Making his way over to Father Lemoine, who was still in need of extrication if they were going to win this fight, Father Donovan pulled a small crucifix from his pocket, placed it on the forehead and recited a prayer. The burning started and the figure released Father Lemoine, succumbing to the torture.
They could hear the sounds of battle in other areas of the maze, but they still faced three who had somewhat recovered from their wounds and were not very pleased. Eyes flashed their warnings, and small steps of intimidation were displayed to the two unwelcome guests who had quickly proven dangerous.
Father Donovan and Father Lemoine readied themselves, reaching for whatever they thought might be suitable for their next engagement; each of their guesses was as good as the next. This was a game that changed by the minute and fast thinking was the order of the day. This day, they thought—how much more was left of the day? If they had to spend the rest of the day like this there was a good chance they would not survive … but they were already aware of that possibility.
Father Lemoine had his long sword out and at the ready. He did not want to wait for the enemy to make the first move; he wanted the battle on his terms. Rushing forward with his sword up high, he shortened the distance between himself and his opponents; they stood their ground as they waited for the crazed monk, the silly human whom they would dispatch without much effort.
As Father Lemoine was almost there, an object came soaring past him just over his shoulder. A clear glass bottle found its mark on the head of the first. The glass shattered just on the left temple of the vampire’s head; glass and water sprayed everywhere. The affected vampire bent over with agony as the glass cut into him. The water left more of its horrific effects on his face. The others, caught off guard, backed away awkwardly.
The result of the diversion was complete and could not have been planned better. Father Lemoine weighed in like a turbulent storm. His sword cut down with mighty force on the first who had so agreeably bent over from the pain of the blessed water, the neck fully exposed. A better target could not have been produced. With a downward swipe the finely crafted blade wielded by a honed warrior made easy work, and the first head rolled away as the body slumped to the ground.
The other two, still stinging from the holy water and confused by the turn of events, were soon being overrun by a long silvery blade. Right into their faces Father Lemoine charged, taking away any advantage they had. After finishing his first swipe he came back with his blade striking across both at the chest, making a nice slash and further sending the two stumbling. With his momentum now fully committed going to his right, he spun full circle and thrust his blade into the chest of the one on his left.
Everything was good until the last one turned to Father Lemoine, grabbed him by one shoulder and smacked him across the face, sending his head back so violently he resembled a rag doll. The thing never let go, only wanting to inflict more damage. The fiend raised the now semi-conscious monk into the air and hurled him at the approaching Father Donovan.
Father Lemoine was now hurtling through the air toward him. Father Donovan did the only thing he knew to do and reached for his friend, sending them both headlong down the passage and landing in a crumpled heap.
Father Donovan tried to look down the hall but was impaired by the body that was partially covering his own; he was smart enough to know his attacker would soon be on him, and unless he made an effort to free himself and recover, it would be all over. He pushed at the limp body of Father Lemoine and tried to sit up, but every effort he made was met by a new bruised, scraped and maybe broken body part screaming in agony. Time once again was a player, and his was running out; he could hear the footsteps getting closer. How ironic, he thought: it seemed they could mask their footsteps when they wanted to, but now, when he wished not to hear them, they resounded with might.
Looking up he was more consigned to his fate than he had ever been in his long life. Yes, it had been long and maybe that was the point. Maybe it was his time, the time that eventually comes for us all. Wanting to make some peace, he started to whisper one of his favorite prayers and thank all of the people he had known in this life for making it a wonderful ride—all the things he had envisioned he would do when the end came for him; some solace was offered to his soul at the thought of being given the opportunity to fulfill them.
When he looked again he stared up into the darkness. The room became much darker when their torch crashed to the ground and now only flickered, but in that darkness he saw the pale complexion of a face filled with hate and eyes that told a story of a future he dared not envision.
A faint smile crossed those features he could just make out, given the light and his fading eyesight. He felt Father Lemoine start to come to just slightly and wished his friend would not wake so he would not have to comprehend what was happening to the both of them. Clarity seems to come at strange times; the world seems to fade away until all that is left is here and now, and that’s when fate comes in.
Standing over the two fallen monks, relishing in his conquest, the smile left the thing’s face, and he began to bend down to reach his goal. Father Donovan closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his brother and waited. He waited and listened. With his acute hearing he heard one, two, and a third string snap, and he even thought he heard the rustle of feathers. Giving into curiosity, he opened his eyes to see the creature moving away from him and turning so he could see that indeed, in the thing’s back were three silver-tipped bolts protruding.
More footsteps were heard, and hands came from every direction. Father Lemoine was lifted off, and Father Donovan was sitting up in the care of his brothers who had made their way to the area. Three of their brothers now crouched around them.
“What happened?” was all Father Lemoine could ask.
