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

by David Niall Wilson

  The impression that they were not alone grew stronger each second. Jeanne could feel the weight of eyes boring through him, from the front, back, sides. He ignored the nagging mental itch and concentrated on more practical senses…sight, sound—touch. He knew that Montrovant, or Gwendolyn, for that matter, was more likely to detect trouble than he, but his instincts were different from theirs. His were the instincts of a born warrior, without the burden of careful thought or devious planning. Things that might not register in Gwendolyn’s mind would alert him in an instant. Montrovant couldn’t be trusted not to ignore such warnings. That left Jeanne.

  The graves surrounding them were overgrown and crumbling, with a very few exceptions. Apparently whoever had once cared for the cemetery had long since given up that responsibility. A very few monuments were cleared well enough that the inscriptions could be read. It seemed if one did not have surviving family, there was no one left to maintain the grave…or to mourn the dead in this desolate place.

  “Where are they?” Gwendolyn asked at last. “I can feel them, Kli Kodesh, the others, but I cannot tell where they are watching us from.”

  “We are surrounded,” Montrovant replied softly, “but it is a ruse. We are meant to concentrate on the imminent danger of those left behind while others make off with what we seek. They circle us to confuse our senses. The rest of the party is moving—there.”

  He turned suddenly and pointed along the ragged line of the cliff. Jeanne frowned, In that direction the drop to the ocean below was even more steep and cruel than that beside the walls of the keep. Access from that direction would be impossible for any invading force, nearly so for a single very talented man. It would pose little challenge to one such as Kli Kodesh, but how could they escape once they made the descent? Something was not right. “It is another trick,” Jeanne exclaimed suddenly. “There is no reason they would risk us catching up to them on that cliff, and there is no way they could escape with any sizable cargo unless they plan on destroying us here.”

  Montrovant spun, surprised, but then he nodded. Concentrating, he smiled. “If they plan on ending us here, Kli Kodesh himself will have to do the work. There is none other among them powerful enough.”

  “Then Gustav is not here,” Gwendolyn cut in. “He was old to the Blood when he first fed from Kli Kodesh. He was here when I escaped.”

  Montrovant nodded in agreement. The ancient Nosferatu was nowhere nearby, and that was reason enough to believe that Jeanne was correct. Somehow he was moving in another direction, and they were shielding that movement.

  “We can sit tight and wait to see what they have planned,” Montrovant said softly, “or we can try to outguess them and follow Gustav.”

  “I have no stomach for waiting,” Jeanne replied.

  “I want to leave this place,” Gwendolyn agreed. “They are driving me insane, and too much of eternity stretches before me to face without my wits.” Montrovant smiled. Jeanne knew he’d never planned on truly offering a choice. More likely he was concentrating, trying to determine where Gustav might have gone. Jeanne could sense nothing but a confusing mess with one powerful splash to their left. That splash was Kli Kodesh himself, and suddenly he knew what they had to do.

  “It is the ancient who shields him,” he cried. “He is moving around the flank of Philip’s army.”

  Cursing, Montrovant dove into action, leaping straight at Kli Kodesh so suddenly that he was gone before Jeanne and Gwendolyn could react. They followed as best they could, but even with proper warning neither was match for the Dark One’s passion or speed. There was a cry from the shadows, a loud curse.

  Jeanne slid around the corner and skidded to a stop. Montrovant was kneeling, his entire frame trembling with the effort to rise. The anger and hatred blazed from his eyes, which glowed like hot coals in the darkness.

  Standing over him, Kli Kodesh held one hand out, palm down, as if physically pressing his assailant into place on the ground. The ancient’s eyes glittered, as well, but with madness and mirth, not anger.

  “No,” Gwendolyn cried. Jeanne reached for her, but again he was too slow. She leaped past him, screeching in rage and diving at her sire’s eyes with her hands outstretched like talons. He looked up, half dazed, half-amused. His eyes locked with hers, and she fell to the ground, her legs collapsing beneath her and her head dropping so that her face pressed into the damp soil. Kli Kodesh started toward her, his smile washed away in a sudden burst of rage. As he moved, he neglected Montrovant for just that second.

