To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty)

by David Niall Wilson

  There might be nothing Jeanne could do in the conflict to come, but if he died the final death it would be as he’d always known it would. He would die a warrior, clawing at his enemy’s throat and watching as the red blood spilled, his or the other’s. It mattered little, in the end. All blood spilled eventually. Santos was a worthy foe, and it was as good a day as any to meet Death a second time.

  He rolled nimbly in the opposite direction from the one Montrovant had taken, sliding through the milling bodies like quicksilver, using them as shields and gliding through shadows when there was no other cover available. Always his eyes were focused on Santos. The man paid no attention to him, but he did not trust things on the surface as he trusted his heart. His heart told him to tread lightly.

  He saw that the small, thin man had spun away from him, saw his shoulders tense and his hands come up to spin and weave in some sort of intricate pattern that left wisps of light hanging behind his fingers in the air. Montrovant rose from the darkness across the room, moving toward Santos and the altar before which he stood so swiftly that he appeared to glide. His eyes glowed brightly and his lips were drawn back in a snarl.

  Jeanne watched for a second, fascinated, as his sire moved toward Santos. There was no effort to pull away on the smaller man’s part, no evidence of fear. A soft chant drifted across the room, and Jeanne realized that he could hear it over the cries and moans of the others, who were finally finding their way toward the door in their panic. He concentrated, but he couldn’t make out the words. He thought he heard the name Montrovant, but he couldn’t be certain, and it galvanized him into action.

  He moved forward as quickly and silently as possible. He could not tell if Montrovant had seen him, nor could he be certain that Santos was not aware of him, but it no longer mattered. There was no other enemy in sight, and the battle madness demanded blood. He kept close to the floor and locked his gaze on Santos’s slowly swaying form.

  Behind Santos, a mist formed of incense and residual energy clouded the features of the head. Jeanne’s concentration slipped. The head was as dangerous as Santos—did they dare to ignore it in such a moment? The ritual had not been completed, but who knew what properties it might actually possess, or how they might be released? Who knew how close they were to a destruction they could not understand or combat?

  Santos took a step back, and Jeanne stopped, standing tense but very still, watching. Montrovant’s leap had brought him in a long, slow arc toward Santos’s throat, soaring across the chamber like a giant bird of prey. Santos held his ground, and at the last second he lashed out with one arm almost contemptuously. Montrovant drove into the smaller man, but was knocked aside, deflected by the impossibly powerful blow. Santos staggered but was not toppled, and Montrovant rolled to one side, out of sight.

  Jeanne moved. He leaped at the altar, taking the head by the wispy gray hairs that clung to its scalp and swinging it up into the air like a club. He saw the eyes, dead and lifeless, spinning up over his head, then he saw nothing but his target.

  Santos spun, eyes blazing, but le Duc was beyond thought. With a scream of rage, he brought the head around in a wide arc, crashing it against the side of Santos’s skull and driving him back. The hair held, and Jeanne swung the head up again, intending a second blow. Santos, recovering swiftly, swept out with one leg and knocked Jeanne’s feet from beneath him deftly. The head swung up and flew into the shadows.

  In the second that Santos’s concentration was broken—as he turned to watch the head fly across the room and mouthed a negation that never made it to full sound—Montrovant sprang again. This time Santos didn’t even see him coming, and the two of them tumbled to the ground in a blur of darkness. Jeanne moved forward, his sword raised, but he couldn’t get a good glimpse of who was on top at any given moment. The speed of their movements was uncanny, the strength of their blows enough to be felt through the stone floor of the chamber. Jeanne danced about nimbly, waiting.

  He heard a strangled cry, recognized it as Montrovant, and moved closer, but he still couldn’t be certain that if he attacked he would not strike his sire. With a curse he drew back his blade, ready to swing it with all his might—to hell with the consequences. The blow never fell.

  Gwendolyn materialized from the shadows with sudden fury, screeching madly.

