The Crystal Crux - Betrayal (YA EDITION Book 1)

by A Werner

  Anne Whitehall was gone. Her last memory in life was the wind and angelic wings of her strong brave Da flying majestically overhead, the Griffin’s soul sweeping her spirit out towards eternity. Anne melted down gently beside her mother.

  Guidus Salvatore was only a few steps behind Francis. The former Provost dashed onto the scene and with a rage he had never known, hacked down the remaining mercenary.

  On his knees, Francis quickly crawled to his daughter’s body. His eyes ran back and forth from Anne to Midonia to Anne again. He was too late to save them. He wished to join them. He was shaking and convulsing and couldn’t even touch them.

  Guidus Salvatore urged Francis to regain his senses and carry on with the escape plan and do something to save them. Guidus had not been in the room when the plan was discussed and had no idea what their next move should be.

  Francis heard the bearskin murderer crying softly for help. He was still alive, his back broken, body paralyzed.

  Embittered to the very core of his soul, Francis Whitehall yanked Anne’s short sword out of the man’s bleeding stomach. “This weapon,” Francis said, “belonged to my only daughter.” He used the sword to point out his child. “You killed her.” The Griffin’s countenance changed as he shouted in the dying man’s face, spittle flying everywhere. “She was to be fifteen!”

  The mercenary’s dark brown eyes squirmed rapidly, both of them clearly ready to pop out of his head. He tried to move but his body would not obey, even his neck would not turn.

  Cold from soul to flesh, Francis sneered devilishly as he gently placed the tip of Anne’s blade, not a particularly sharp blade, on the paralyzed man forehead.

  “Hurry Francis, they are coming.”

  Francis did not hear Guidus. His ears were attentive to his rage, focused resolutely on exacting revenge. With a scowl as fearsome as the snarling griffin on the Whitehall family crest, Francis straddled the man. He had never been so cross.

  “I am a Christian,” Francis stated calmly, “and I should show you mercy. I should tell you that you are forgiven and put you out of your misery in peace.” Francis shook his head as he said it. “But I cannot do that. I cannot forgive you. You do not deserve forgiveness, not from me. I know my soul might hang in the balance on Judgment Day for what I am about to do to you but I do not care.” Francis rolled his shoulders, yelled his daughter name one last time and killed the man. “You are not forgiven.”

  Surrounded by lifeless bodies, Francis coolly ordered Guidus to collect the ropes several knights down the hall clutched in their dead hands. Together, the two men knotted the threads into one long cord. The sounds of slaughter continued to echo in the distance but mercy had its arms around them now and none approached. Francis remembered Ven of Black Leaves, his countenance, his calm blue eyes, the blinding light as he walked down the stairs. No one was coming. Ven wouldn’t let them. They had time. They had as much time as they needed.

  Francis tied off one end of the rope to a section of wall in the privy and Guidus tossed the other end down a wide urinal opening. Fiscus climbed down into the putrid stinking portal.

  Francis Whitehall didn’t follow right away. He made one last journey into the morbid hallway to look upon the spiritless corpses of his wife and daughter. Nothing had changed. No one had moved.

  “Lord,” Francis cried quietly, “You claim that all things work together for good. How is this good?” Francis wiped his brow with a bloody hand adding another dark red streak to his already dark skin. “Forget it Lord, I don’t want to understand. I don’t ever want to understand or accept it. All I want now is to see my enemies suffer.” Francis thought on the image he captured downstairs, Rugerius Fabbro entering Anthea Manikos’ apartment.

  Francis snarled. Teeming with hate the like of which he had never known, Francis yelled for all the souls in Capua to hear. “Daddy won’t forget you!”

  Francis sprinted to the garderobes, grabbed hold of the makeshift cable and jumped down into the retched portal. He slowly inched his way down the slimy feces caked walls, not at all sickened by the stench. His life was entirely soiled, the nastier the better.

  Guidus, however, was not so immune to the odors and clammy slime. He found it necessary to vomit several times during the descent.

  Like the waste that usually fell down from these pipes, Francis and Guidus dumped themselves down harmlessly into the sludge river that encircled the castle.

