sword, call aloud, and lure the roof devils atop your weapons. Sergeants of the Guard, carry my command!” Mounted officers called over the helmets of the U-shaped formation, repeating Bourne’s orders. Pikemen and spearmen rushed forth with brandished swords and formed a first line of defense.
 
“Crossbows, hear me now! On my mark, you shall discharge your weapons at will. Remain on your knees, and do not holster your bolts. Gather them on the ground beside you. You shall spend all of your bolts and defend the men before you. Sergeants of the Guard, carry my command!” As the armored equestrians instructed the formation, a wave of crossbowmen poured forth, covering the pikemen with their weapons.
 
Bourne surveyed the cathedral roof before steering his horse alongside the growing assemblage. “Arrows, hear me now! Space yourselves evenly. Stand tall behind the crossbowmen and cover forward ranks. Those of you who use your mouth for quick release, you may bite no more than two shafts. Expend all of your arrows on the devils before summoning your supplier!” A wall of archers rolled forward, and Bourne turned his horse about, shouting, “Suppliers, hear me now! You shall be quick and steady from your wagons. Keep low and lay supplies at your soldiers’ feet, signaling them with a slap no higher than their boot. Sergeants of the Guard, carry my command!”
 
And when the captain relayed instructions to his ranks of foot soldiers, Greville spotted the faint silhouette of Clodius dashing forward and freezing in place, moving timorously along the base of the abbey wall. He was advancing in tune with the ever-changing direction of Bourne’s attention.
 
Bourne held his hand high and readied his men. “Crossbows, deliver your first round against the devils! Aim evenly betwixt them. Pikes and spears, on my mark!” Bourne scanned the upper ledges of the church before waving his arm. “Loose!” As a salvo of bolts covered the cathedral and a shower of sparks exploded over the stone grotesques, Clodius charged forth, flipped the stone, grabbed the scrolls, and hurried toward the refectory. The pikemen rattled swords against spears, jeering, as the crossbowmen quickly reloaded.
 
The statues crept near the edge of the roof, peering down at the army that summoned them. In appearance, no two stone beasts were alike. Beneath a full moon, their grotesque features were plainly visible. Some had heads of birds, others of dogs and serpents. Their bodies were mixtures of various beasts — part-lion, human, and swine – and they had claws, fangs, hooves, and tails. Each resembled a hideous composite of several creatures, but in all of their uniqueness, they shared a common characteristic: on the backs of each hung a sprawling pair of membranous wings.
 
“Loose!” Another wave of bolts was let fly, and another shower of sparks engulfed the stone grotesques, stirring them into a fury of grating wings, gnashing teeth, and raking claws. Screeches and roars carried over the abbey grounds as they turned against one another, warring for space on the terraced ledges. Down they spilled, clearing the cathedral roof and spilling atop the soldiers like a murder of granite crows over a moonlit field.
 
“Spears! Arrows! Men-at-arms!” Bourne screamed. But ranks broke, weapons were dropped, and soldiers scattered. Hell’s diversion was afoot.
 
Clodius flew around the side of the refectory with the rolled pages, passing Greville as he yelled, “Make haste! Do not look back!” The two friars dashed across the courtyard, fleeing the shouts and shrieks of a terrific onslaught. Clodius dived into bushes behind the bathhouse, grabbing Greville. “The south gate is unguarded! We shall circle the outer wall of the abbey, make for the stables, and secure a horse!” Clodius tore his way out of the shrubs and darted up the shadowed side of the bathhouse. 
 
Greville rushed after him, tripping over a robed heap and rolling into the moonlight. Only then did he discover Ivan’s body, his eyes staring blankly. Greville scrambled to his feet, calling after Clodius. Clodius stopped and looked back at him, and Greville saw the whites of his eyes and a drawn expression of terror on his face. Greville froze.
 
“Do not turn around,” Clodius spat, retreating toward the abbey gate. “I shall meet you at the stables.”
Greville stole a glimpse over his shoulder to find a large stone grotesque now stalking him. It was Griffin-like, with the winged body of a lion and the giant head and claws of a bird-of-prey. 
 
Greville slumped against the bathhouse wall sobbing. “Help me, Clodius.” With his every trembling step toward the front of the bathhouse, the granite beast likewise advanced. “For the sake of God, call it away!” Instead, Clodius fled. Greville screamed, running around the corner of the building and ducking into the smoke that boiled from out of the bathhouse entrance. A glowing mound of robes illuminated its dim interior. Greville hid himself behind a center post – squatting behind the broad back of a bloodied and grinning Odino, who stared at nothing more than a crack in the floor. Odino was much too dead to save the sniveling robe from the abomination that now strode through the doorway, searching the shadows and clawing the flagstones.
 
