Over the rolling hills of Southern France, the slow-moving and glowing ensemble was a torch-lit company of men that, in the darkness and from a distance, might have appeared as a flotilla, aflame, and adrift on a black ocean. Lazarus, now tightly bound in chains, stumbled amongst them. His party ascended the crest of yet another ridge and he abruptly stopped, halting his escorts. Lazarus laid his ears back; his pupils collapsed to mere pinholes as he gawked at a Gehenna-like horizon that seemed all but engulfed in a crimson sea of fire. At his feet, the sombrous land dipped and spread evenly toward two opposing wood lines that revealed, betwixt them, a more distant raised and glowing plateau. Atop the moorland, hundreds of burning torches encompassed a walled and towering castle, the combined light of them casting the edifice into a formidable display of iron sway and ubiquity. And when Lazarus attempted to turn away, guards shoved him forthwith, weapons at his back. Soldiers leaned on his chains, pulling him onward, into the shadowy valley, and toward the luminous grounds of its lucific moor.

As Lazarus neared the castle, he witnessed a crowd of perhaps a thousand strong – the unbroken assemblage was vast, even to encircle all sides of the castle’s ramparts and, from the fortified buttress gates and several hundred yards outward from them, the congregation thinned and scattered between rows of rude thatch-roofed peasant houses. The steady drone of the gathering calmed; torches fell still; and a thousand eyes turned toward him.

Lazarus resisted the unwavering will of his captors – to no avail. Heavy hands pushed him forward as a voice of authority bellowed from the front of Lazarus’ armed procession. “This eve, we live or die! The prisoner’s head is our head. M’lord commands that we protect him with our very lives. If rank is broken, strike to kill – man or woman, child or dog. And any soldier who lowers his shield before we enter the gates shall know the end my blade. Now, drop torches, close columns, and lock shields! Follow your lead man and do not miss his steps.” Armor clattered and the company transformed itself into a tightly pressed block formation, with long shields overlapping one another to enclose Lazarus beneath a moving sheet of metal. Tips of level swords jutted from betwixt the shields as the covered column closely trailed a wedge-shaped formation of ready pikemen and crossbowmen.

The entourage marched toward the castle, forcing its way through the crowd and torches. As did the Red Sea once surrender in division before the footsteps of Moses’ people, so did the people part for the iron column, offering its soldiers safe passage to the castle. However, behind the procession, the path closed as quickly as it had opened. For Lazarus, time seemed all but frozen, with its every motion unfurling like a slow dream. And in that seemingly surreal moment, he could hear the crowded sounds of a million breaths – he could smell the salt of Man as a pall of appalling odors – he could feel a profound and persisting hatred, like the dark aura of his mother’s presence. Altogether, Lazarus found himself akin to a candle’s flame on the edge of a whirling tempest. Yet his company pressed forward, dragging him inexorably to the heart of the throng.

The masses stirred. Heckles and jeers ushered forth a flurry of protest. The crowd roared and stones flew. Rocks struck shields and the climbing clatter of rattling metal resembled the ringing of tin in a hailstorm. The noise of the crowd drowned every shout of command, yet the column pressed forward and toward the distant castle, with swords and shields swaying in unison, and arms and legs churning within. And in the choking dust and heat of the soldiers’ makeshift enclosure, Lazarus stepped wildly to keep his balance. The dissonance of the horde was a monotonous roar, until the overriding rhythm of an omnipresent chant arose: ‘Brûlez le Diable! Brûlez le Diable! Brûlez le Diable!’

“Burn the devil!” the multitudes screamed, thrusting torches, clenched fists, and farm tools, overhead. The path toward the castle collapsed as the crowd converged on the column. Shields faltered; crossbows leveled into the face of an enraged deluge; and screams followed jabbing swords. Pikes found the front lines of peasants and the bloodletting began. The masses recoiled, yet the tide of retreat abruptly reversed, gathering into a new wave of vehemence that rolled forward and washed over the soldiers. In an unrelenting determination to obtain Lazarus, the mob charged the column’s defenses, dragging its exterior men from formation, trampling them underfoot. Others grabbed the guardsmen’s weapons and let fly at the remaining soldiery.

The people wanted the king of demons and the very embodiment of evil; they sought the principle author of pestilence and death; they were after the master sculptor of their worst memories and painful recollections, which no amount of prayer or tithe could purge. Blood boiled beneath wild eyes and trembling lips. Souls screamed and men died where they fell; yet, they persisted – they demanded the Devil’s head, and perchance, a subsequent heart’s ease of his being drawn, quartered, and forever excised from the offended Face of the World.

The column collapsed and Lazarus crumpled beneath a mounting heap of struggling men. The battle raged atop him as a churning mass of, those who attempted to defend him and, those who sought his head. Higher, the pile rose, crushing the air from his chest. The chains cut into his wings, bending his bones. The stepping soles of peasants’ feet trampled him, smashing his head into the stones. Dazed and beaten, Lazarus wheezed. “Fa-ther!” Still, the fount of the crusade spilled over him; the blood, sweat, and tears of fathers, brothers, and sons, mixed with his own, and with the dust. Lazarus moaned once last and fell into darkness. And deep beneath the dirt, the ear of Evil turned.

The crowd lifted the lifeless body of Lazarus from the ground and raised him over their heads, and, like a chained mummy adrift on a sea of flailing arms, he floated away from the castle gates. Torches encircled him as the recurring shouts of many men blended as one, “Burn the Devil!” Yet, the instant blast of battle horn stilled the chant. The blare of another joined the first and a third horn resounded betwixt them, altogether presenting themselves as a trio of Gabriel’s trumpets that commanded absolute attention of the entire countryside. Hundreds of heads spun to see the first of two waves of arrows that rained down from the castle’s ramparts. The bolts soared high over the crowd, striking only the open ground before them. Abruptly, the castle gates exploded, its iron teeth flying open to release a barrage of heavily armed equestrians that bore down on the crowd like rolling thunder.

The peasants dropped Lazarus and scattered, leaving him lay as an iron-strapped heap. The heavy column of horsemen forked into diverging lines that encircled Lazarus from opposing directions, spiraling inward as three distinct and concentric rings of moving ranks. At once, they halted and turned, raising swords and shields in every outward direction. And in the center of the quickly fortified circle, several soldiers hastily dismounted and hoisted Lazarus, draping him belly-down over the back of a ready steed. They remounted as the lead man turned his horse toward the castle, circled a raised hand in the air, and spurred the full attroupement into motion. Rows of knights flanked Lazarus’ steed as the mounts pounded the ground, blazing a way toward the ramparts. The iron teeth of the castle’s gates swallowed the column as quickly as it had released it. Then a new wave of flaming arrows rained down from the rampart walls to form a semi-circular barrier of fire that enclosed the castle entrance, expressly positioned to serve as a dire warning to all, who might consider further advance. Save for the distant cries of children, the woeful noises of new widows, and the complaints of cantankerous, crestfallen men; an overall and prevailing calm fell over the land.

Conceivably, the composition of the castle grounds lay in considerable contrast to the former chaos of the countryside; as settling noises, order, and methodical movement prevailed within. Doors opened and shut, armor jingled, and the voices of light-hearted dialogue emanated from various passageways – even the echo of laughter carried through one of the corridors. Squads of unarmed soldiers filed passed one another in a torch-lit causeway; and a partially unclad knight followed closely behind others of his rank, striding alongside a boy who toted his helmet.

The squire whispered to the soldier, “’Tis true, m’laird?”

“Quite so,” the man replied, still in stride.

“Then how is it a good thing?”

The soldier smirked, slapping his sword as he enlightened the squire, “’Tis more than merely, fighting fire with fire. If one counters another’s word with a sword, or the ire of another with fire, then how might he defeat another man’s evil?”

“But, with a live devil?” the squire inquired, in seemed disbelief.

The smiling soldier nodded and rubbed the lad’s head. “Which is precisely why it is a good thing.”

The boy raised his brow as the two of them turned and disappeared around a corner.

