Authors: Margaret Weis
"My father,
will you die without granting me your final blessing? Do you hate me
that much?"
The head turned,
the eyes opened. The mouth moved, lips forming words the voice had
long ago forgotten, or had perhaps never known, how to speak.
"Hate . . .
you? My son. My son ..."
The eyes closed
in wrenching anguish. The hand holding fast to Sagan's tightened,
expending the frail body's last energies. Two tears, squeezed from
beneath the waxen eye-lids, rolled down the gaunt cheeks. The lips
moved, stirred perhaps by the last breath. Perhaps forming a last
word.
"Forgive
..."
The hand slowly
relaxed its grip. The folds of the blanket across the chest rose and
fell no more. Sagan remained kneeling in reverent silence, the thin
hand pressed to his breast. Then, rising slowly to his feet, the
Warlord kissed his father's hand, placed it on the sunken chest.
"'Sanctus,
Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus, Deus Sabaoth. Pleni sunt caeli et terra
gloria tua.
Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts,'" Sagan
chanted, moving with solemn mien, bowed head, and slow step around
the head of the bier.
Glancing swiftly
from beneath reverently lowered eyelids, he saw Abdiel, huddled
within the thick robes, shivering, in the shadows, watching with
morbid interest. He stood alone. Mikael, guarding the door, could
never hope to move fast enough to prevent his master's death at
Sagan's hands. The old man's scrawny neck in that bone-crushing grip,
a swift twist, a snap. . . .
The Warlord was
near the mind-seizer now. Only a few steps separated them. Sagan
started to lift the other flaccid hand that lay by the corpse's side,
to compose the limbs for their final rest. His voice rose, "'Heaven
and earth are full of Thy glory . . .'"
The Warlord
turned suddenly, swiftly, made a lunge for Abdiel. He was within
arm's length of squeezing the life from the mind-seizer when a
glittering object rose up before Sagan's eyes.
His brain
reacted instinctively, analyzing the danger, halting his body's
forward movement. He jerked backward, lost his balance, fell
painfully on one knee. Breathing heavily, he remained crouched on the
stone floor at Abdiel's feet, a prey to a terror he hadn't imagined
it possible he could know, his eyes staring in disbelief at the
object in the mind-seizer's hand.
"I knew
nothing else would stop you, Derek." Abdiel smiled unpleasantly.
He twisted and twirled the object in his hand, caused its crystal and
gold to shine in the light. "Certainly not the threat of death.
What would death matter to you, if you could save the life of your
precious king? For you know, don't you, my lord, that Dion is my only
object. But this . . . the serpent's tooth. . . . You're afraid,
aren't you, Derek? I don't need to probe your mind to find out the
truth. I see your fear."
The object the
mind-seizer held appeared innocuous, some type of elaborate and
ceremonial weapon resembling a scythe. Its handle was made of gold
and styled to resemble the scaled head and upper body of a striking
snake. From the snake's mouth protruded a blade made of gleaming
crystal.
The blade gave
the weapon its name: serpent's tooth. Shaped like a snake's fang, the
clear crystal was actually a hollow vial that had been honed to a
needle-sharp point. Such a fragile instrument could not penetrate
armor. It seemed too delicate to penetrate flesh. But Derek Sagan,
staring at the weapon in the old man's shaking, palsied hand, made no
move against him.
The blade didn't
need to penetrate. One scratch across the skin, barely breaking the
surface, was enough. The poison in the crystal vial entered the body
swiftly, and, once within, there was no antidote.
"Every man
has his breaking point, even you, Derek Sagan." Abdiel began to
withdraw from the room, gliding backward, keeping the serpent's tooth
between himself and the Warlord.
The precaution
seemed needless. Sagan remained on his knees, head lowered, shoulders
hunched. Abdiel never took his gaze from the Warlord. Reaching the
door, speaking to Mikael, the mind-seizer still kept watch on his
victim.
"Give the
signal," Abdiel commanded.
Mikael nodded,
shoved open the door. Twenty of the mind-dead stood in the corridor.
Robed in brown, disguised as monks, each held a scourge in his hand.
One by one, they began to file into the mortuary, ranged themselves
around the walls.