  Jeanne saw the Dark One poising to spring and he launched himself into the fray, knowing it was a foolish and probably final gesture, but unable to stop himself. Montrovant had no chance against one so ancient, none at all, but if he were to have the opportunity to test this he needed a distraction. “Leave her,” Jeanne cried as he leapt from the shadows. “Leave her and face me, old one. I’ve had enough of your damned games.”

  Jeanne’s blade was in his hand, though he did not recall drawing it, and the rage rushed through his veins, shutting down rational thought. This grinning madman had played them all for fools again and again, and now he stood there, mocking them, controlling them like so many marionettes in a show. It was too much.

  He swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming it for Kli Kodesh’s throat. Of course, that throat was not there when the blade passed, but neither was Kli Kodesh closing in on Gwendolyn any longer. A huge shadow materialized from the right, crashing into the old one and driving him to the ground. Jeanne tossed his blade aside and leaped after them. No way Montrovant could hold him, but the three of them? What then?

  He crashed into the rolling heap of bones and muscle and managed to make out Montrovant’s dark hair, blowing wildly about his head in the night wind. Grabbing Kli Kodesh’s legs, he held on, praying that Montrovant had something in mind besides just attacking and dying. Gwendolyn was beside them now, and she’d latched onto one of her sire’s arms, holding it in place.

  Looking up, Jeanne could see that Montrovant had Kli Kodesh’s throat gripped tightly between strong fingers and was holding that ancient, graying head tightly against the ground.

  “Where is it?” Montrovant screamed. “Where have they taken it? You will answer me, or by all that is holy your blood will spill for the final time this night.”

  The ancient went suddenly limp in their arms, but none of them released their hold. Jeanne knew it was too easy, and moments later, when their captive’s emotions shifted yet again, driving him into gurgling, hissing spurts of laughter, he knew the truth of it. They were the playthings of a madman.

  Montrovant’s anger grew and the ancient’s mirth followed suit. The ancient rolled back and forth on the ground, beating his hands against the earth despite the hold Gwendolyn had on one arm, kicking his legs in seeming glee as Jeanne held on grimly.

  As the haze released his mind slowly, Jeanne became aware that they were not alone. The Nosferatu. Montrovant paid them no more mind than he might have a swarm of insects, but Jeanne leaped to his feet, locating his blade in an instant and bringing it to the ready. Gwendolyn stood as well, but she made no move to attack or defend, only watched coolly as the disfigured, ethereal band circled them slowly.

  Then, almost casually, Kli Kodesh pressed his hands against the ground and levered himself upright, despite Montrovant’s grip, finding his balance and lurching to his feet. Montrovant did not release his hold, and the two of them stood now, the elder grinning up into the face of the younger, whose face was so suffused in rage that Jeanne began to worry he might have lost his reason.

  With a sudden violent heave, Montrovant actually lifted Kli Kodesh off the ground and flung him to the side, where he crashed into the stone wall of a tomb. Looking a bit surprised, the ancient regained his feet once more, brushing the dust calmly from his robes as the Dark One approached him once again.

  “You really are wasting your time, you know,” Kli

  Kodesh spoke at last. “I’ve sent the treasures out of here wit
h Gustav, and if you don’t catch him by sunrise, he will be long gone.”

  Montrovant stopped and stood very still. Jeanne could feel the emotions warring in his sire’s mind, could feel the turmoil. Another chase, more lies, more likely than not, and this grinning madman stood there still, mocking them. Tantalizing Montrovant with first one, then another bit of the puzzle, but never enough to keep up with the new pieces being cut.

  “Why should I believe you, old one?” Montrovant replied at last. “Why, when you have twice sent me to near-certain destruction, both times for the dual purpose of distracting your enemies and providing sick, personal entertainment for your ancient, putrid mind? You tell me why I should believe you, because my instincts tell me you are lying to me once again, and I’m tired of being toyed with.”