Directly ahead and through a broadening corridor that opened into a courtyard, a gathering of torches disturbed the darkstill, their combined light illuminating the centermost grounds of the court enclosure. Torch-bearing soldiers huddled together beneath a glowing ring of firelight as a voice of certainty called from within the gathering. “Go easy with it – a bit more – still more – done!” A large shirtless red-haired soldier stood upright to tower over his still-hunched comrades. He caught a large man’s breath and stretched his arms. The hair on his back and shoulders might have appeared as full as his beard. The other men rose and he patted the backs of two of them in reassuring gesture. “M’lord has his devil, yes? Now, it is yours to guard – with your heads.” He sneered and strode away from the soldiers, leaving them beside a wide stone-lined pit. Steadfast guards checked their weapons as sentries with raised torches leaned over the opening, only to reveal the lingering darkness within.

And in the depths of the cylindrical hole, an unconscious Lazarus lay wrapped in chains beside the curved base of a stony wall. An iron door stood, tall, encrusted with rust, and flush against the converse wall. On either side of the door, two shackled prisoners sat and eyed the silhouette of their latest guest. Both men were unkempt, with scruffy beards and tattered clothes; and there, the similarity ended; as the man to the left of the door commanded a considerable presence; having broad shoulders, a long mane of blonde hair, and a pair of sharp blue eyes. Even as large as was Lazarus’ stature, the prisoner was notably larger – conceivably, a lion of a man. Nevertheless, the two pit prisoners remained to themselves, whispering warily so as not to stir Lazarus.

Time turned with the rolling sky as early morning stars shone over the pit. Lazarus stirred to a voiced exchange between the two prisoners – he did not move. Instead, he assessed his bound condition, his unfamiliar whereabouts, and he mulled over the memories of his earlier ordeals to gather the reason for the persistent and painful pounding that had his head, reeling – thump-thump-thump-loom. He cleared his mind as best he could, opened his eyes, and saw nothing but a curved wall of stone. He listened behind him, to an ongoing conversation with voices of notably dissimilar pitches. Unlike the sharp and nasal voice of the first, a thick and exotic accent prevailed throughout the more resonant second voice as it spoke. “If it is truly yer Satan, then why does it allow itself to be bound and thrown into a pit? Answer me that!”

“Perhaps it is not Satan, yet it is certainly a demon from hell! Even now, it only feigns capture. Soon enough, it shall break free from those chains and slay us all!”

“’Tis neither yer Satan, nor a hell demon. ‘Tis a night alf, I told ya – bares every mark o’ one. And it can’t free itself – not from those irons.”

Lazarus rolled and quickly sat upright. He shook the blood-matted hair from his face to expose a terrible gash above his left eyebrow. With him now propped against the wall and facing the prisoners, he saw their features and manners as he had expected them to appear: a large man with a hard stare, and a small and squirming man. He looked up to discover gawking soldiers standing about the perimeter of the pit, torches and weapons exposed.

Upon seeing Lazarus seated, the small prisoner scrambled to the wall and pulled at his shackles. “Mercy; lift us out! Guards! The devil awakens!”

“Still your tongue!” a soldier bellowed from above, leveling his weapon on him.

The large man rolled onto his elbow and offhandedly slapped the bawling man’s head. “Aye; hush it, ‘fore ya get us killed. Yer drum-beatin’ is fittin’ for a wee flower.” Then he propped his massive arms atop his knees, relaxed against the wall, and continued staring at Lazarus.

The smaller prisoner half-protested, “If you do that again…” Then he huffed, straightened his clothes, and leaned against the wall, assuming the matched posture and demeanor of the larger prisoner – and with such poise and pretense as to convey the selfsame defiance toward Lazarus.

At length, Lazarus introduced himself; “I am Lazarus. Who are you?”

The small man stiffened; he cast a nervous gaze betwixt Lazarus and the other prisoner. He leaned forward and quickly whispered, “I’m not the one you seek, devil; I’m a Christian!” He pointed away from him; “He is the one you want – a north man and a pagan, ripe with sin!”

The north man rolled his head toward the Christian and growled, “Can ya not hear? I told ya what it is.”

Lazarus corrected the Christian; “I am not a devil. My name is Lazarus Gogu, a squire of the Abbaye des Gardiens.”

The large man smirked and nodded. “Gogu, perhaps – but Gogu, the night alf, ya be.”

The Christian questioned Lazarus; “If you are not a devil, then why do you look like a devil?”
’Twas the way I was born. I am a man, only a bit different.”

“A man?” The north man chortled and leaned toward the Christian; “The night alf calls itself a man. What think ya – man or no?”

Lazarus asked the north man, “What is a night alf?”

“You!” The north man snarled, snapping his chains tightly. “And if ya come near me, I’ll be breakin’ yer neck.”

Sounds of chuckling soldiers carried over the pit.

Lazarus looked at the other prisoner with an obvious expression of confusion.

The Christian cleared his throat and responded sarcastically, “His people believe that night alves are flying creatures of the forest that hide themselves in rocks and caves during the light of day.”

“He is not a Christian?” Lazarus asked.

The north man shook his head and chuckled. “The alf wants to know if I am a bleedin’ Christian. Gather the shadows of that, if ya will.” He let loose with a hearty laugh and looked up at the now frowning soldiers.

Lazarus narrowed his eyes, studying the giant before questioning him, “Do you do not believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins and arose from –

“Rubbish!” The north man interjected, yanking his shackles tightly before spitting on the ground betwixt them. “Ne’er shall I swallow such gullery and gurguile as yers, my malefic alf!”

The Christian broke in with a warning; “Upon your death, you should mind your tongue, Olgar, lest you earn your station in eternal damnation.”

The giant curled his lip and scowled at the both of them before settling himself against the wall. He drew a deep breath and countered the Christian; “Upon my death, my place shall be at Odin’s table, in the halls of Valhalla – with food, drink, song, and seventy-seven chaste maidens. And ya can keep yer foolish tales for scarin’ little children into grown cowards.”

The Christian shot Lazarus a puzzled expression and then chuckled. He cocked his head at his comrade and smirked. “Seventy-seven virgins, did you say? Then you intend to entertain your harem and harlotry whilst in heaven?” The Christian snorted with laughter and, above him, a chorus of boisterous hilarity followed suit. He leaned forward, half-collected, and stole an overt glimpse betwixt the giant man’s legs. “So, you’re all of that, are you?” The north man glowered and lowered his leg as the Christian badgered him further; “I truly doubt that God smiles upon your kind. You are too bound by earthly pleasures to earn a rightful place –

The north man grabbed the Christian by his hair and pulled him closely. He spat in his ear, “God is Odin, who smiles upon me even now! He has no other god before him, and yer ja’zeus man is no son of Odin!” The north man yanked him closer and the Christian winced. “You had best mind yer tongue with me, small man. In the land of my father and brother, I’ve seen many of yer kind slain for sayin’ less.” He released him and the Christian scrambled away, leaving the north man to continue; “I may be but one amongst ya Christians yet, in my land you would stand as only one amongst my people; and all would know ya as Odin’s blasphemer; and they would cut out yer tongue, startin’ with yer neck. And with yer blasphemy in my ear; I would take the honor of doin’ it myself!”

“You are going to burn in hell,” the Christian replied, pressing his hair down. “And his name is Jesus – not ja’zeus.”

“Thou shalt not kill,” Lazarus offered from across the pit. “And Jesus is the son of the Virgin Mary, and his father is God, Himself, who is known by many names.”

The giant turned his attention toward Lazarus. “I know all o’ yer deceptions, night alf – takin’ a stand with him and pretendin’ yerself as a Christian, only to deny the glorious Odin.”

“I am a Christian – and a man; only different,” Lazarus replied.

“Ya! And I am Odin’s ja’zeus man,” the north man proclaimed, a sneer of sarcasm creeping across his face. “What say ya to that, alf man?”

Lazarus dismissed his mockery and questioned the Christian, “Why are you here?”

The man cleared his throat, cut a sharp eye towards the giant, and proceeded to explain, “Well, it happened so –

Yet, his larger comrade interposed with his own telling; “We are in here, alf, because my good mate slew a man and stole his steed.”

“I defended my life,” retorted the Christian. “He drew on me!”