“Well, it wasn’t our time,” Father Donovan stated. “But I would dare to say that our friends here came at just the right time, not that we weren’t doing well on our own. You were superb, I must say. I only wished I had a camcorder on me to document Lemoine’s last stand.”
“I would say it was more of a team effort. That was one nice throw you made. Are you sure you didn’t play any ball when you were young?” Father Lemoine was doing his best to match his brother’s lighthearted nature in the face of dire events.
“I might have known the feel of leather on a warm summer’s day a few times, but I never thought I would have to catch a flying monk.” Father Donovan groaned slightly as he made to stand under the help of his friends.
“Yeah, I don’t really remember much after a sledgehammer hit me in the face. What happened?” Father Lemoine asked, well aware that much more had happened.
“Another time perhaps, when we only have to worry about putting another log on the fire to keep warm and not whether we will get out of here alive.”
Father Donovan looked around and listened. Five of the brothers were here, and so many more were strewn throughout the complex. One of the three that had come to their rescue spoke up for the first time.
“We lost Father Ryan.”
Father Donovan almost assumed that was the case since only three of them were standing there, and all had been grouped into pairs. He had only wished they had become separated and nothing more. He bowed his head and reached to grab the shoulder of Father Phillip, who had been paired with Father Ryan.
“We will honor him who fell in battle for us all, but that time will be later; now we need to find those who still walk this life.”
Father Lemoine turned his head to listen to the noise that was rising in the distance. He looked to his mentor and said, “The fight is not over; can you continue?”
“I am still standing, and I have been given another chance to fight alongside my friends. Lead on. Time is wasting.” Father Donovan bucked up and showed his men true resilience.
Time was wasting, but none down here could really tell: the darkness enveloped all. There was no rising or setting of the sun to give measurement of time and
they were too immersed in their dangerous task to know about time.
Instantly they were off in the direction of the sounds of combat. They would reach a corner and stop, not wanting to run flagrantly into a situation they would not be able to escape. The sounds would echo here and there and send them in directions where no one was, and many of the carved slots they found were empty, or the work had already been accomplished. They also learned to look up on occasion.
Father Lemoine looked down at the watch he wore, and the light came on—five-thirty p.m. They did not have much daylight left; even though there was no daylight here, the vampires were weaker in the day and were being deprived of rest. This was a double-edged sword: he knew they would be the ones being deprived of rest tonight.
Winding their way down the corridors, Father Donovan realized that as successful as their mission may be, there would be no way for them to finish what they came here for. The sheer size of the complex of tunnels amazed even him. How many had been buried here? he wondered. How many had come here to find those that were buried? He shook the images from his mind and took comfort in the fact they had found so many empty spots in the catacombs. If they had been full, there would be no stopping the force that could be arrayed against the small monastery and the surrounding area. This is why he knew the knowledge of its existence had been lost to time, but the second safeguard had been that many had been moved away from a central location so that in the event of the catacombs being found, there would not be an army to raise.
With the turning of a corner and the flicker of light up ahead, noise erupted and the small band of five took flight to help. Passing several other side passages they rushed on, focusing on what they knew—their brothers were in close combat. Several of the monks placed themselves in front of Father Donovan, preferring to serve as a barrier to their battered leader.
They turned past the last corner and saw five of their members cornered and fending off attacks from as many opponents. Few of the wretched things turned to take note of the new combatants. Their faces showed emotion mostly through the eyes, which varied in color, but spoke of only one thing—hunger.
A few of the things broke off their attack on the first group; they drew close to the walls, preferring the shadows they found. Father Lemoine measured their approach and was issuing orders to his three men in front. With no warning one of them faded into the shadow; all you could see were the glowing eyes, and then they were gone. The confused monks looked at each other in disbelief and stopped their advance. The other vampire noted the hesitation and took this as his cue; he ran directly at the group, appearing only as a blur. Within no time he had traversed the ground between them and sent one of the monks flying and having another in his grasp.
Both groups seemed in disarray and soon to fall. Torches were brought to bear against them but most of them were sent to the floor quickly enough. Father Lemoine attempted to make his way forward to help his embattled men; this fight was not going well.
Father Donovan walked slowly around the group, seemingly unconcerned with their struggle. Just then Father Lemoine was sent down and his sword thrown aside. Father Donovan walked their way with his head down and speaking very softly, blessing himself and the others; approaching, he raised his hand with the finely detailed cross. As he drew near he raised his head and his voice; his voice sounded not raspy but resonated throughout. The light from the torches flashed, and behind Father Lemoine the vampires appeared wracked in pain and fled.
Gathering everyone, they rushed headlong into the next horde with their spears leading the way, sending several of their combatants to the ground. Momentum is a dangerous thing when it is not on your side and when it is on your side, momentum is the hammer of might. Now with ten of them regrouped, they once again listened. Many more of their ranks were somewhere to be found, they hoped, but they would have to find them soon. They proceeded quickly down the long passages that marked this section of the tunnels.