  “So,” Kli Kodesh replied, still smiling. “You will stay and threaten my existence, will you? Surrounded as you are, powerful as I am, you would rather fail to kill me than pursue your dreams? I’d thought better of you than that, really I had. I have to say I’m a bit disappointed, Dark One.” On those ancient, mocking lips, the name seemed empty. It was obvious which of the two had seen the deeper darkness.

  Suddenly there was a stir among the Nosferatu, and both Kli Kodesh and Montrovant turned to the outer ring, as though they’d heard something far away. Moments later, the steady creaking of wagon wheels approached them, and the shuffling of feet. Many feet. The Nosferatu drifted back into the shadows, and Jeanne could feel their fear, though as of that second he didn’t know the nature of their danger.

  Montrovant stood like a statue, waiting. The ancient stood beside him, a few feet away, and for the first time since his earliest encounter with Kli Kodesh in Jerusalem, Jeanne saw an expression of bewilderment blanketing those inscrutable features.

  A tall thin figure made his way through the graves, and behind him a group of others, huddled close together and shuffling in step, followed. As he drew closer, the man tossed the hood back from his head, letting his long hair blow in the wind and the bright glitter of his eyes burn forth.

  “Eugenio,” Montrovant muttered under his breath. “Wha…?”

  “I thought it was about time I came and saw what was happening for myself,” Bishop Scarpocci’s voice boomed out. “I see that there are more forces involved here than I was led to believe.”

  Kli Kodesh was grinning again, and he stepped forward a few feet. Jeanne could sense the power emanating from this new figure, could feel the call of blood to blood that drew him more strongly, even, than Montrovant’s.

  “Now this is entertaining indeed,” Kli Kodesh cackled. “This is better even than I could have planned it. Both of you here at once. How jolly.”

  “You see,” Eugenio said softly, “I knew you would not be able to resist having a hand in all of this. I knew I would find you here, and, if I did, I would find what Montrovant seeks, as well.”

  Kli Kodesh smiled again. “You have found your whelp,” he said, ignoring Montrovant as he would a child, “but that is all you have found. There is no treasure for you here, no Grail or holy object, Bishop. You’d better run along back to your little stone prison and stick to things you understand.” Montrovant started toward Kli Kodesh again, but Bishop Scarpocci held up a hand, motioning him back. With a smile that matched Kodesh’s own, he motioned to those behind him. They moved slowly forward, and the creaking of wagon wheels resumed.

  Seconds later, a cart rolled into sight. On the driver’s seat, bound in chains, sat a robed figure.

  Jeanne stared at the wagon, then turned back to Eugenio, and finally to Kli Kodesh. Kli Kodesh had gone silent, and his jaw had dropped. He spoke a single word.

  “Gustav.”

  “The entertainment,” Eugenio said softly, “is just beginning.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jacques staggered down the main hall of his keep. There were screams all around him, women sobbing in corners and young people rushing about, gibbering in fright. His men held the walls, but barely. Philip had redoubled his attack, and somehow Jacques knew that his moments were numbered. His mind reeled with the events of the past few hours. So many things he might have done differently…so many others he need not have dragged down with him.

  Now he wandered, stumbling into walls and cursing as he went, toward his chambers. There was nothing left to do. He would sit back in his chair, the same chair he’d sat back in for decades. He would pour himself a large goblet of wine, down it, then pour another, and he would continue that process until there was nothing left of his mind. No pain. No images of men burning, falling from the walls of his keep trying to keep out a ruler who fought with the same Church at his back that Jacques had sworn to defend. No accusing glances or cries of fear. Red wine to wash away the red blood that stained his hands.

  He staggered onto the stairs, climbed. It wasn’t until he was nearing the top step that he felt a strong hand clamp onto his shoulder, pulling him back. He lurched forward, trying to keep his balance and not go toppling back down the stairs. The motion dropped him to his knees, cracking them painfully on the stone of the floor, and anger blossomed suddenly, overcoming the melancholy that had stolen his sense only moments before.