The giant turned to his companion and rolled his head around, mockingly, as he lectured him; “Had ya not been stealin’ his steed, he wouldn’t have drawn on ya. And in all the good grace of Odin’s wisdom, ya led the soldiers to where I was sleepin’; ya bleedin’ fool.” He huffed. “I only told ya that I was tired o’ walkin’ – I didn’t tell ya to go steal a steed!”

“No, no, no! They were going to leave you be,” the Christian blurted, jabbing an accusing finger. “’Twas you! Thrice, I denied knowing you and, still you confessed to knowing me – and you bickered with them, babbling that drivel about Valhalla; the sacred lands of your people; yourself bound by the truth and the like. Then you accused them of being heretics! You were blind to good sense. ‘Twas that foolish faith of yours that condemned you – not me!”

The north man smiled and nodded. “So it is.” He crossed his arms and legs and leaned back. “And by my faith, I shall proudly die at the hand of mine enemy. On the morrow, when they lop off our heads, the Valkyrie shall take my spirit and leave ya to rot.”

The Christian rebuked him, “No, when they take our heads, your soul shall burn in the hottest fires of hell for your ungodly belief!”

“Heads?” Lazarus asked.

The Christian solemnly nodded, his voice now laced with remorse. “We are to pay for our crimes with our heads.”

The north man yanked his chains tight and snapped, “For yer crimes, mind ya! I only made the mistake o’ travelin’ ‘longside a lyin’, thievin’, murderin’ sort as yerself; and for keepin’ my faith before mine enemies!”

“But I am not here to pay for a crime,” Lazarus stated. “I am here to see Lord D’Alcicourt.”

“Not to fret, night alf; ya shan’t loose yer head,” the north man assured him. He stole a glimpse of the sky before continuing; “The morn is upon you. Come first light, there shan’t be any part of ya left that even looks like a head.”

Lazarus looked up to discover wispy mare’s tail clouds with a faint red glow.

The giant bellowed a haughty laugh.

Lazarus worried with his chains and, as the Christian intently watched him, their gazes briefly met, and long enough for the man to discern a genuine dread in the Eljo’s eyes. The Christian edged himself near his comrade and whispered, “What did you mean that troubled him so?”

“Something that would fret any night alf.”

“Any devil, you mean. Now, tell me,” the Christian insisted, “What shall happen to him at first light?”

The north man chuckled, shook his head, and sighed. “In all of the seasons that I’ve known ya, I cannot recall even a passing day where ya didn’t make a mention of yer hell devils at least once – the devil is in the dark woods; marks and signs of the devil; a devil’s drink; a devil is in me; the devil, this, and the devil, that. And when I hear ya pray, ya always ask fer devils not cross yer path. As I recall, I never heard ya say that yer god was in the dark woods; or in your drink, or inside you. And then ya always say that yer god is everywhere and the devil is in hell.” The north man leaned closer, patted his shoulder, and whispered, “I am beginin’ to think that, either yer god is the devil, since he is everywhere, like ya say; or we’re in yer hell and yer devil is now sittin’ in a pit with us; or ya call everything that scares ya, somethin’ of the devil…” The north man winked and relaxed himself against the wall; “…or perhaps ya happen to be prayin’ to the wrong god, ‘cause he never saved ya from yer devils.”

The Christian curled his lip. “God is God; there is only one.”

The giant kissed the tips of his fingers and gestured respectfully toward the sky. “Indeed – only one.”

“Not your Odin – mine!”

The north man nodded and looked at Lazarus before snapping his fingers and proposing to the Christian; “Tell ya what; I’ll make a wager with ya: the word of my people ‘gainst the word of yers – yer faith ‘gainst mine. What say ya?”

“You can’t wager faith.”

“If I can prove to ya that the word of my people is truth, then will ya renounce yer faith and join me at Odin’s table?”

The Christian laughed, incredulously. “You cannot wager faith.”

“Oh, but I can. Are ya not certain enough in yer faith to know when ya risk’ bein’ wrong about it? I can, ‘cause I am not wrong. Can ya say the same about yerself in yers?”

The Christian huffed. “There is no wager that you could muster that would tempt me to reconsider my faith.”

“Then ya call yerself to be certain, in the word of yer people – as sure as me in mine?”

“More so, even,” he spat.

“So ya say.” The north man pointed to Lazarus. “Then, is that one of yer hell devils?”

The smaller man offered open disbelief. “Are you so completely witless that you cannot see the ungodly form of him?”

“But is it a hell devil or no?”

“Indeed; he is no make of God!”

“There ya go, double-speakin’ again! Ya always tell me that yer god made everything; and now ya say that this god o’ yers didn’t make it.” He sighed. “Truth is; ya see – I told ya what it was and ya can’t see past yer hell devils to hear the truth.”

“So you wish to wager that he is not a devil, but a night alf?” The Christian smirked and shook his head. “There is no wager in that. Any devil could feign the form of one of your said flying night alves.”

“But why would it? Don’t ya think it would feign a different make – like that of a devil-fearin’ Christian man, such to hide its evil deeds beneath a smilin’ face?”

The man narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “Or, perhaps like that of a pagan oaf who wishes to defend his devil brethren by calling them mere night alves?”

The giant chuckled. “Hear me.” He placed his hand on his heart. “By the word of my people and, by the truth of Odin and Loki, I swear to ya now that this is a night alf, and not one of yer hell devils.”

Lazarus sighed and briefly turned his attention away from his chains to defend himself; “I am neither a night alf, nor a hell devil. My name is Lazarus and I am a man – only different.”

“Lie!” the giant exclaimed. “And soon enough ya shall go the way of every snared alf!” Abruptly, he turned to the Christian and elaborated, “Ya see, they can’t stay above ground after first light, lest they burn to ash and dust in the light of day. So there ya have it. And when this one burns, then ya shall know the word of my people as truth.”

The Christian nodded and replied sarcastically, “Ah, so you claim that, when the light of the sun strikes him, he shall burst into flames and burn to ash – right here, in this pit – with me as witness?” He looked up at the blood-sky and back to his comrade, nodding again. “U-h-m, I think not.” Then he sneered and shook his head before rebuking him with a question. “If a devil can walk through the eternal and infernal fires of hell without fear of pain, then why should it then burst into flames by mere warmth from the sun? How can that be?”

The north man nodded and, likewise looked at the sky before mocking the Christian, “U-h-m, no. Are ya so blind that ya didn’t make out that it is wounded? Ya see; if this is truly one of yer fire-walkin’ hell devils, like ya say, then it wouldn’t be leakin’ from its head like it is.” He shook his head and smirked. “I don’t think ya know too much ‘bout those devils of yers or ya wouldn’t be callin’ a bleedin’ night alf, a devil.”

The Christian leaned forward and studied Lazarus, who busied himself with his binds; and he discovered the raised and bloodied laceration on the Eljo’s brow. He leaned back and looked down his nose at the north man, saying, “Devils’ trickery, only – he merely feigns injury. You must not take, as truth, that which an author of confusion contrives through lies. Truth is; demons are these; and demons do not bleed.”

“Speakin o’ lies,” the north man stated, leaning toward him, “Tell me another truth; have ya even once, in all yer days, seen a live devil?”

The Christian huffed, exasperated. “Are you so blind?” He pointed to Lazarus “There, you have one; look at him! Everyone knows the make of a devil!”

The north man laughed and arrogantly addressed Lazarus, whispering, “He says that ya head doesn’t hurt ‘cause yer feignin’. Are ya feignin’ those wings and teeth fer us as well, my good alf?” He growled with laughter and turned to the Christian, replying to the man’s last declaration, “No. Not everyone knows the make of yer mighty hell devils, save when ya start tellin’ yer tall tales ‘bout them. Fer me; I only see a wounded night alf sittin’ in a pit with us, frettin’ over the comin’ morn.” He spat on the ground betwixt him and Lazarus. Yet, Lazarus ignored his vulgar gesture and slipped a partially free arm through a lax stretch of chain to loosen another section of iron.

The Christian challenged his pagan comrade. “Have you ever truly seen a night alf? Have you ever seen one, burning in the light of day? Speak the truth and swear it! How did you come to learn of them, save by the tall tales of drunken men, wide-eyed and whispering around a firelight – telling lies to strike fear into children so that they might come to believe in the night alves in the dark woods? What say you, about speaking the truth? Can you swear before me, and this devil, and your great and mighty Odin, that you have seen an alf before this eve?”

