Knight of the Cross

by Steven A McKay

  KNIGHT OF THE CROSS

  A Knight Hospitaller Novella

  by

  Steven A. McKay

  Kindle edition

  Copyright 2014 Steven A. McKay

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form,

  in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  Also by Steven A. McKay:

  Wolf's Head

  The Wolf and the Raven

  Coming summer 2015...Rise of the Wolf

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  “There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect,

  and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range.” -

  H.P. Lovecraft – The Thing on the Doorstep

  Rhodes, 1309 AD

  The little Greek Orthodox priest was sweating profusely, his black beard almost dripping with moisture, but the wide-eyed look he wore suggested something more than the heat inside the fortress was causing his discomfort.

  “What are we to do, Father Vitus?” Foulques de Villaret, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, also known as the Knights of Rhodes, demanded. “We've only just taken full control of the island; my men are needed to maintain law and order and to make necessary repairs to the city. I'd rather not have to send them chasing after some local legend your people haven't been able to get to the bottom of.”

  For three years de Villaret had overseen the invasion of Rhodes, understanding the strategic importance of its position to his Order. The Hospitallers had previously been based in neighbouring Cyprus but relations with the Cypriot king had been tense and Rhodes offered the ideal position to control the trade routes from the Black Sea. After an impressive land-sea military operation, the Order had finally taken control of the island and was now working to improve the old Byzantine fortifications.

  In the past fortnight though, two of the Hospitaller sergeants-at-arms had mysteriously disappeared followed just a couple of days later by an actual knight. All three men had gone missing while visiting Father Vitus's village of Sgourou, which was why the priest had been summoned to the Grand Master's palace.

  “I know no more than you,” the little Greek clergyman replied. “The people of my village are frightened and angry too. For months these disappearances have gone on, and no-one has ever done anything to help us. My people need action, they need an end to this...abomination! You're wasting your time calling me here; me and my congregation have nothing to do with your soldiers going missing. Whatever is taking these people comes from far outside the city walls, far from my village.”

  Sir Richard-at-Lee, an Englishman, stood behind his superior with three other high-ranking members of the Order, frowning, not quite sure what to make of Vitus's words. It was hard to follow, in truth: the man could speak French – being, along with Latin the language spoken by the new ruling class on the island – fairly well, but some of the words he was using didn't seem to translate very well and, as a result, it sounded as if he was blaming some kind of ancient demon for the unexplained vanishings in the city.

  The Hospitallers were devoted to Christ – they understood the truth of the bible and knew that there were evil forces at work all throughout the world but...Father Vitus's tale seemed too incredible to be true. Surely it was nothing more than the ravings of a few superstitious, uneducated villagers Sir Richard thought.

  “What exactly are you saying is causing these disappearances?” The big knight asked, making sure to keep his tone neutral for fear of offending the influential clergyman. The peace on the island was a fragile one at present, as the knights sought to stamp their authority on the place and the people.

  The priest shrugged and muttered something in a language none of the Hospitallers present could identify before looking up to meet Sir Richard's eyes. “It is old. Older than the world itself. Some say it came from another place, somewhere far away; maybe even amongst the stars, if such a thing is possible. Whatever it is, I can't say, for I've never seen it and anyone who has is sent insane.” He waved a hand at the high-vaulted ceiling vaguely. “But these are just stories to frighten children, or entertain drinkers in a tavern.”

  “I've heard some of these stories,” the Grand Master nodded, gazing at Father Vitus. “Who are the people with the black eyes?”

  The priest looked away and Sir Richard watched him closely as he replied. “I've never seen anyone with black eyes; that's just another story. You should forget such nonsense and search the countryside to find the people that took your men. Perhaps they have black eyes out there, at the opposite end of the island.”

  Foulques de Villaret shook his head. “No. My men went missing when they were visiting your village, so that's where we'll begin our search.”

  “We don't need your knights, my people will –”

  “Silence!” de Villaret rose from his chair and glared down at the priest. The Grand Master was an impressive man, with immaculate hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and his eyes blazed now as his patience ran out. “Your people have, by your own admission, had months to do something about this and haven't managed it. Well, this is my island now, and I won't have my men being kidnapped!”

  Father Vitus glared back at the knight but held his tongue, knowing he couldn't win this confrontation.

  “I can't spare many of my men though. Sir Richard here” – de Villaret waved the English knight forward to stand by his side – “can speak some Greek. He'll take his sergeant-at-arms and follow you to your village where he'll investigate the disappearances. If he finds reason to believe any of this legend is factual, or that you and your people have anything to do with it, then we'll look at sending a more sizeable force into the area to... take care of the problem. Once and for all.”