  “Let him go!” she cried. “It is not the Dark One you want. It is the blood of Kli Kodesh, and I tell you now it stands before you. Kill Montrovant and you will never see it spilled—never know that name that has haunted you through the ages. This I swear.”

  Santos heard her, and her words struck home. He did not release his grip on Montrovant’s throat, but he raised his head to stare at her. His head was cocked oddly to one side, like a dog that has heard something it can’t quite figure out. In that instant Jeanne struck.

  He put every ounce of strength granted him in his second life into that blow, slashing at a slight upward angle with his blade, driving it in beneath Santos’s chin and slicing cleanly through the skin of his throat. One moment the ancient stared at Gwendolyn, the next his head seemed to leap from his shoulders, following the arc that the other head had taken short moments before.

  There was a garbled, unintelligible bark of sound as his larynx gave way, then nothing. Silence. Jeanne and Gwendolyn watched numbly as the head took flight and Montrovant rolled free, tossing the dried husk that had been Santos’s body aside in distaste.

  There was no blood. There was no moisture at all. Santos had disintegrated into dust, leaving the pungent odors of spice and musk in the air. What remained of his frame couldn’t support the weight of his robes, and they crumpled to the floor. Montrovant rose to stand beside le Duc, staring at the remains.

  “What was he?” Gwendolyn asked softly. “What manner of being crumbles to dust at his death?”

  “I do not believe we can count on his death any more than we can understand his power,” Montrovant answered. “We have won. For now that must be enough.”

  He turned toward the doors that led to the keep above.

  “They will be returning shortly. I will have to speak to them, de Chaunvier and de Molay. I will have to explain why I am here and pray that they know where the treasures are being kept—that they know of the Grail. We have very little time.”

  “How do you know how much time remains?” Jeanne asked, still dazed from the battle madness. “Do you not hear them?” Gwendolyn asked, turning her enigmatic smile full upon him. “De Molay’s men are on the stairs, calling out as they come, and the name of Philip is on their lips. They come to rescue you, but only because they fear Philip more than the broken power of Santos.”

  Jeanne did hear them, once he concentrated. Feet were pounding on the stairs, and the clatter of armor and weapons drew nearer.

  “The head,” Montrovant said quickly. “We must get it and remove it from this place. It is too powerful to fall into Philip’s hands, or those of the Church. It must be taken far away where it can do no further harm.”

  “I will take it,” Gwendolyn said softly. “I will take it down the back wall of the keep, where the mountain and the ocean meet. There is no way that Philip, de Molay or any other could follow me there.”

  Montrovant stood very still, gazing into her eyes, trying to read whatever emotion or deception might be behind her words. Satisfied, he turned away.

  “We will catch up with you when this has ended,” he replied. “We have to go after the Grail.

  Wait,” Gwendolyn called out as he headed for the door.

  Montrovant turned, standing tall and proud, his eyes glowing brightly.

  “They mentioned a tomb,” she said softly. “Kli Kodesh, he has others nearby—Nosferatu. They are outside the gates of the city.”

  “I knew I couldn’t trust him,” Montrovant spat. “It is well. We will deal with de Molay and his men, and then we will deal with the ancient and his treachery, one way or the other. He shall have his entertainment this night, I think…more than he has barg
ained for.”

  “He thought that you and Santos would destroy one another,” Jeanne said softly.

  “No,” Montrovant replied. “He knew that one of us would survive. He knew, as well, that the conflict would buy him time. Let us pray that it has not been enough time.”

  He turned to the door and was gone as surely as he’d stood before them scant moments earlier. Le Duc stole a last glance at Gwendolyn, trying to read the inscrutable expression on her face and failing. Then he spun to follow Montrovant to the upper levels. Nothing mattered now but to see it through to the end, and the haze had not departed so completely that he could resist the draw of battle. If Philip were truly approaching, and if Montrovant was planning to support de Molay, or even to win his way free, it was likely that Jeanne’s blade would drink deeply at least one more time before the night was through. As he hit the stairs at a run, he prayed that it would be so. He had been too long at peace. The scent of blood, the taste of it permeated the air, driving him further toward the red. He could not stop to feed, not now. But soon.

