Chapter Eleven of Twelve

Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness. Broken hearted

Mark Andrew stood quietly looking down at Merry in the strange little observatory with his arms crossed over his chest while tapping one thumbnail against his bottom teeth. She looked innocent, beautiful and his heart leapt just to see her again. It was hard to believe that she had ever been touched by the hand of man. She seemed ephemeral somehow, like a dragonfly’s wings or a faery creature. Even after a night spent in the pouring rain, tramping through the mud and now sleeping on a bare wooden floor, she was lovely to look at. Mud was spattered on her face and her hair was tangled with bits and pieces of twigs, leaves and grass in her curly locks. Her eye make-up was smeared under her eyes, but only added to her spritely beauty. In spite of her beauty, he could not get two very vivid thoughts out of his mind. She had been in the room with Lucio when Maxie had pinned the Knight to the bedpost, the same bed that he had shared with her on several occasions. What had Merry been doing there with the Italian and had she not been gone long enough for him to become worried? She had been gone a long time after he had fallen asleep. The memory of Maxie bursting into that very same room to find her with him raced through his mind. Had Maxie also found Merry there with Lucio in a similar arrangement?

Was she so desperate for a child that any man would do as long as it was one of them? He went over the entire sequence of events in his mind. Had she been with Lucio Dambretti all that time?

Your woman is very pleasant. We had a nice, long visit. Why had Lucio said that? Dambretti was murderous when his temper was up and certainly, the man had lost his temper, but he had never lied to him. Lucio was many things, but he was not a liar. But then of course, he had not said anything outright. He had only said that they had a long talk and Merry was pleasant, no? She was certainly pleasant and extremely talkative. He could attest to the truth of the statement, but it had been a remark fraught with implications.

Mark pressed one hand against his forehead and frowned down at her. It hadn’t been Lucio’s words, but the tone, the inference. It was entirely possible that the Italian had simply used a small truth in such a way as to instill suspicion. Ramsay had no experience with this kind of thing. He had no frame of reference other than his past dealings with Lucio and that was not promising. Of course he had entertained a few passing fancies and there had been plenty of trouble because of them. None had ever had the chance to bloom into actual love, but Lucio had been there. It was in truth no wonder that the Rule said the company of women is a dangerous thing. How could one woman so complicate his life? Water dripped from his clothes and his hair onto the floor forming puddles around his boots.

He suddenly wanted to go back down the hill, find Lucio and cut out his heart for having put such conflicting thoughts in his head. But that would not be a very good idea under the circumstances. He wanted to yank Merry up by her hair and demand to know what had Lucio had been talking about. But that would not be very good either. He was stuck. Go? Stay? Kill her? Kill Lucio? It didn’t make any sense. What did he care? She was nothing but sin and trouble for him. Lucio had been his Brother long before she had been his lover and the company of women is a dangerous thing.

A streamer of water suddenly broke from the puddle around his feet and ran under Merry’s shoulder. She flinched as the cold liquid soaked through her blouse and then opened her eyes. The black boots in front of her face brought her wide awake and she looked up only far enough to see the blade of the sword and the dagger Mark held in his hands. Without waiting to see who had come to be in the little room with her, she let out a short, terrified shriek and scrambled away from him across the floor of the building on her hands and knees.

Her reaction startled Mark and triggered an instinctual reaction in his brain.

He went after her automatically.

She covered her head with her arms and screamed incoherently, begging him not to hurt her.

He didn’t know what had happened. Her actions instantly angered him. Such a reaction would certainly fit the suspicions in his mind, if she thought he had found out… found out what? What was she doing? Did she expect him to murder her? He grasped her arm and dragged her roughly to her feet. She jerked away from him and flattened herself against the wall of the observatory staring at him as if he were a demon straight from hell.

“Mark!” Her expression changed as she realized who he was. She ran to him and virtually leaped into his arms. He caught her from the air, pressing the hilts of the weapons to the small of her back. She held his face between her hands and kissed him again and again. The sword and the dagger clattered to the floor behind her as he relinquished his grip on the weapons and held her close while she cried against his wet shirt. She told him tearfully how worried she had been and how she had thought she would never see him again and how she thought he had been killed or had left her without saying goodbye and on and on.

The only thing he could think of was Lucio Dambretti! He had to know the truth.

“Merry,” he said gently and tried to disengage her arms from around his neck. “Merry!”

She let go of him and stepped back, smiling at him through her tears.