The giant nodded and gestured toward Lazarus. “Perhaps, by the word of yer people, ya know this to be a devil, and by the word of my people, I know it to be an alf. The wager is still the same, then: the faith of yer people ‘gainst the faith of mine. I say it is an alf and shall burn up by the light of day, and you say it’s a devil that cannot burn.”

“And it is still the same foolish wager – nothing to gain by it. Leave lie, a broken horse.”

“And if my wager serves to save ya in the end; that ya might forever join me in the glorious Halls of Valhalla, lastly suppin’ and drinkin’ the bread and wine of endless life at Odin’s blessed table? Is there still nothing to gain by it?”

The Christian narrowed his eyes and exchanged glimpses betwixt Lazarus and his comrade. He smiled and raised an upward-pointing finger. “No, here it is! I shall save you from the Babylonian ways of your pagan people and you can join me in the Kingdom of Heaven with Christ, your Lord and Savior! And we can sit at the Lord’s Table and sup with Him!” He thrust his finger toward Lazarus. “If this devil does not burn in the light of day, then, do you swear to renounce your faith and embrace the Christ Lord as your savior?”

“Aye,” the north man offered with a smirk. “And when the night alf burns, will ya renounce yers and embrace Odin as yer one true god?”

The Christian chuckled and slapped his hand on the flagstones. “The Lord works in mysterious ways to save a pagan before he looses his head.” He shook his comrade’s hand. “For I am God’s witness and; I shall hold you to your word, my friend.”

“As I, you,” the giant replied. They smiled as one and settled themselves against the wall to watch Lazarus’ ongoing struggle with himself and his chains.

Lazarus pursed his parched lips, rolled on his side, bent his elbow, and slid half of his arm through a winding of iron to further loosen his binds. He sat upright and scooted himself against the pit wall, working his way into a standing position and glancing at the sky as he informed them, “You must not wager your soul to save that of another. Nothing, you can do, shall grant you salvation. ‘Tis by grace, and grace alone, that you are saved.” His voice waned from exhaustion as he addressed the Christian, “You should know this truth.”

The giant stood and defended his friend. “What matters it to ya? Yer not goin’ to a hell; and ya shall never set foot in the Halls of Valhalla.”

The Christian also stood and defended himself. “’Tis only a wager if one can loose. In defense of the Lord Almighty, I can never loose, since the Grace of His only begotten son moves within me. And since I might be of service to save another soul from the likes of you, God shall win in the end.”

The north man turned to the Christian and smirked. “Indeed he shall.” He cast a glance at the glowing sky and pointed to a beam of sunlight that partially circumposed itself as a thin red line across the curved capstones of the pit. “In the end, the glorious Odin is always victorious against the infidels who submit –

“On your knees; all of you!” a commanding voice bellowed from above them. Lazarus and the other two prisoners looked up to find a line of soldiers surrounding the top of the pit and pointing ready crossbows down on them.

“Submit or die!”

They quickly dropped to the pit floor. Lazarus froze and held his breath as orange spots of armor-reflected sunlight chased one another over the flagstones, altogether resembling a swarm of frantic fireflies darting to-and-fro – several of them passing only finger’s-length from him. He set his jaw and slowly raised his gaze to find the north man peering back at him and the settling spots of light, and leering at the spectacle.

“Prisoners secured!” a soldier yelled.

Clang! Creak! The narrow pit door swung open and guards poured into the shadows of the pit, pinning the prisoners where they crouched. Six large men swarmed Lazarus. “Upward and onward,” said a hairy redhead soldier who quickly hoisted him to his feet. They rushed him through the iron door and hurried him down a torch-lit, subterranean corridor, lined with opposing columns of shielded soldiers. His escorts led him beneath the castle and passed corners and crossways, all of them guarded by unbroken lines of swords and shields – his course outwardly predefined by two rows of steadfast ranks.

Behind him, Lazarus heard a resounding clang as the noise echoed through the stone corridor. “Pit door secure!” a voice of certainty called out. “Close shields and follow your man!” Lazarus distinguished the voice as belonging to the same man whom he heard whilst en route to the castle. His escorts lastly spun him around a corner, pulled him passed an iron-strapped door, and shoved him into a dimly lit and windowless room before quickly fastening the door, leaving him to himself. The same voice called from without the crude door; “Prisoner safe; door secure; move on!” Lazarus listened to the dwindling sounds of clattering armor and departing footfalls; and he stepped near the door to hear the regular breathing of several stationed guards that remained just outside the entrance.

To Lazarus, the stagnant air of the room seemed unusually heavy; and in it, he discerned the tinge of decayed hay and rot, yet he saw no straw on the flagstones. He sighed and stepped forth, walking awkwardly in his chains as he scanned the dim rectangular room, half-expecting to discover the bones of an ancient Eljo. Yet he found only a rather ordinary setting – so common, in fact, that his surroundings resembled a particular room in the abbey catacombs where he used to prepare the morning’s torches. Yet, unlike that familiar catacomb enclosure that he recalled, with its offset torch table standing flush against its back wall; the room in which he now stood had a much larger table in its center. A pair of lengthy benches complemented the fixture’s longer sides, conceivably alluding to a notion that the arrangement, and the room, served to seat many people in discourse or dining. Yet again, the air of the room belied that notion, with its being stale and musty like the confined ether of any long-sealed sepulcher.

Two well-spaced candelabrums stood atop the table; and each held a single lit candle that cast a circle of light about its base. However, their similarity ended with that, as the candle nearest to Lazarus was notably shorter, having formed a thin pillar of wax that adjoined the candelabrum with the tabletop. Its flame flickered faintly, and pulsed with a soft orange glow, unlike the other, further, taller candle, which burned brightly to illuminate its proximate wall stones.

Lazarus stepped beside the table and walked toward the further candle. He inspected the room’s walls, finding nothing particular about them, save that their stones and mortar appeared considerably old, but not as ancient and crumbling as the walls of his former abbey quarters. He rounded the far end of the table and, in the light of the tall candle, he discovered a shadowy, raised square on the floor, snuggly tucked in the furthest corner of the room – a makeshift, hay-stuffed mattress. As an abrupt and overwhelming exhaustion overtook him, Lazarus stumbled toward the comforting sight with a new sense of urgency. And before he spun about and collapsed atop the bed, he caught an ephemeral glimpse of the opposite corner of the room and, what appeared to be, a flat rat. Nevertheless, for his own part, it was merely a shadow of passing shadows, as the boundless realm of dreams had fully absorbed him even before he hit the hay bed.

***

Yet there were no imaginings for Lazarus’ recollection when he stirred to the disquieting sounds of a less-than-ethereal world. The crude door flung open, as did his eyes. He hastily stood to find himself awash in a brilliant light that poured through the doorway. Two servants slowly entered, each carrying a seven-tiered candelabrum. They positioned the fixtures atop the table and, when they departed with the former spent candles, a column of soldiers filed into the room to develop a single rank against the longer wall. With the room secured, several well-dressed men entered, including a middle-aged bishop, adorned in nearly full attire, save for a headdress. The bishop stopped in mid-stride and looked at Lazarus with a pensive and wary stare. Then he resumed his approach to the table whilst snapping his fingers over his shoulder. Behind him, a guard quickly closed the door and assumed a post in front of it.

From the gathering of personages that crowded the shorter wall, another robed man emerged to join the bishop at the end of the table. He carefully positioned his belongings on the tabletop – an inkwell, quill, and a blank parchment. In doing so, he studied Lazarus with a high brow and pursed lips, outwardly looking down his long, rat-like nose at Lazarus with utter disdain. And Lazarus likewise narrowed his eyes at him, gathering the man’s demeanor and appearance to rival those of friars, Clodius and Greville, albeit, collectively presented by a single individual. The man responded to Lazarus’ countering stare by whispering aloud to the bishop. “’Tis truly a devil of devils. Look at it – an affront to all that is righteous in His Holy Name.”

Lazarus answered to the accusation. “I am not a devil.”

