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 candelabrums 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, like a coxswain and 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 candelabrums, 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 the 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 candelabrum firelight. The stone appeared as a standing block of highly polished black obsidian, 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 candelabrum 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 candelabrums’ 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 candelabrum 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