  He could not hear Montrovant on the stairs, but he could sense the trail his sire had left, and he followed that familiar tug of blood to blood, letting himself be drawn onto the main level and ignoring the stares of those around him as he bounded through them and headed for the stairs.

  His first thought was that Montrovant had returned to de Chaunvier’s quarters, but as he rose through the keep he realized that it was not so. They had bypassed that level and headed up toward the wall and the towers beyond. Montrovant was climbing toward the open air, and Jeanne doubled his pace, racing upward in pursuit.

  He was vaguely aware of Gwendolyn gliding along behind him. She kept her silence, but he could sense the tension that drove her onward. Any moment Kli Kodesh could call out to her. She might want to support Montrovant, her “Dark One,” as she’d dubbed him, but it was not fully her decision. The only hope she had was that her sire was too involved in whatever subterfuge he’d entered into with his Nosferatu followers to bother with her. The other possibility was that, independent as her actions seemed, they were exactly what Kli Kodesh expected of her. Jeanne knew he would have to watch her, along with whatever other responsibilities and burdens fell to him. Montrovant would ignore her as insignificant; Jeanne could not afford to follow suit.

  He reached the top of the stairs and flew toward a squat wooden doorway at the end of a short hall.

  He could feel the night breeze slipping in through that opening, and he could hear footsteps running, voices crying out—the voices the others had heard from below. He knew his own senses were not what they might be. He was younger in the blood than they. He knew, also, that he had other talents, other strengths, that they might not even suspect. He could sense the pounding of blood through many sets of veins—the pumping of endless hearts. For a second he reeled from the sudden impact of seductive sensation. He stumbled against the wall of the keep and the impact jarred him back to the moment.

  Below he could feel them surging forward, hundreds—thousands strong. He could hear their cries. “Sorcerers! Heathens! Death to de Molay!”

  So many strong hearts pumping delicious blood, so many thoughts floating on the breeze, confusing his already weakened control. Jeanne forced himself to slow his steps, taking equal control of his thoughts and reaching out to Montrovant for support—or at least for direction. He’d slammed into the wall so quickly that he’d lost track of his sire, and the last thing he wanted at that moment was to be abandoned on the wall of a castle full of mortals out for blood. They did not know him as they knew Montrovant. They would remember if they checked the books, the records—his name would be present—but it would not be enough.

  He staggered past two guards who were rushing along the wall, eyes intent on the mob below. He watched as they reached out for the topmost rungs of a ladder he’d not even seen, shaking it violently, then pushing it outward with a cry. He heard those who’d climbed cry out in anger, then in fear, as they tumbled into the darkness, armor and weapons weighing them down mortally. The crashing, screaming, and moaning from below attested to the good aim—or fortune—of the guards. They’d taken out more than those dropped.

  Jeanne saw Montrovant ahead. The Dark One had leaped to a point on one corner of the wall, standing like a huge specter against the backdrop of the sky, glaring down at those massed below. His head was thrown back, fangs extended and eyes glowing pits of hatred and anger. He looked less like a man than at any moment since Jeanne had first seen him…more like a demi-god, paying no attention to the arrows whistling by his head. He stood immobile for what seemed an eternity, and Jeanne had just managed to get himself moving again when Montrovant dove back onto the wall and retreated toward him rapidly.

  “We have to get below,” he said quickly. “There is something wrong. The Church is with Philip, but it is not just the Church—there are others. I can’t tell for certain who, or what, they have traveling with them, but there is an aura of old power hanging over us like a shroud. We have to move to be certain that shroud doesn’t settle over us.”

  Le Duc hesitated. “You mean we are leaving?

  Unless you feel a sudden urge to die for the order you left so long ago,” Montrovant grated, “then I would suggest we leave, yes. What we seek is not within these walls, I would sense it if it were, and Santos would most certainly have had it in his possession. If we stay, we will almost certainly never leave under our own power.”