The bishop nodded, turned, and reprimanded the man beside him. “I appreciate your master’s kindness, with his loaning your services to the See on such short notice, however, do bare in mind that; as you are not an official scribe of the Church, you may be unfamiliar with the finer points of your capacities whilst in service of a holy inquest. With that said, please do not suppose or accuse, in order to favor the verdict of this inquisition. As a representative of the Holy Father and See, I shall make my discovery directly, scribe.”

The scribe sighed and sat himself at the table. He dipped his quill and quickly scribed something on his parchment. Lazarus step forth, but only a pace, chains jangling, as jittery guards shifted their weapons.

“Far enough. Remain where you stand,” the bishop called out with a stilling hand. He rounded the scribe and informed Lazarus with express articulation, “No harm shall befall you, given that you are mindful of your place. Do you gather me clearly?”

“I do, Your Eminence.” Lazarus bowed reverently. “I came at the behest of Lord D’Alcicourt. If I may –

“How do you know me?” the bishop interjected with a puzzled look.

“I do not know you.”

“Then how do you know my title?”

“By your dress, Your Eminence.”

The bishop glanced at his attire, smiled, and nodded. “And of course, you should – hopeful beginnings, I see.” He straightened himself and took a seat beside the scribe. Then he studied the man and his raised quill, and his mostly blank parchment. Yet the scribe did not seem to notice the rapt stare of the bishop upon him, as the scribe was, instead, fixated with Lazarus. The priest leaned closer to him and waggled his fingers over the paper, calling for the man’s attention. “Well? If you are a scribe, then do scribe. Record his knowing my title by my dress.”

The man set his jaw and quickly documented that, which the bishop insisted.

The bishop turned his attention back to Lazarus. “Do tell me of yourself; by what name are you known?”

“I am Lazarus – Lazarus Gogu, Your Eminence.”

The quill scribbled.

The priest locked his fingers together atop the table, outwardly contemplating the significance of the name. “So it is, Lazarus – like the one, Lazarus of Bethany?”

“’Tis,” Lazarus replied, “Yet I am not from Bethany.”

The priest leaned over and inspected the scribe’s continued writing as he questioned Lazarus; “Now, Lazarus Gogu, who stands before this holy tribunal, convened before God, this day, in the year of our Lord, Thirteen Hundred and Fifty One, do you now swear to confess only the truth before God and His Holiness?”

Lazarus bowed. “I speak the truth, Your Eminence.”

“And are you aware that your words and actions are put to record?”

“I am, Your Grace.”

The bishop winced and waved a staying hand, saying, “Save me the continued grace and formalities, Lazarus, if you will; and let us press onward.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Now, I must ask you about your allegiances and I need you to consider your answer, carefully.” The scribe stopped writing and looked incredulously at the bishop, even as the bishop continued; “Lazarus, whom do you serve – which lord and king?”

“I serve my Lord God and Savior,” Lazarus replied.

The scribe complained, “Your Eminence; I must protest! ‘Tis highly irregular for an inquisitor to prescribe a careful confession. And, whilst I do not officially serve the See, I believe that it is within my capacity, as recorder of this inquest, to be aloud to introduce my own perquisitions for record.”

The priest stole a glimpse of the dignitaries and found them nodding in agreement. He sighed and grumbled, “Very well; ask what you will.” The scribe scribbled a passage as the bishop stood and left him. He rounded the table for a better inspection of Lazarus, and gestured toward him with a raised, twirling finger. Lazarus complied, slowly turning himself in a circle so that the priest could see all of him.

The scribe rewet his quill, cleared his throat, and spoke, “I shall ask it differently, Lazarus, as you call yourself. To whom do you pledge your allegiance – to which kingdom, province, and noble house?”

“I serve God, His Holiness, and the See,” Lazarus replied.

The scribe frowned and looked across the room to see the bishop smiling at him and waggling his fingers. The man pursed his lips and recorded Lazarus’ answer.

The bishop turned back to Lazarus and said, “Although, a prudent response for such a setting, ‘tis a bit spiritful, as His Majesty, and King of France, has taken many heads for far less irreverence. Nevertheless, I would hope, for your own sake, you believe in one Almighty God, who is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. You do believe, yes?”

“I do.”

The bishop looked back at the scribe, who grumbled, “This is preposterous.” He jabbed his quill into the inkwell before recording the exchange. Still writing, he questioned softly, “So you truly consider yourself a man of God, yes?”

“I do.”

He snapped his attention from the page and glared at Lazarus. “You call yourself a man, and of God, yet men do not have wings! What say you now?”

Lazarus shrugged. “I cannot say; I have not seen every man.”

A chuckle came from the line of guards and the scribe stared at the culprit as he continued; “There are no flying men – only flying devils. Now, confess yourself for what you are!”

The bishop spun about and pointed to the scribe. “Record nothing of that! I shall determine the verdict of this discovery. Now keep the record clean of your blatant accusations – and mind your place in my presence!” He glanced at the dignitaries, straightened his robe, and turned away with a composure collected.

The scribe sighed, carefully rewet his quill, and softened his tone; “And how far can you fly at once, Lazarus?”

“Perhaps, half an eve, before I should tire.”

Gasps and whispers filled the room.

“Silence, all!” The bishop exclaimed before addressing Lazarus. “And do you believe in Christ born of the Virgin, suffered, risen, and who ascended to heaven?”

“I do.”

“Good,” the bishop replied, pacing the floor and wringing his hands, “This is very good.”

The scribe rewet his quill and slung excess ink onto the floor. He narrowed his eyes at Lazarus. “Do tell us about your parents, Lazarus. Tell us everything about them.”

Lazarus squirmed and turned his attention to the bishop. Eye to eye – whatever untold exchange passed betwixt them, the bishop spun on his heel and informed the scribe, “’Tis neither my duty, nor desire to record a lengthy volume on the forbears of flying men!” He pointed to Lazarus as he kept his eye on the scribe. “I am here to learn only about him. Let us not keep your master waiting whilst you scribe ‘til the Day of Retribution upon a single leaf of parchment. Now, shall we press forward? My day is even shorter than the remaining space on your leaf.” The priest huffed and crossed his arms, allowing the scribe a moment for consideration.

Yet, the scribe only complained, “I informed you that I required more than a single page.”

“Yes, and have you another question for him? Your master eagerly awaits answers to his questions.”

“There is hardly enough space on a single leaf to continue, Your Eminence.”

“Then turn it over and use its backside, scribe,” the bishop spat.

The man blew the ink dry and gently turned the page. He readied himself and questioned Lazarus in a clear and monotone voice, “M’lord wishes to know if you ever killed or seen battle. Have you?”

Lazarus found every soldier in the room intently awaiting answer. He replied, “I have not.”

The scribe pretentiously cocked his head, as if taken aback. “Never killed? You’ve teeth as a dog’s. Yet you claim that you have never tasted meat?”

Lazarus shook his head. “No, what I mean to say –

The scribe quickly resumed his writing, whilst interjecting, “You swore that you have never killed; ‘tis written.” He stopped scribbling and looked up with a high chin, and a pretentious grin. “Now, do you wish to change your words?”

“If I may, I wish to –

“You may say something different, if you wish; however, do be mindful that it shall also be recorded.” He pointed to Lazarus with the plume of his quill, giving him further council, “Do recall, that you are under oath to speak only the truth, as you have –

The bishop waved at the scribe. “Here, here! Hold your tongue and quill ‘til the flying man speaks.” He turned to Lazarus and offered him a presenting hand.

Lazarus explained himself; “I meant to say that I have not killed another man, yet I did hunt, only to eat. I was hungry and had no bread.”

The scribe leaned back from the table. “No – bread, did you say?”

“None. I found no grains in the forest. I could not make bread without grains.”

The scribe nodded, dipped his quill, and wrote as he spoke; “So then, with your dogs’ teeth, you prefer to eat bread.”

“No; I do not like bread.”

The scribe stopped writing, sighed heavily, and raised his brow at Lazarus. “Then why were you looking to make bread when you do not like bread – or do you wish to say something different, again?”

The bishop stepped near the table and tapped his knuckle atop the wood, briefly glaring over his shoulder at the scribe before approaching Lazarus and inquiring, “Lazarus Gogu, do you believe that bread and wine, in the mass performed by Christian priests, to be changed, by divine virtue, into the body and blood of Christ?”

“I do.”