  As Francis Whitehall had accurately predicted, there was no opposition outside the castle. They calmly swam through the brown moat, pushed apart the reeds and willows on the western shore, and disappeared in the tree line. This was the only part of their flight for freedom that was not foiled. There was no consolation to be found in that.

  Chapter 35 – On Eagles Pass

  Pero de Alava was already regretting his impulsive decision to rush out on Eagles Pass at night. The urgency had slowed considerably. They were walking now, relying less and less on their sense of sight and more and more on hearing. The deeper they penetrated the forest, the colder the air became. Underdressed for these conditions, they shivered. ‘It’s August for God’s sake,’ Pero thought.

  In the black, they could see their breath leaving their mouths, dissipating quickly. Beneath them, they frost crunched beneath the hooves of their horses. It felt wholly unnatural and not to be believed.

  Arrigo led the way. In his left hand, he bore the only torch in the party. The flickering fire strained and struggled to provide light. It was being rejected by the strange woodland.

  At the first, Eagles Pass had been wide and cavernous. They rode simply and untroubled beneath an umbrella of tall oaks, the huge branches arched menacingly overhead like the ribs of a giant whale. Pero thought on childhood lessons of poor old Jonah and his rebellion to God. The patriarch soon found himself swallowed by a great fish. ‘Are we in the belly of some great beast? Will we die and be digested? Or will the wood be merciful and spew us up on the other side?’

  The horses were edgy, frightened by every noise and snapping twig. Leaves rustled in the shadows. As the path narrowed, the party of three had to travel single file. Pero rode directly behind Arrigo and found it more and more difficult to see the torchlight. He could only reason that poor Niccolus, travelling at the rear of the column, must have been in complete isolation.

  Deeper and deeper they proceeded into Aquila Saltus completely unaware of time and direction. The causeway never shutdown completely. It would widen for a bit and then taper narrow again, sometimes hardly providing any headroom or side room.

  Nearly two hours passed and nothing extraordinary occurred.

  Pero started imagining tiny flecks of flickering light in the heavy darkness. ‘These cannot be stars.’ The forest was too thick and the sky could not be seen. There were but a few lights at first but gradually the number multiplied until it was apparent that this was not his imagination. It was real. Niccolus and Arrigo saw them as well and said as much.

  “What are they,” Niccolus asked Pero.

  Pero heard chattering and confidently gave him an answer. “Those are the creatures in this wood. They watch us.” Pero wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  Some of the noises were familiar and Pero identified them as squirrels and ferrets, voles and foxes, even several species of birds. But there were other sounds mixed in the hodgepodge that were wholly unrecognizable. They were strange and grotesque, distorted, almost human at times, groaning and moaning their faint mutterings. ‘Are there people out there?’ Pero thought grievously. ‘Thieves, bandits, mercenaries or assassins?’ Something evil was definitely out there, lurking ahead. Pero could sense it. Something truly dreadful and deadly. Something hungry for blood. And this was just the beginning.

  A low unfriendly roar terrified the earth. The timid creatures in the surrounding trees quickly scurried away, taking all their colorful eyes with them. Nothing remained in their absence but an uncomfortable silence and the inconceivable black.

 
“Keep your horses moving,” Pero whispered loudly. “Don’t let them stop. We must get through here quickly as possible.” He leaned over Zaon’s thick mane and gently petted her neck.

  Arrigo suddenly reined in his palfrey bringing the line to a standstill. “Sir,” the young man trembled, his right hand now holding his sword. “There was something on the path ahead.” He extended his left hand out over the horse’s head and waved the torch. The light did nothing to the dark.

  “What was it?” Pero tried not to sound upset with the young sergeant but they were no longer in motion making them easy targets for whatever might be out there. “Is it still there? Can you see it?”

  “No,” Arrigo responded, shaking his head. “It is gone but it was huge, massive. It walked right across the path from one side to the next like a ghost. I know it’s impossible but that’s what I saw and I didn’t hear a sound. Nothing that large should be that crafty. It was enormous.”

  Frustrated, the Spaniard squinted and considered the narrowness of the path ahead, the path behind, the walls of thicket on either side of them. It was the perfect place for an ambush but so too were at least a dozen others places they had already successfully traversed.