Clodius raced for safety, colliding with soldiers who had since abandoned their posts. The friar’s cherished pages scattered over the ground, and he collected them on his hands and knees. Then he dashed toward the south gate, his mouth wide with fright, wide enough to vent a dreadful shriek that carried over the courtyard, when a flying statue swooped down and plucked him from the earth. The grotesqueness of it was unmatched by any atrocity that had flown from the cathedral roof, as it bore the body of a serpent, the head of a goat, and legs like those of many trailing spiders. The abomination carried Clodius over the abbey wall and high into the sky – high enough for all of the countryside to hear the lasting terror in his throat. It swept the good friar away, deep into untouched forests to the darkest of places marked only by a trail of tears and brittle pages that rained down from the black heavens.
 
Still inside the abbey, Captain Bourne and eleven mounted soldiers thundered out of the north gate, galloping over a clearing and charging up the abbey road toward the village of Murat. “Stay together!” Bourne screamed, “Swords high and heads low! Keep beneath the trees!” But with every open space in the forest, a scream signaled the loss of yet another man plucked from his horse. With every blow, another horse lay crushed beneath the tearing claws of stone. Indeed, the eve belonged to a sinister Angel, laughing and walking too and fro deep within the earth.
 
Thus, with only a few recited words from a nearly forgotten collection of Naramsin’s Translations, Cardinal Jean-Francois Blasi single-handedly destroyed one of the two most fortified abbeys of the Holy See, Abbaye des Gardiens, and crushed the most capable company of His Majesty’s Royal Guard – Captain Bourne’s elite troops. In the fleeting moment required for mayflies to mate and die, in a single blasphemous act, one man’s mission to exact revenge had cost the lives of four hundred soldiers, priests, and squires whilst opening the second of three gatestones and further weakening the Great Seal that served as the very capstone of the Great Abyss.
 
Far beneath the crumbling abbey, and well below the burning catacombs, from the very depths of Hell, the seraphic laughter of Lucifael echoed, for the damnable occasion deserved her undivided attention.
 
***
 
And for half an eve, Lazarus journeyed precisely westward beneath a large moon and a sea of stars. He scaled the rocky, untamed hills of Auvergne Province and forged onward through its vast, shadowy vista – all of it unfamiliar to his senses. Along the way, when bouts of fear surrendered to calmer moments that gave him pause for inner reflection, he considered the root cause of such troubled feelings.
 
Simply, Lazarus had only known the boundaries of the abbey catacombs – the subterranean world that he had left behind. Its tunnel walls stood sure, their solid and guiding paths forever unchanging. he steadfast predictability of the catacombs proved to sooth any momentary concerns that might have plagued him, and now, remembering that place and those he lived with there served something of the same purpose. Only now, he knew he would not see them again and his heart grew heavy as granite in his chest.


Lazarus had long been familiar with the mechanisms of his dreams, and with their ever-changing visionscapes. For instance, should his dreams ever bloom into a boundless nightmare, he was always capable of waking himself, if only to conjure a more pleasant and predictable presentation of them. And Lazarus had often dreamed of a world beyond the catacombs, all the while, piecing together every detail that he had learned of the extraordinary place. But never did he imagine that it would present itself as such an unpredictable and inescapable nightmare as it did now. There were no guiding paths or winding flagstones – the uneven and unpredictable landscape appeared to sprawl in every endless direction.  Perhaps the root cause of his troubled feelings was buried somewhere in the disturbing notion that he simply could not awaken from the moment and rouse himself to the familiar sound of his father’s voice, calling for him to rekindle the catacomb torches.
 
A cold and weary Lazarus climbed the last of many treacherous ridges. He stood atop its crest, his dirty robe fluttering like a banner in a brisk easterly wind. Through dark eyeholes, he scanned a deep valley, a dry and rocky riverbed. Across the stony dell, the steep face of a cliff rose against the side of a small mountain, and at the base of the crag, Lazarus discovered the striking resemblance of an impressed face with a howling mouth – Mountain Mouth. With a grim determination equal to Ivan’s, he cocked his shoulders and descended the ridge like a proud man condemned to the gallows. He walked through the shadowed valley of stones and toward the cliff until its gaping mouth swallowed him up.



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Copyright Notice: All Rights Reserved: 2006, TXu-1-008-517,U.S.C.O.,Title: Grotesque, A Gothic Epic - Author: Graven, George Edmund. Unauthorized modification, reproduction, and/or distribution of this material expressly prohibited. Please contact webmaster or visit site: http://www.gegraven.com for questions or concerns.