  Vitus shook his head at the implied threat. “Very well, but I fear your knight” – he looked Sir Richard up and down – “even one as dangerous-looking as this, won't be enough to solve this mystery.” He bowed to the Grand Master, holding onto his black kamilavka so it didn't fall off and gestured to the big Englishman to follow him. “Come, Sir Richard, I'll await you and your sergeant by the main door where the shadows are long and the heat isn't as intense. I suggest you don't wear full armour, or any of your insignia – you may not want to attract attention to yourself when travelling in such a small party, given what happened to your brothers.”

  Sir Richard knelt to his superior and crossed himself reverentially. “I'll do my best to get to the bottom of this, Grand Master,” he said, turning to address Vitus as he strode past him out of the room. “Go to your shadows, father – I'll gather my weapons and my sergeant and meet you shortly. But I'm a Knight of Rhodes and I'll not hide this cross I bear. If anyone has a problem with it, trust me – they'll have more to worry about than some ancient bloody demon!”

  * * *

  From the citadel to Father Vitus's village of Sgourou was a fair walk of about an hour; along the bustling streets of the city, out through St Anthony's Gate and into the countryside. Sir Richard, followed by his stocky sergeant-at-arms, Jacob, found himself wishing they'd taken horses from the stables for the journey. The priest had walked to the city though, so it seemed rude to ride when he was on foot. Eventually t
hough, Father Vitus told them they were almost there and the knight heaved a sigh of relief.

  “We'll pass through the local market,” the priest said, biting into a small oatcake he carried as they walked. “If you're observant, maybe you'll see one of the black-eyed people your Grand Master spoke of. Don't meet their gaze if you do,” he laughed, “I've heard it's bad luck to do so.”

  Unconsciously, Sir Richard's hand caressed the pommel of his longsword, irritated by the sniggering Greek priest but wondering how much of this legend was true. Probably none of it, he thought. Yes, he was a devout Christian; that was why he'd joined the Hospitallers six years ago, despite having a wife and two young sons. He'd been a mercenary – often fighting alongside the Hospitallers or Templars before his martial prowess and natural leadership had been recognized by one of the Hospitallers and he'd been asked to join the Order which accepted married men as long as their spouses agreed. He knew angels and demons existed. The bible said so, didn't it? But black-eyed men that worshipped some ancient evil from a far-off place in the stars...Sir Richard couldn't take it seriously; the whole tale was just too outlandish.

  Jacob was too hot and tired to care much, but he met the big knight's gaze, his expression one of nervous uncertainty. Father Vitus had, for the sergeant's benefit, reiterated the tale he'd told to the Grand Master earlier, going into more detail this time as the two Hospitallers questioned him on certain points. The sergeant was naturally more superstitious and inclined to believe in the physical manifestation of devils and ghouls than his sceptical master.

  As they came into Sgourou the streets, filled with people going about their daily business at this time in the afternoon, became even busier; the sounds and multitude of smells clamouring upon their senses as they approached the market.

  Sellers loudly hawked their wares, from foods like bread and freshly caught fish, to clothing and pottery. Prostitutes eyed the two Hospitallers as they moved through the crowd, but Sir Richard's bearing and stern gaze kept them from approaching. Being outside the city, the stalls held next to nothing of great value; no exotic spices or finely made weaponry here. There was drink, though, and plenty of it.

  “Is that cool?” Jacob demanded in English, licking his parched lips at the sight of a collection of tall amphorae containing wine under a thick canopy that kept off the worst of the sun.

  “It is, my lord,” the seller replied. “Cool, and made from top quality moschato grapes. Try some!” He poured a little from a smaller jug into three wooden cups and handed them to the perspiring men who gratefully knocked them back, sighing in pleasure as the liquid coated their dry throats and filled their bellies with a hint of fire.

  “Another three cups, please,” Sir Richard asked, in Greek this time, handing the seller a small silver coin, marvelling at the ability of salesmen all around the world to learn just enough of different languages to be able to sell their wares to foreigners from all over. “Water them this time though, we need clear heads.”

  As the wine-seller poured more of the drink the knight decided they might as well start their investigation immediately. “What do you know of the disappearances around here?” he asked, watching the man's reaction intently.

  “Something evil has been taking our people – men, women, boys, girls, it makes no difference. Where they go, who knows? I don't, and I'm glad, for it would send me mad!” The man finished pouring their wine and moved off to serve another thirsty customer, throwing them a final glance over his shoulder as he went. “Wherever they're going it's a bad place. We hear the screaming at night, often. Coming from under the ground...”

  Sir Richard grunted dismissively, but Jacob shivered, in spite of the heat, as if someone had walked across his grave at the man's words.

  “Underground?” The sergeant-at-arms looked down at the dusty street as if it would offer up some clue.

  “Nonsense,” Father Vitus spat. “There's nothing under these streets but sand.”

  “It's true,” the wine-seller shouted back. “I've heard the noises in the dead of night – we all have. Screams, tortured wails, terrible thumping sounds that seem to come from the very centre of the world.” The fear in his eyes was unmistakeable and the two Hospitallers replaced their empty wine-cups onto the seller's table and fell into step behind Father Vitus who walked off towards his church, casting a dark glance at the oblivious merchant.