"I want him
beaten, injured, broken, but not dead. He has information in his head
that I need."
Mikael glanced
at the huddled figure of the Warlord. "You have defeated him,
master. A great victory."
"You think
so, my dear? No, Sagan is merely in shock. Soon he will recover his
wits, he will start to think, to plot, to plan and figure a way to
try to defeat me. Look, Mikael. Look how, even now, he begins to
shake off his horror.
"Look at
him raise his head, see the gleam in his eyes. If I joined with him
now, even under the threat of this"—Abdiel gestured with
the serpent's tooth—"his mind would be strong enough to
resist me. Pain and suffering and the despair of knowing himself
helpless, a prisoner, will soften him up."
"Yes,
master."
Mikael made a
sign with his hand. The mind-dead began to move forward, wielding the
scourges. Small whips, they were made of thirteen strands of leather
soaked in brine. Each stroke of the lash inflicted a vicious cut in
the flesh; the salt, entering the wound, stung and burned. At the end
of each of the thirteen strips dangled a sharpened piece of metal,
like a nail, meant to puncture, rip, and tear.
Sagan, seeing
them advancing, rose to his feet to meet them, his bare fists—his
only weapon—clenched.
"I will be
in my room, where it is warm," said Abdiel. "Come and get
me when it is over."
Mikael nodded
silently.
"What of
that young priest?" the mind-seizer added, as an afterthought.
"He has,
for the moment, disappeared, master. I have sent teams to search for
him. Shall he be killed or apprehended and brought to you?"
"Neither,
my dear. Keep an eye on him. No fear. He will come to find his lord.
After all, he is not called faithful' for nothing."
Abdiel left. The
door to the mortuary shut behind him.
The key turned
in the lock.
The snares of
death compassed me round about: and the pains of hell gat hold upon
me.
Prayer Book,
1662
, Psalms 116:3
Brother Fideles
watched from the hallway until Lord Sagan and the monk had vanished
into the shadows.
Fideles's first
thought was to follow them, ascertain where they were going.
Accordingly, he hastened along behind until he once more caught sight
of the tall figure of Sagan, towering over the shorter monk. Fideles
slowed his pace, keeping to the shadows, his slippered feet making no
more noise than a whisper over the stone floors. He rounded a corner.
Three monks emerged unexpectedly from a doorway. Fideles plowed
headlong into the group.
"I beg your
pardon, Brothers," gasped Fideles, struggling to disentangle
himself from a mass of long sleeves, tripping skirts.
The brethren
murmured apologies and endeavored to move out of his way, but when he
moved to the left, the three brethren moved to the left. When Fideles
sought to circumvent them to the right, they had shifted themselves
in that direction.
Finally, he bore
desperately through the middle of the group, brushed against one of
the monks, inadvertently jostled him, knocking the man's hood awry.
Light from the priest's candle shone full upon the monk's face.
Fideles stared, gasped.
The monk's eyes
were the vacant, expressionless eyes of a dead man.
Hearing that
shocked intake of breath, the monk swiftly pulled the hood over his
head. Fideles endeavored to get a second look at the strange eyes in
the shadows of the hood, but the monks had, by this time, hastened
on.
Did I see it? he
wondered. Or was it a trick of the light? No living man has eyes like
that.
Fideles couldn't
answer the question to his own satisfaction and was further upset and
disappointed to discover that, during the confusion, he had lost
sight of his lord and the strange Brother Mikael.
Fideles spent a
few moments in fruitless search, then, remembering that he had told
Brother Mikael he was going to chapel, thought perhaps he had better
do so. If anyone was spying on him, the move would hopefully allay
their suspicions. And the young priest felt truly in need of the
sanctity and reassurance of God's presence.
He hurried
through the monastery, keeping a sharp lookout for his lord, or
perhaps that same strange monk. But he saw none of the brethren. An
odd circumstance, considering the time of day. He had his lord's
command to investigate, but he didn't know where to begin. He
considered going to the abbot with his doubts and questions, decided
he would do that only after he had contained his soul with prayer.
The young priest reached the cathedral, entered it thankfully.