  “Damn you, I…” he turned, and he fell silent. Louis stood there, one hand still gripping his shoulder, staring at him with such reproach and disdain that it stole his courage in an instant.

  “It has to end, Jacques. We can’t slink off to drown our sorrows as these people who trust us die. By the God I still deem holy, I will not let it happen.”

  Jacques didn’t answer immediately, and Louis shook him insistently. “Do you hear me? We must do something…now. This very moment.”

  “And what would you have me do, Louis?”

  Jacques asked, shrugging free of the other man’s grip and turning to face him fully. “Would you have me wade out into the attacking horde and beat them off with the strength of my arm and the courage of my soul? Would you have God intervene? Should I ask him, do you think? What is it that you think you and I might do to set things right? Tell me now, for I am without words or thoughts on this!”

  Louis’s reaction was sudden and violent. Jacques barely had time to realize his friend’s arm was swinging back before the fist connected with his jaw and sent him reeling backward. He pinwheeled his arms, trying to recover his balance, but it was too little too late. He crashed into the stone stairs with stunning force, cracking his head on the wall. Before he could cry out Louis was on him, holding him down by the throat.

  “Damn you,” Louis grated, his eyes blazing inches from Jacques’s own, “You will get up and you will come with me and we will find a way to end this. I have followed you, listened to you, and it is possible that I have given over control of my soul to you and that demon you keep below. I will not see you drag the others down that same road so you can spend your last hours clutching a bottle of wine and crying in your room. You will stand like a man, or I will kill you now and save Philip the trouble.”

  Jacques blinked once in confusion; then his eyes cleared. He rose shakily, Louis still gripping him by the arm, waiting for an answer.

  “You are right, of course,” he said, brushing his friend’s hand aside. “I have no right to give up, though my soul is forfeit. I think, perhaps, that it is time for you and I to pay Philip a visit, or to welcome him to our halls.”

  “You will repent?” Louis asked.

  Jacques returned his friend’s gaze levelly. “I will not. I have failed in what I sought, but it does not change the loss of my faith. With creatures such as Santos in the world, how can one have faith in higher powers?”

  “That is the difference between us, Jacques,” Louis replied. “With such powers as Santos loose in the world, I cannot help but pray to a higher power.”

  Jacques clapped him on the back heartily, the smile returning to his face for the first time in so long it felt strange. He started back down the stairs, bellowing for his armor and his sword, and Louis fell in behind h
im. The time for waiting was at an end. They were knights, after all, and when there was trouble, there was one way they met it best: together, swords drawn and minds free of all else. Perhaps if they’d remembered that, they might not have been dragged so far into the darkness.

  The air in the keep seemed charged with energy. Knights and servants ran crazily about, gathering weapons, slipping into armor. Jacques had called them all to the courtyard, and rumors flew in all directions of what he had planned. Some believed de Molay would lead them in an attack, spending their lives in one last, insane charge. Others believed he would surrender and put himself at Philip’s mercy. Still others said that he’d found a way they might all slip past the army waiting beyond their gates and escape to fight again another day.

  One thing was certain, he was going to act. That was the best news they’d had since hearing of Philip’s edict. There were no new rumors of the dark stranger in the dungeons of the keep, but it was whispered that things had changed. It was also apparent that their lord had not returned to those lower levels. There was no more talk of devils and black magic. Jacques was storming about like a man possessed, but he was alive with the spirit of the Templars, and it was a familiar spirit.

  It took a remarkably short amount of time to gather the majority of them into the courtyard, and Jacques wasted no time. He jumped to the top of a wagon so that he could be seen and raised his hands for silence. In that moment, standing as he was, looking down on them from above, he looked every bit the Templar lord. He wore full armor, his eyes flashed fire—he was the Jacques de Molay of old.

  “I have called you here to give you a final choice,” he cried. “I have led you into a position that could cost your lives, and I am sorry for that. I would not change anything that I have done, except that I would have done what I have done on my own. I have cost you all a great deal, and for that I hope you—and God—can forgive me.”