  “Well,” Pero decided aloud. “We cannot and we will not retreat. We must face it, whatever it is. Take a deep breath, lad, and press on. And don’t be hesitant to use your sword if necessary. We didn’t come here to spread peace.”

  Before Arrigo could move, a swarm of panicked creatures with colorful little eyes dashed beneath his horse. Arrigo flailed around a bit trying to maintain control but with the torch in one hand and his sword in the other, he lost hold of the reins. When the frightened horse bucked, Arrigo was tossed from the saddle, falling violently to the ground. Pero had heard enough falls in his life to know that Arrigo would not be rising from his.

  The earth-shaking roar returned with power. The bawl was no longer distant but closer than close. A mammoth shadow, hunched and running on all fours, larger than any horse Pero had ever seen, lumbered out of the brush, stepped on the torch, sank its razor teeth into Arrigo’s palfrey and dragged the beast away kicking and screaming.

  Pero’s bare hands clenched Zaon’s reins, his strong legs firmly and commandingly pressed into her shoulders. The grey palfrey did not flinch or make a sound. “Do not move, girl” Pero growled at her. “Wait.”

  The hellish roar of another beast arose from behind. Pero could not see what was happening but his keen sense of hearing made it all too clear. There was a second beast like unto the first. Pero knew that the claws of this devil had torn through Niccolus’ armor and unhorsed him. His horse had been seized and spirited away as well.

  Pero de Alava was alone.

  There was nothing left to think about. The time was now. Pero relaxed his grip on the reins and loosened the commanding press his knees had on Zaon’s shoulders. Zaon dipped her head and sprinted forward, her black marbled eyes blind in the darkness, completely incapable of seeing or judging any obstructions or traps ahead. Behind them, the powerful footfalls of the pursuing demons echoed, their terrifying roars reaching out through the unforgiving black, shaking the trees.

  Zaon was magnificent and the distance between the pursued and the pursuers increased. The gap was widening and for a brief moment Pero believed they might escape. That was before the wolves came. Four snarling wolves busted from the knotted shrubbery, two from the left, and two from the right. Zealous for blood, they snapped and chomped at Zaon’s pumping legs, their sharp incisors desperate to get a hold of some meat and pull her down. Bit by bloody bit, they were weakening the horse. Her heart was beating rapidly and life was flowing out of her veins. She began to falter, nearly tripping. The mammoths from hell were gaining ground. It would all be over soon.

  “Iya basta!” Pero yelled. “That is enough!”

  Gritting his teeth, his blue eyes red, his long black hair whipping wildly across his face, Pero dug his spurs deep into the drained horse’s hide, yanked cruelly on the left rein until the bit cut painfully into her cheek, and forced her to turn.

  Zaon screamed as she obeyed. She turned mindlessly left and drove headlong off the beaten road and into the hedge beside them. It was time, Pero determined, to learn just how impenetrable this wall of tangled thorns truly was, and how much luck or magic it was going to take for them to reach the other side. If Pero was wrong, they would soon be helplessly ensnared in the weeds and thicket, easy pickings for the carnivores resolved to consume them.

  Zaon, however, blew open an enormous hole through the trees and weeds, landing safely outside the trail they had been following so religiously. Out here the trees were spread further apart and the stars and moon could be seen through the canopy. The warmth of August kissed their skin. The frigid cold was gone. It looked like freedom. It felt like freedom.

  And then the wolves howled. The blood-thirsty beasts had not forsaken their pursuit. They had only been temporarily routed. Pero twisted in the saddle and watched as the four wolves leapt through the impressive hole Zaon had created for them. There was plenty of moonlight by which to see them. They were beautiful and magnificent; the largest wolves Pero had ever seen. He couldn’t help feeling awed. If he were to die today in battle with such impressive creatures, it seemed somewhat honorable.

  The bellow of the behemoths on Eagles Pass could still be heard. They were evil and obscene and brought Pero back to his senses. He knew those demons would be bounding through the hole any minute now. Dying in their gaping maws would not be so honorable. Pero wished to stay alive but the hunt was far from over. He was still the quarry. There was still time to be taken to ground. There was still time to be mauled and eaten alive. There was still time for the devil to claim his soul. “Iya basta!”