The bishop nodded and clasped his hands behind his back before turning about and questioning the scribe, “Did you record his answer?”

“Not at the moment, but if it pleases Your Eminence, I would like to continue –

The bishop glanced at the dignitaries and forced a smile as he politely informed the scribe, “It would surely not please me. Now, if you would, scribe; do scribe – and give more thoughtful consideration to the aim of this inquest.”

The scribe complied as the bishop faced Lazarus with his same smile, asking, “Pray tell, Lazarus; how many flying men do you know?” Certainly there must be many more from where you come, yes?” The bishop nodded and broadened his smile.

“I know no other, save myself,” Lazarus replied.

The bishop relaxed himself. “You are the only one?”

“I believe so,” Lazarus affirmed, lowering his gaze when discovering traces of disappointment on the bishop’s face.

“From where do you come?”

Lazarus answered, “I am from the Abbaye des Gardiens. I am a squire.”

Random commentary and chuckling carried throughout the room – ‘A flying squire?’; ‘And he lives with friars.’

“Enough!” The bishop spun about and silenced the heckling audience. “The next man who corrupts the delicate nature of this holy inquest shall stand before me in his own tribunal, defending himself before God and His Holiness!” A deathly silence fell over the room.

The scribe cleared his throat. “M’lord wishes to know if you have used a blade, a bow, or a weapon of any sort?”

Lazarus offered, “I once fashioned a knife from bone – for cutting skins and meat.”

The scribe recorded his words as the bishop neared Lazarus and searched his face, commenting, “Eyes so blue – and black hair.” He raised his gaze. “You have a rather nasty wound on your head.” He looked down to find Lazarus’ prayer cross; and he pulled chains aside for its better inspection. “How did you come by this,” he asked in almost a whisper.

“‘Twas a gift from my – from a friar – his prayer cross.”

The priest examined it closely, rolling it around in his fingers. “Dogwood?” He nodded. “And only a man of the cloth could wear its corners so smoothly – whilst rubbing it in daily oration and prayer.” He turned about and formally addressed the dignitaries; “Ora et labora et~ dictum de dicto~ the See has discovered enough evidence in this inquest to divine a proper verdict.”

The scribe abruptly stood and poked his quill in the inkwell. “Your Eminence, perhaps you might proceed with undo haste. Is it not possible that he stole it from a prisoner whilst imprisoned in the pit?”

“Not so!” the bishop exclaimed, stepping beside Lazarus and tugging at his necklace. “The cross lies beneath these chains, revealing that he was wearing it even before he was bound. Devils never carry crosses of their own free will.” He turned and addressed the entire room, extending a hand of presentation toward Lazarus. “Do you not recall the moment prior to this inquisition, when I sent two unarmed servants into the room even before allowing the soldiers to enter? I never willfully send men into harm’s way.” He shook his head, emphatically. “No; he is no devil, but a respectful flying man – a Christian flying man; and his name is Lazarus! Now, as Bishop and sole agentship to the Holy See for this province and its respecting lands, I hold exclusive authority over this matter, and shall tolerate no reference made of him to the contrary!”

The scribe quickly rounded the table and approached the priest. “An urgent word with you, if I may, Your Eminence?” The two men crossed the room and convened in the relative privacy of a corner. “Your Eminence, any devil would know how to answer these questions. Look at its teeth and ears – and its wings, for the sake of God! This is nothing made by our Heavenly Father! I beg of you; perhaps you may be wise to consider leaving him in irons until such time –

The bishop pressed his finger against the scribe’s lips, silencing him. “Hear me now: Fire with fire, as it is written. Perhaps you might be wise to not consider any further upset of this delicate moment, lest your master has you wearing those irons in his stead.” He spun on his heel and barked at the guards. “Well? Kindly unbind the flying man!” They leapt to his command. As busy soldiers surrounded Lazarus, the scribe hastened back to the table and collected his belongings.

Lazarus bowed to the passing bishop. “I am in your debt, Your Eminence.”

The bishop curtly smiled; still in stride, as he replied, “Yes, you are; yet you are not free to leave, Lazarus. Lord D'Alcicourt shall see you shortly.” He turned away and snapped his fingers toward the gathering of noblemen. “My work is finished here; we reconvene in the main hall. Come, come!”

The distinguished men nodded in agreement, mumbling thoughtful prattle betwixt them as they hastily followed the bishop out of the room. Finally, the soldiers carried away the chains, leaving Lazarus to himself and behind a locked door.

He sat heavily on a bench and inspected the many marks and scrapes on him. Time turned as the candles burned to all but half their length when the crude door flew open to introduce a stocky middle-aged woman and her three trailing maidservants. The washwoman stood nearly as tall, as did Lazarus; and her considerable size all but dismissed the more modest presence of the young maidens behind her. She carried a busy tray beneath her bosom – a wide silver platter filled with soaps, cloth, ointments, and various hygiene miscellanies. She stepped quickly into the room, spotted Lazarus, and stopped abruptly, her younger maidens grunting as they plowed into her backside. She did not sway, appearing not to notice the collision against her as she questioned Lazarus in a gruff voice, “So you’re the flying man? Master Lazarus, is it?”

Lazarus stood and bowed slightly. “Lazarus Gogu.” He smiled. “I seek an audience with –

She cut him short, stepping forward with her platter and scowling, “In all my days; you are perhaps the worst, yet.” The washwoman plopped the platter atop the far end of the table, commenting, “I’ve seen cleaner rats in a swine’s sty.”

Lazarus dropped his smile as she unloaded her wares, complaining, “And I can smell the likes of you from across the room.”

The washwoman turned to her three maidens, who stood motionless where they last ran into her, all of them gawking at Lazarus. Each, with arms filled; the first girl held two pails of water; the second one hugged a bundle of rags; and the last of them cradled folded clothes, together with a pair of tall black boots. The woman scolded the girls; “Well get over here; he shan’t bite!” She turned back to her preparations. They sprung forth and placed their wares atop the table, all the while, stealing wary and bashful glimpses of Lazarus. The woman warmed her tone. “Master Lazarus, m’lord is thoroughly enraged over your mishandling, and he has since arrested many. I can assure you that none of the village was party to it. Those who gathered at the gates and assailed you have come from the more unruly parts of the province, and elsewhere. They grow bold, as of late, given m’lords dire state of affairs.”

“Lord D’Alcicourt still wishes to speak with me, yes?” Lazarus questioned.

“Indeed, he does. Now, if you would kindly move to this end of the table.”

Lazarus rounded the table, asking, “And he knows of my whereabouts?”

“He does. Your continued confinement is only for your protection, Master Lazarus. The bishop has since spoken with him, and m’lord insists that you are to be treated with every respect and kindness as is due, any of his distinguished guests.” She clutched his shoulder and moved him away from the bench. “Stand here.” She retrieved a pail of lathered water and placed it at his feet.”

“May I speak with him, now?” Lazarus inquired.

She shook her head. “You are in no presentable condition to seek an audience with m’lord. You must risk a bath. Now, let us get on with it; come out of those nasty skins.” The woman stepped behind him and busied herself with the tray as the three maidens pulled wet rags from the pail, wrung them damply, and stood before him, waiting.

Lazarus took a step away from them and swallowed hard. “Disrobe – here – now?”

“You do wish to see m’lord, yes?” she asked from over her shoulder.

“Yes, but I would rather – perhaps I can –

“Oh, shush and disrobe. I’ve raised five sons and told ‘em, every one: ‘You’ve got nothing that I’ve not already seen.’ Now, I have my orders. Either you take off those filthy skins or, I’m told to do it for you.” She resealed an open ointment flask. “M’lord expects you completely scrubbed down. And you’ve no need for those skins since m’lord has provided you with new clothes. You shall look exceptional when you present yourself –

Behind the washwoman, a maidservant gasped; another snorted a giggle; and she spun about to scold them. “As long as –

She spotted Lazarus now standing, thoroughly embarrassed. “Oh, my,” she choked; and, in the outwardly hanging moment, all eyes lay fixed on him. The washwoman barked, “Well? Wash away!” The maidens leapt to the task, soaping him down, as the woman washed his hair.