The large nave,
built in the style of ancient cathedrals on old Earth, was empty,
following the evening service. Fideles made his obeisance to God,
slipped among the wooden pews, and knelt to pray. All was quiet
around him, the air sweetly scented with the smell of incense and
hundreds of flickering votive candles. But Fideles's prayers halted
on his hps.
He was ill at
ease, trembled with a vague fear. The cathedral was no longer home to
him, its sanctity had been defiled, its peace shattered. He lifted
his head, glanced around for some token, some sign to confirm his
instinctive impression, but everything was in order. Yet, like a
child who can sense upon entering a house that his parent is angry,
Fideles felt the awful immensity of God's wrath crackle in the air.
He heard a
sound, glanced behind him. Three monks, perhaps those who had blocked
his way earlier, had entered the back of the cathedral. Fideles knew,
suddenly, that he didn't want that monk with the dead eyes to find
him. He blew out the candle he held in his hand, dropped it to the
floor.
"What can I
do?" he begged.
His answer was a
flash of light, seen from the corner of his eye. The flash was no
more, actually, than the flaring up of a votive candle, before the
flame guttered, drowned in the hot wax. But an idea came to Fideles's
mind. He glanced about to see if the monks were watching him.
The light was
dim, however, and if they noticed him at all, they would see only his
vague and shadowy outline. The monks could be in here for some
entirely innocent reason, yet Fideles felt threatened. He didn't have
much time. He watched them, saw them drawing aside the curtains of
the confessionals, peering inside.
Fideles rose to
his feet, glided down the central aisle, arrived at the crossing,
turned to his left, and entered the transept. He saw, out of the
corner of his eye, the monks catch a glimpse of him. They left off
their search of the confessionals, started in his direction.
The young priest
hastened to the back of the transept, moving toward a large and
ornate marble relief, depicting a scene from the Final Judgment. The
relief completely covered one portion of wall from ceiling to floor.
Passing between banks of votive candles that flanked the carving,
Fideles grabbed a candle with one hand. He held the light to the
wall, found what he sought, and thrust his index and middle fingers
into the hollow eyes of a tongue-lolling demon about to drag a sinful
man down into a marble hell.
A door, artfully
concealed by the writhing figures of the damned, shot open on oiled
hinges. Fideles darted into the darkness beyond, leaned his body
against the door, shut it fast, and stood against it, trying to catch
his breath, endeavoring to calm his frantically beating heart.
Outside, he
heard a scraping and scrabbling sound, hands attempting to find a way
within. He could imagine the monks' frustration. It would appear to
them, as it appeared to those watching the miracle play every year,
as if Fideles had walked through the wall. During the miracle play,
the brother chosen to depict the Evil One would emerge from this same
trapdoor, to be driven back by the prayers of those portraying the
virtues.
"'Que
es, aut unde venis? Tu amplexata es me, et ego foras eduxi te. Sed
nunc in reversione tua confundis me—ego autem pugna mea deciam
te!'"
" 'Who are
you? Where are you coming from? You were in my embrace, I let you
out. Yet now you are going back, defying me—but I shall fight
you and bring you down!' " the Evil One cried as he chased his
prey.
Fideles could
imagine those outside the wall, muttering exactly the same threats.
Wild laughter surged up in his throat. The young priest, shocked at
himself and fearing he was growing hysterical, choked it back. He
wasn't out of danger. The monks might accidentally stumble upon the
key that opened the hidden door. The fact that they didn't know about
the secret of the demon's eyes, known to everyone in the Abbey,
proved to Fideles what he had long suspected. They weren't really
monks at all.
Holding his
votive candle to light his way, the priest descended a spiral
staircase carved into the wall. The stairs didn't take him far,
leading only to a small room below the nave where the actors in the
miracle play dressed for the roles and waited for their cues. But
outside the room was a hallway and another door and other stairs that
would lead him to the subterranean depths below the Abbey walls.
Fideles ran
without any clear idea where he was going, the only thought in his
mind to escape those terrifying monks. He descended deeper and
deeper. The stairs came to an end. Stepping onto a smooth, dry stone
floor, he raised his light. The soft candle's flame reflected off
grayish-white marble. The eyes of stone angels stared into his,
seeming to offer him the peace of those whose rest they guarded. He
was in the mausoleum.