  The matter-of-fact way Montrovant outlined their probable fate drove like a well-honed blade through the battle-madness that had engulfed le Duc’s consciousness. Gwendolyn appeared suddenly at their side, but Montrovant barely spared her a glance. He turned and headed back toward the stairs.

  Jeanne followed, grabbing Gwendolyn by the arm. He wanted her as close to him as possible so he could watch her. She didn’t resist as he dragged her back toward the stairs, but she did look perplexed. “He says they have someone—something—with them. We have to get out. Now.”

  “But…” Gwendolyn looked back over her shoulders. The guards had successfully repelled the attack. Below they could hear the sound of retreating boots and the clatter of horses’ hooves and weapons. For the moment, Philip was drawing back. The keep would not be taken so easily, it seemed. Not this night.

  “There is nothing we can do. We are not enough, not with what they have brought against us. We must go.”

  She nodded suddenly and followed, and Jeanne released her arm. Montrovant had already disappeared into the depths of the keep, and the two of them rushed down the stairs like a strong burst of wind, charging explosively onto the lower level. Jeanne hesitated, but suddenly Gwendolyn grabbed his arm and yanked him forward again. He might have lost track of Montrovant, but she had not. He followed her lead, and he found that they were returning toward the lower levels.

  Everyone they passed stared, but none questioned their passing. Montrovant dropped to the lower level like a stone through water and wound his way down the passages, passing the chambers where Santos and the head had threatened to destroy them all only moments before. The battle was up and beyond the walls; none had the energy to concentrate on a new threat from below.

  Jeanne wondered what the purpose of returning to those vault-like chambers might be. Santos was dead, or gone for the time being—there was nothing of value left below, unless Montrovant was after the head, and that was difficult to understand. If that had been the case, why leave it in the first place?

  They did not stop at the room where they’d encountered Santos, however. Montrovant flew past that entrance without so much as a glance, running full tilt down the passageway beyond. The floor had begun to slope upward again by the time that le Duc suspected there was another way out. He came to a halt behind his sire’s back, directly in front of what seemed to be a solid wall blocking their progress. Without hesitation Montrovant moved forward, ran his hands across the stone surface, and pressed quickly in a sequence of indentations. The
stone slid aside easily, not even a soft grinding sound to note the passing of tons of stone.

  Turning with a quick, dark smile, Montrovant said, “I saw one of the knights enter this way earlier…knew I could find the latch if I looked closely. I didn’t think we’d need an escape route until I sensed what awaited us out there.”

  Another mystery. There had been such doorways and passages in Jerusalem, but Jeanne had never had the opportunity to broach the subject, and now was certainly not the time.

  Montrovant launched himself into the darkness behind the portal he’d opened, and Jeanne followed. He felt Gwendolyn moving close at his side, and was suddenly glad she was there. The stone closed behind them, as though on some sort of timed mechanism, and they were plunged into total blackness. The lack of light calmed Jeanne’s nerves, and he found himself moving smoothly and confidently again. Ahead he sensed the movement of cooler air—freedom—or Philip? Only the next few moments could tell.

  NINETEEN

  Beyond the main battle lines, the bulk of Philip’s army had begun the task of entrenching themselves for a siege. There was little hope that their initial surge would overwhelm the defenders of the keep. It might be days—even weeks—before they could breach the walls and bring down the gates. It didn’t matter. Time was on their side—time, hunger, thirst—all the weaknesses of mankind.

  Philip’s own tents were set far back from the front line, and beyond these there was yet another grouping—smaller, but very elegant for such travel. The tents were of scarlet, and there were as many servants rushing here and there between them as there were guards patrolling the outskirts of the camp.

  Brown robed figures stood stoically by the entrances to these tents, weapons that looked only slightly more out of place than the men who bore them hung in plain sight from the belts that bound their robes.