She cleaned his face, fetched a tin of ointment, and tended to the cuts on his forehead. “The deeper one shall scar.” She raised his chin, held it still, and dabbed the salve on his scrapes. “You certainly don’t require a shave. Do you only grow hair on your head?”

Lazarus rolled his eyes as she looked behind his ear, asking, “Do all flying men have ears and teeth as yours?”

“I do not know – Ow!” He flinched.

She tightened her hold on his chin. “Oh, be still; I’m not hurting you.”

He winced and groaned, still looking upward, “’Tis them.”

She looked down at the tops of three heads, perhaps gathered in mischief. “Are you girls not finished?”

The maidens leapt to their feet with a quick curtsy. “Oh, yes, mum!” they answered, biting their lips.

“Then move the pail and scrub his backside.” The woman released Lazarus’ chin and washed his shoulders. “Raise your arms. And if you would kindly spread those wings, Master Lazarus, then we might tend to them as well.” He complied; the girls gasped and the bathing continued.

At length, the washwoman dried and powdered him. She unfurled a white frilled shirt, apparently tailored to include a slit down its backside. “I allowed space for your wings; however, my putting it on you might be a bit of a task.” She slipped the shirt over his wings and rolled it perfectly into place as Lazarus inserted his arms through its sleeves. “Ah, splendid – splendid, indeed,” she cooed. “I thought it might be a bit small even though I used my eldest son’s size to fit you.” She worked her fingers, fastening the front of the blouse. “He was a big man as well.” She winked.

“This is his shirt?” Lazarus asked.

“Oh, no.” She smiled. “He never wore clothes as fine as these.” She straightened his collar. “But he is now in heaven.”

“What happened to him?”

The woman pursed her lips before answering; “He was slain by that monster of a man, Lord Hugon – the Devil himself.” She retrieved a pair of black pants from one of the maidens and gave them to him as she elaborated, “His army pillaged m’lords fields whilst they worked, slaying my husband, my five sons, and my two daughters. They fought bravely; but they were no match for Hugon’s minions.”

“Why did he pillage?”

“Because he is evil; but enough devil-speak – done is done; gone as one.” She presented to him, a pair of black boots. “Now, these should fit your feet.”

“I am in your debt,” Lazarus replied, taking the boots.

“No, Master Lazarus; I am in yours. It has been two seasons since I was last a mother to my boys. Only a widowed mother of none can appreciate moments as these.” She smiled weakly and peered at the floor, perhaps stealing a glimpse of sweeter seasons passed. Then she quickly turned and busied herself at the table, saying, “Well, I cleaned you, tended to your wounds, and dressed you – my duty, done.” She refilled the tray and instructed one of the maidens, “Fetch those skins.”

“Yes, mum.”

The woman questioned the girls; “We cannot have m’lord’s dogs chewing on them and suffering horrible deaths, now can we?” She turned back to Lazarus, who now had a crumpled brow. She slapped his arm and chuckled at his concern. “You are a good soul, Master Lazarus.” She retrieved her platter and made her way to the door, the maidens following closely behind her. Abruptly, she stopped and they plowed into her backside. She pretended not to notice as she called to Lazarus from over her shoulder, “You are not a flying man.”

“But I am,” Lazarus insisted.

She turned fully about with her tray. “No, you’re a flying prince. And m’lord should be quite taken with you, as am I.”

Lazarus smiled and bowed.

“Door!” she bellowed. The door opened and the washwoman and her three maidens departed, leaving Lazarus completely transformed and alone.

With a lowered gaze of contemplation and hands clasped behind him, Lazarus might have appeared as a winged and spellbound dignitary as he paced the floor of the empty room. Now and again, he cast a wary and circumspective glimpse over the stony walls, as if to catch a sight of something yet unseen. He leaned himself against the end of the table and sighed, considering that he had grown to dislike the confinement of walls, when he had since found the safety in open spaces – like the boundless heavens. Then again, even under the new protection of Lord D’Alcicourt, with Lazarus now confined behind tall castle walls, ranks of soldiers, and a locked door, he knew that no degree of hindrance could serve to imprison him more effectively, and with more absolute authority, than the sun: his grand master, gatekeeper, and slayer in the wings. ‘With his illness of the sun,’ he thought, ‘How could he explain to Lord D’Alcicourt that he was a Christian flying man, and born in the Light of God, when he would surely die by the light of day?’ He could only hope that, whatever Lord D’Alcicourt sought from him; it did not involve daylight. He could only pray to please the lord and be on his way, by nightfall – for to complete his journey to del Cancello, fetch Friar Salvitino, and fulfill his promise.

Lazarus felt his stomach burn with the pangs of hunger; he raised his nose to a faint and familiar smell that intensified into the unmistakable aroma of roast pork. The growing noise of varied voices carried through the exterior corridor and the door swung open to usher forth a line of smiles; of servants burdened with steaming dishes. Lazarus backed himself against the furthest wall and watched the steady procession converge on the table, filling its surface with fine dishes and plentiful food to arrange a banquet surely fit for a king. Roast pork and peppered peacock, fillets of fish, tender veal and broiled beef, and baked chicken and venison steaks competed for space on the crowded surface. Boiled eggs and block cheese decorated dishes. Peeled fruits filled trays beside bowls stuffed with cracked nuts. A pitcher of wine stood, swollen to its brim. And over the whole of the table, not a single crumb of bread lay in the sprawling collage of a culinary masterpiece.

Individually, the servants bowed and departed the room. Guards locked the door from without, leaving only Lazarus and a thin valet of many years seasoned. The man stepped toward the far end of the table and busied himself with a single place setting. He lifted a goblet and gingerly filled it with wine.

“There shall be a feast?” Lazarus asked.

“Indeed, Monsignor Lazarus,” the elderly man replied, pouring.

“For whom?”

“For you, Monsignor Lazarus,” he stated, setting the goblet beside the plate. He passed a hand of presentation over the table; “Is all to your liking, or do you require anything more?”

Lazarus shook his head and stepped back; gravely concerned.

The valet gestured to the empty place setting. “Then shall we begin?”

Lazarus slowly approached the man as he scanned the extravagance atop the table. He shook his head again and confessed, “I cannot.”

“M’lord insists that you eat. He will be displeased if you do not.”

Lazarus sighed. “Yet, I shall die.”

“Die? You cannot eat food?”

“I do eat food.” Lazarus answered, still worrying over the spread. Then he looked squarely at the man. “Yet, this is much, too much food.”

The valet considered his reply before laughing. “Oh, no, Monsignor Lazarus; you are only to eat what pleases you. There is a bounty of fresh red meat, if you prefer only that.”

Lazarus sighed, relieved, as the valet shook his finger and winked, adding, “And if you desire unseasoned; uncooked; or even live meat – still on the hoof – I can bring it to you. You might prefer a different preparation, oui?” He intently awaited Lazarus’ word.

Lazarus frowned, stepping away from him. “I am only a flying man.”

“Oh, indeed you are!” The man clasped his hands before him and bowed slightly. ‘Tis only, that I have not mastered the appetite of flying men, save to know that they do not prefer bread. May I seat you now, Monsignor Lazarus?”

Lazarus conceded, seating himself at the place setting and allowing the valet to garnish his place, albeit, feeling completely awkward by the undue attention given to him, and to the many acts of servitude that appeared to be, more for show than any sincere assistance. He questioned the man, “Perhaps others might partake, lest the food spoil? There is plenty of room and food for many, yes?”

The man leaned beside his ear and whispered, “Not to worry, Monsignor Lazarus; others shall feast as well – on the morrow; on account of you. M’lord has promised the remainder of the food to all of his servants. He celebrates this eve!”

“What does he celebrate?”

“Well, you, of course, Monsignor Lazarus!”

“Me? Why?”

“Oui! Yet, I cannot discuss such delicate matters even if I might presume to gather his reasons for it. Shall I now prepare your dish?”

“Then perhaps you might join me? There is plenty; and you mustn’t serve me as you do.”

The man smiled and bowed. “I am your appointed valet, Monsignor Lazarus. I must serve you, as long as I am here.”

“I can serve myself, sir, if it pleases you; unless you truly insist upon it.” Lazarus spotted his faltering smile and shook his head. “You do not need to be here and serve me.”