  Chapter 36 – Lamentation

  Zaon was not only the swiftest palfrey Pero de Alava owned, she was the most agile as well. With daring fortitude, her flanks and legs bleeding, chunks of grey hide flapping off her hind quarters and shoulders, the horse bobbed and weaved her way around every slender branch and moldy stump she could find, tearing waywardly through bush and thicket, artistically taking advantage of every dark cavity and thorny scrub that presented itself, every rivet and root. She boldly challenged the resolve of her tormentors, forcing them to chase her through barbs and obstacles that ripped them equally apart.

  Pero did nothing to stop her. The Spaniard let his spirit go. He kept his shoulders hunched over Zaon’s neck, his face swept up in her mane, his weight shifting with her unpredictable gait, first left, then right, then left again, cutting and slicing, twisting and kicking. The flow was graceful, a dance.

  Absorbed in the current, Pero’s senses latched onto certain sights and sounds along the way. These sensations whizzed by and left impressions on his mind; a thick dark branch, the jaws of a wolf narrowly missing a bite, a random slap across his shoulder, the cruel cracking of a twig, a large root hoisted upwards like a stake, empty runnels carved in the earth, a storm of pine needles, a thousand spinning leaves, and one rather large inverted black oak leaf which hung dramatically afore his face before vanishing.

  The wolves seemed disoriented and baffled by the speed. The quick adjustments Zaon could make in direction were astounding, miraculous. The vicious hunters cried and yelped as their footing constantly betrayed them, their paws slipping on the moist floor, their bodies painfully slamming into rotting tree trunks. The wolves were stabbed and poked countless times in countless ways by nature’s defenses, by the barbed greenery and piercing thorns. The wolves could not endure the beating they were taking. Succumbing ignobly to soreness and fatigue, the exhausted, bloodied wolves broke off their engagement, limping away into the forest to nurse their wounds and pride.

  Zaon still had more to give. She galloped off as fast as she could away from the cold putrid atmosphere stagnating Eagles Pass, away from the hole where the demons would soon be emerging. The only thing her attackers could pursue her with now was their discouraged howls.


  Zaon ran and Pero did nothing to discourage her. The palfrey blazed on for a ridiculous half-hour continuous through the moon soaked wood. Finally, in a quiet grassy hollow where there was only moonlight, pine needles and soft new grass, with her determination fully sapped, the grey palfrey froze up. She could not move. Cold as stone, she stood, huffing and puffing, bleeding, trembling.

  The moment Pero dismounted, Zaon collapsed.

  Ignoring his own abrasions, lacerations and pangs, Pero quickly removed the bit and reins from Zaon’s bloody mouth. He un-cinched the saddle and let it fall away. Carefully he used his hands and eyes to examine the numerous wounds the horse had sustained. As he feared, they were too many to count. Zaon had lost an inordinate amount of blood during the flight, some of the injuries were too deep, too severe. She was going to die.

  Bravely, Zaon tried to resist death. She suddenly started kicking, struggling to get back up on her feet, arguing with her own mortality.

  Pero de Alava closed his eyes and laid his tired head in a puddle of blood pooling on her neck. His wild black hair was soaked, once again entangled in her mane. With a single hand, he held her enormous body down. He whispered in her ear. “It is enough now, chica. Let it go, just let your spirit go. You did well today. Go to sleep Zaon, go to sleep. Do not resist. We all must sleep.” Pero paused a moment before saying the words he knew would end it all. “You deserve this rest.”

  Zaon’s legs stopped kicking. The big black marble eye that had been watching Pero so intently, glazed over as the urgency that had been infecting it, melted away. A sense of peace overcame the restlessness. Zaon trembled slightly and then stiffened. Her broad shoulders withered and slumped. A last spray of dark red blood dripped from her nose and mouth. Her breath slowed and then failed. The chase was over. Zaon was dead.

  Pero’s sorrow had reached a new low. This noble beast had sacrificed her life to save his.