Without much trouble they saw the flicker of light down a long passage. Rapidly they made their way, hopeful of finding more friends and no foes. Running past one passage, from the corner of his eye Father Lemoine saw figures emerge, and he turned on a dime as they clashed into the group of ten. He came around, ready to disembowel the nearest fiend but was met with seven more of their brothers. They had lost their torches and fled in the face of forces they could not see to battle, losing another one to the darkness.
“We left the other group down this way when we were engaged. That’s when we lost Henry,” they said shaking their heads at the loss, still trying to catch their breath and their wits.
“We need to find the others now; it is time to leave. Can you show us the way?” Father Donovan asked.
The monks shook their heads and started off in the double-quick time they had become used to. Down the corridor they went, their band growing in size and might. Every second that went by was one of both optimism and concern. They had taken the advantage in the last fights and had come out well, also finding many of their brothers.
They turned another corner and there came the sound of pitched battle. Their pace quickened and soon the skirmish came into view. The monks outnumbered their enemies but were still at a disadvantage and not very well-organized. They numbered about ten in all, fighting four vampires. The sounds of their combined footfalls made like a fast-approaching army; the effect was total. Those in combat stopped and looked to what was coming. The bouncing torches were spotted and the light caught the faces of various monks in full charge. As they approached, the embattled monks grew with confidence and let out a cry of battle.
The vampires, feeling the tide turn, literally turned and fled. With the contingent of monks now on their tail, they hurried to another corridor leading them down a winding tunnel. The group of monks was frenzied and did not want to let them escape; they soon caught up to them as they reached the end of the corridor.
The monks descended upon them fearlessly. They had them cornered, apparently with no place to go. Father Lemoine was trying to make his way forward in the pack, with Father Donovan behind him. Surely there would be nothing left of the unlucky vampires once they got up there. As he made his way he soon realized they were not at a dead end. These were doors they had come to—two great bronze doors that only looked like the stone due to the dust.
The vampires did what they could do to defend themselves; they had been pounced upon as they made their way to the doors. They made an all-out effort to reach this section in their retreat. One of them managed to find safety behind his friend and made for the handles on the doors. Turning the large lever he fell on it to make it budge. The doors swung open and the mass of the group plunged into the next room, given the force of their attack.
The room opened up, and more monks were free to join the battle. Few noticed where they were. Father Lemoine and Father Donovan did take notice though; they were not in the melee of unconscious fighting. They stood in abject horror of what they had stumbled into. The area where they stood was a platform with steps in front leading down into a large expansive room. The size of the room was not the issue; it was the contents. The floor was covered with rotting coffins and the walls were honeycombed with holes. The floor was also littered with corpses of a dreadfully recent slaughter, which had blood-stained the stone.
Father Donovan lost most of the color in his face and only gained direction when he saw a few of the figures move for the first time. He knew that they had to leave, and leave now. Their time had run out.
chapter THIRTY
THE TWINS LEFT SEBASTIAN’S CHAMBER and roamed the castle looking for something to do. Surely there was something to do; sunset was fast approaching and there was no word. Feeling claustrophobic, they left the confines of the monastery to get some fresh air and found most of the monks outside.
They saw piles of wood lying over the top of the inner wall of the moat, completely surrounding the castle, and down the way two monks walked down each side finishing the job. J
acob couldn’t even imagine why they would be wasting their valuable time on such a project.
“The Great Wall of China didn’t even keep out invaders. What do they think this will do?” Jacob said.
“They think this will offer some defense, and anything that will help is a plus,” said Father Dagrun.
“I don’t think he fully understands; that’s all,” Jessica defended her brother. “I think it is hard to see what these small obstacles will do. I mean one of them leaped up to the top of the tower.”
Father Dagrun understood where they were coming from and didn’t want to seem too harsh. He thought maybe he should explain further.
“How much do you understand warfare or even siege warfare?”
Jacob was enthusiastic but didn’t want to talk too much about something he had only read a little about. He gestured, indicating that he didn’t know much.
“Okay. Well, number one, warfare is not always about who is the most powerful, maybe just who is the smartest. Do you think they will be afraid of this little wall of wood?” Father Dagrun said.
“No, why would they be?” Jacob answered.
“Exactly. They are very confident and sometimes that can play against you if you are arrogant enough. Plus, it is not the fact this will stop them but maybe delay, hinder, or stop some of them. You see, this is more siege warfare and siege warfare is about outlasting your enemy and doing more damage to him than he is doing to you. We know they are coming tonight—have no doubt—so they have no surprise. The surprise would be if they didn’t come, and that would be okay with me. The surprise will be on our end if luck holds,” Father Dagrun finished.
saint Sebastian the Rose Page 28