  The wine had been stronger than they'd expected, and the combination of the stifling heat and potent alcohol made Sir Richard and Jacob drowsy. Despite that, both men suddenly turned to stare into the shadows that blanketed the buildings behind them as the uncomfortable sense of being watched came over them.

  They could see no one though, so, with a wary glance at each other they followed the Greek priest away from the market towards his parish of St Luke's.

  * * *

  The Hospitallers were shown to a small room in the house that adjoined Father Vitus's small church by his housekeeper, a young lady from the distant city of Mosul. She was pretty, and her presence surprised the Hospitallers since she could be a temptation to the clergyman, but she told them that they could sleep there for the duration of their investigation and they nodded their thanks as she backed out of the room, dark eyes fixed on the stone floor.

  The soldiers were used to living in austerity, so the simplicity of their temporary room's furnishings meant nothing to them. The atmosphere, however, was another matter.

  “Do you feel it?” Jacob muttered, tossing his small pack onto the bed once the housekeeper had left to prepare a frugal meal for the unexpected visitors.

  Sir Richard didn't have to ask what his sergeant meant – it was obvious, even to a sceptic like him. The air felt charged with a cloying, suffocating pressure that both depressed and unnerved him. “I do,” he admitted. “There's something...unsettling about this place. Not just this room, but the whole village.”

  “I'm not looking forward to sleeping in here,” Jacob agreed, peering out the window. “Ground floor room. Someone could climb in easy enough and slit our throats as we slept! Let's just find out what the hell's going on with these disappearances and get back to the citadel.”

  Sir Richard grinned, trying to bring some metaphorical light to the oppressive room. “No one'll be able to climb in without waking us,” he said. “And I'll be sleeping with my sword in my hand, so anyone who tries will find themselves spitted like a lamb souvlaki!”

  They washed their faces in bowls of cool water that had been left in the room for the purpose then made their way to the little dining room where Father Vitus's housekeeper had laid out a light meal for them, consisting of a fresh fish soup and keftedes, which were meatballs of pork and herbs in barley flour and fried in olive oil. Neither of the Hospitallers had tasted these dishes before and they enjoyed them very much. Jacob smiled shyly at the housekeeper, thanking her for the meal but she averted her eyes and walked into the kitchen, while Father Vitus glared at the sergeant disapprovingly.

  “We're going to go out into the village, “Sir Richard told their host, patting his stomach in satisfaction. “To ask around and see what the villagers can tell us about the disappearances.”

  The priest nodded assent. “Very well. I don't know how the people will view your presence,” he eyed the eight-pointed white cross emblazoned on the Hospitallers' red surcoats, “but perhaps they'll be reassured by the idea that someone's come to put an end to these disappearances that have plagued the area for so long.”

  “Will you not come with us?” Sir Richard asked, eyeing the man as he licked herbs off his fingers with relish.

  “Regretfully, no. I have things to deal with here at the church this evening. You'll be able to find your way around well enough I'm sure – just don't go too far and look for the cross on top of the spire to guide you back home. Here's a key to the front door to save you disturbing Athenais.” He looked up almost furtively as the housekeeper came into the room to clear away the dinner dishes. “If I'm not around when you r
eturn, please...sleep well.”

  Meal finished and feeling fully refreshed as the sun had dipped below the horizon, cooling the night air, the soldiers made their way out into the streets which still bustled even at this time. The sounds of laughing and singing filled the air, locals grinned at them, hoisting cups of wine skyward in salute and it seemed like the people were enjoying some celebration.

  Sir Richard, a veteran of many battles and a man who'd spent much time in far-flung towns and cities around the world, sensed things weren't quite as they seemed. “Their smiles are forced; tight,” he noted, eyes taking in the scenes of apparent revelry around them. “The singing is just a little too loud, as is the laughter. These men and women are frightened, and they use this raucous celebration to mask it – to themselves more than us, I'm sure.”

  Jacob remained silent, studying the faces around them.

  “There,” he hissed, nodding surreptitiously to a man just not far in front of them. “Look at his face.”

  Sir Richard followed his sergeant's stare, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he saw the swarthy fellow's eyes, the pupils of which were so dilated as to appear almost completely black. As he took in the man's sinister features, the dark eyes suddenly turned and met Sir Richard's.

  “Move!” The Hospitaller suddenly roared, tearing full-pelt into the throng of partying people, shoving bodies aside as the man darted into the shadows. “Come on Jacob, don't let him get away!”

  The pair sprinted through the streets, barging people out of the way, crashing through stalls selling wine and souvlaki, somehow managing to keep their quarry in sight despite the weight of the chain mail they wore under their crimson surcoats. The people and buildings faded and they realised they were leaving the village, and only the crescent moon lit their pursuit of the black-eyed man.