The valet straightened himself and stated plainly, “I am here to serve you.”

Lazarus stared at the overabundance on the table and reminisced in his father’s daily routine of delivering food from the abbey refectory. He also recalled his own practice of secretly providing food to the hungry prisoners, when they were present in the catacombs. And he remembered a particular prisoner who called himself, ‘Poor Man in Christ’, and who refused to be freed from his cell. He turned to the valet and shook his head. “You could be elsewhere, serving others, in place of being locked in this room with me. Perhaps you might bring this food to them?”

The man stole a glance over the table and his eyes came to rest on a plate of pork. Lazarus quickly reacted – he stood and rounded the opposite side of the table, where he slid a cloth from beneath a stack of cheeses; after which, he layered many slices of pork within the cloth, folded it over itself, and gave the package to the valet, whispering, “There is plenty for yourself and others.”

The man reluctantly took the offering. “Oui; however, I am assigned to tend to your needs…” He shrugged and grinned, continuing, “…lest, of course, you expressly demand otherwise.”

Lazarus smiled and nodded. “Then, I expressly insist that you be on your way.”

The valet bowed and slipped the goods into his garments. “Then, I must honor your request, Monsignor Lazarus. And I wish you a wondrous eve.” He turned away, tapped lightly on the crude door, and departed the room.

Lazarus returned to his seat and proceeded to give thanks over the food that he was about to receive. And pray, he did, prolonging the moment and ignoring his pangs until there was nothing more for which to give thanks. And even after completing his prayer, he sat and pondered over himself and the moment, wondering why it was that he had prayed longer than ever before; and why he felt compelled to seal the moment in some sort of brief ceremonial fasting before partaking of the food. In his many recollections of his catacomb meals, he remembered that he often hurried through his prayers only to dive into scant portions of fish stew and bread. ‘Perhaps the difference now was in the amount of food,’ he thought. Still, Lazarus noticed in him, a growing sense of guilt, perhaps seeded by the feast before him – maybe it stemmed from a notion of his soon overindulgence, even as others remained hungry. Whatever the root of his concern, it only seemed right to him that he should suffer the pangs of hunger, if only for a moment more; that he might come to appreciate the pains of others who would quit the day, even without a bite of food.

Nevertheless, Lazarus kissed his prayer cross and swarmed the table, heaping his plate with portions from every platter, until his dish might have appeared to support a miniature Mountain Mouth, mostly made of meat. He raced to his seat and savored the servings. As he dined, his attention drifted elsewhere and to the more memorable moments of his earlier abbey days – of the many times that Ivan guarded his door whilst he ate bowls of, whatever his father purloined from out of the refectory kitchen – of the many scriptorium books that he read in secrecy; them describing of kings, lords, castles, and fanciful feasts – and of stealing out of bed and slipping into the wine cellar to catch a sneaky fat friar in the best of spirits. For Lazarus, all of it seemed as only yesterday’s happenings. And in an outwardly overwhelming sense, that very instant, he felt as though Odino’s jovial spirit hung over him.

Lazarus stopped chewing and searched the room as if expecting to hear a burst of hearty laughter. His eyes came to rest beside him; and he found the spirit’s origin, standing as a full goblet of wine. Its bittersweet aroma of grapes seemed as if to call out to him with old and familiar words: ‘No longer be drinking water, but a little wine be using, because of thy stomach and of thine often infirmities.’ He swallowed his food, took the cup, and sipped from it. He smirked and drank deeply; as the wine tasted even better than how he remembered its smell to be.

Lazarus refilled the goblet and lifted a peacock’s leg. He sipped and supped, washing down every mouthful of meat with more wine, and growing evermore cheerful in the moment, until he found himself chuckling over absolutely nothing. He raised a glassy gaze toward the ceiling timbers, lifting his goblet in a toast. “And to you, Friar Odino, whom art in heaven; I now know why you laughed so.” He nodded, wiping his chin and chewing. “I believe that you are up there, laughing at me. Perhaps you might come down and join me? And father?” He searched the shadowy rafters, leaning further back on the bench.

“Crash!” He tumbled off his seat and hit the floor, splashing wine over himself. And there he lay, on his back, wings splayed and laughing at the ceiling, his legs on the bench and his drumstick in the air. He rolled to his side and refolded his wings, tossing the empty goblet away from him. “Oh, my,” he said, seeing his ruffled white shirt, now stained red. He propped himself on his elbow and looked dazedly about the floor when he spotted the small flat corpse in the corner. He pointed to it with his drumstick and belched. “You do not look so good, my friend. You must eat something.” He snorted a giggle before continuing; “Did Friar Clodius step on you?” But the dead rat did not reply.

“You do not speak to flying men?” Lazarus babbled nonsense, tapping the drumstick on the floor until he fell into a fit of laughter that further spurred his gasping, crying, and a holding of his head. “Something is the matter with me.” He rolled onto his arms and attempted to stand, only to stumble again – and again. He lay on his belly and peered into the corner. “Well, Master Rat, if you must know, I am … man fly … I mean … a flying … but I can not steem to sand up.” He considered his words. “Did I say, ‘man fly’?” Lazarus guffawed, struggling to stand. “I am Man fly, at your service, Master Rat!” In his stupor, he finally raised himself on two legs and stumbled toward the table with his drumstick, nearly falling headlong into the food before catching himself. The pitcher of wine overturned. The platter of roast pork fell off the table. “Dear God; help me to stand.” He fell backward on the floor – again, and the drumstick flew across the room.

Lazarus rolled to his side and searched for the straw mattress, however, through the space below the table, he saw the far wall illuminated, its stones heaving outward, altogether with a growing noise like that of a locust swarm. He crawled into the shadows beneath the table and watched the wall, which now stood unchanged; the noise ceased. He rubbed his eyes and re-inspected the stones to find their appearance quite ordinary. He sighed and turned himself around, climbing out from beneath the table and – he froze. ‘God, no.’ he thought, arresting his breath. He crouched like a statue, fully engrossed in that rare state of terror and mental decay found only betwixt a scream and petrified silence. The burning, prickling, and floating feeling washed away his mind, leaving only his eyes to hunger for, whatever more might lay in store for him. And his eyes keenly watched a pair of naked pale feet, its toes crowned with rows of long black nails that resembled the obsidian talons of a bird-of-prey.

The casual voice of many women, called from above the table. “Yes, I am your god, my lying flying man.” The predator-like feet paced around the table, stepping ever so delicately over the flagstones. “Now, what am I to do with you, Master Lazarus – my Eljo son of whom, attempts to elude his fate? You failed; you have no course in which to flee. Now I must take it upon myself to show you the way of your fate, yes?”

Lazarus huddled, horrified; saying nothing as he followed her steps and listened to her lecturing him.

“I see many facets of life; yet now I see, before me, an altar brimming of death. And I see all of the meager creatures, since fallen victim to your joyous feast – headless and legless, gutted and dismembered, boiled and burned, charred and torn.” The feet stopped beside the fallen plate of pork. A toenail hooked a slice of meat and slung it under the table. “Can you hear their screams, Master Lazarus – their suffering? Turn within yourself and listen; and you might find their pain.”

Lazarus jolted, clutching a now violently cramping stomach. He heaved.

“You ate them, Master Lazarus.” She chuckled. “However, you must not fret – I resurrected them. And you may take solace in your knowing that they are deeply vexed and long to meet you, flesh to flesh; face to face.”

Lazarus heard piping sounds from within and without him – a crescendo of orchestrated evil that rivaled the resonant squeals of more than a million dying mice.

“And Master Lazarus; do you know why they scream so?”

He doubled over, eyes watering in his agony. He shifted about, looking for the black-nailed feet, yet they were gone. He turned his head to find them standing nowhere beneath the benches. He fell on his side to discover his mother’s black eyes over the top of him as she bellowed, “Because you refused to eat the bread; and you ate them, in its stead!” Lazarus guarded his face from harm and, with a bend of his arm, covered himself. Yet, she left him alone and he found her feet again pacing around the table.

Lucifael pressed him. “Come out from there and we shall free them. Tarry no more!” He heard the rattling of metal utensils. “Rise, Lazarus – and let us get them out of there.” He stayed where he lay, his stomach reeling. “I command you; get up!”