“Merry,” he began again and her smile faded as the expression on his face registered on her mind. “I have to know.”

“Know what?” she asked suspiciously.

“About Lucio,” he said simply.

“It was awful!” she said, misinterpreting the meaning of his question. “Maxie is a horrid, horrid man. I told Cecile to get rid of him a long time ago, but he was cheap. Room and board and a couple hundred bucks a month, cash. You can’t get round the clock security cheaper than that, she told me. I knew I should have put my foot down long ago and got rid of him myself, but I was a little bit scared myself living out here with just us two women in that big house. I’m really sorry for what he did to you and to your friend.”

“That’s not what I mean, Meredith,” he said and closed his eyes. How could she? How could Lucio do this to him? “I mean what were you doing in the room with them? How long were there before Maxie came?”

“Whaaat?” Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“You were with him... upstairs,” he said again too simply. He didn’t know any other way to broach the subject. “I waited for you a long time.”

“When?” she asked, frowning at him, disbelief written on her face.

“Last evening,” he told her. “When you left me in your room. You were gone a long time.”

“My God! What are you asking me, Mark Andrew?” Her face contorted in anger and she no longer looked innocent. “Are you accusing me of sleeping with him? You saw him! You pulled the knives from his hands! What are you saying?”

“He said…” Mark stopped. He couldn’t tell her what Lucio had said. Lucio had said nothing. “He said…” he tried again and then stopped.

There was no need to say more as the realization of what he was not saying sunk into her brain.

She stood staring at him and then she was leaping on him again, but not with kisses this time. She hit him in the stomach with her fist then slapped him surprisingly hard on the face. He grabbed his side, but there was little real pain. She grabbed his arms and banged her forehead against his chest in frustration, all the while telling him how much she hated him for thinking such a thing of her. Contrary to his belief, she was not a whore and she did not go around throwing herself into bed with strangers. That she had somehow known from the moment she saw him that he was the one she wanted to spend her life with, that he was everything she had ever dreamed of. And now he had hurt her more than she had ever imagined possible. Now she hated him! Hated all of them! Cecile had been right. Etceteras. Etceteras. Et… cet… te… ras...

This reaction, he could deal with. This emotion was all too familiar to him. He blinked at her in confusion momentarily and then suddenly took her wrists in his hands, holding her easily in place. She continued to shout and kick at him. This was much more normal. He understood this. Plain and simple rage. Hatred. Rage. Fighting.

He pushed her hands behind her back, bringing her close to him and then forced her back and down until she lay on the floor beneath him. This was how it always was. There was no love here. Only hatred. She hated him. He hated her. A familiar red haze clouded his vision as he began to pull her clothes from her with one hand while she kicked and screamed at him. It was just too easy. Too easy. He kissed her neck and she stopped screaming. Too easy. He covered her mouth with his and she stopped screaming. He let go of her hands and she pushed against him. Suddenly she relaxed under him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He froze. This was not right. Not the right reaction at all. His desire to hurt her fled from him, leaving him bereft of feelings at all. Hollow and sick. He raised his head and looked down into her clear blue eyes. She smiled up at him, astonishing him and he thought he would throw up.

“You don’t have to play games with me, Mark Andrew,” she told him breathlessly. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Ask?” He looked at her in amazement.

“But it certainly is kinky,” she said and giggled. “You scared the bee-jesus out of me.”

“Kinky?” His mind drifted between reality and some other plane where he was no longer Mark Andrew, but something or someone entirely different. He saw a laughing man of Arab descent wearing a blue turban fastened with a huge yellow gemstone. He felt himself go limp from head to toe and everywhere in between. Cold sweat stood out on his brow.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she frowned at him when he relaxed on her. “I didn’t mean to spoil the effect it for you.”

He rolled over on his back and stared up at the clouds through the overhead windows, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He closed his eyes and she got up on her knees next to him. He could not believe what had almost happened… again. His soul had to be as black as the pits of hell.

“Oh, this is a bad cut,” she said as she looked closely at his hip where Beaujold had slashed through his pants with his broadsword. “Does it hurt?”

“Not nearly as bad as my heart,” he told her and put one hand on his chest where he could feel his own heart pounding. She had no idea what had almost happened to her. It would never work between them. He really was dangerous just like Cecile had said. He had some kind of sickness in his mind. Something that he felt he had only just discovered about himself and something that he intended to remedy… one way or another. Simon didn’t have his particular problem in his mystical bag of healing tricks.

He allowed his mind to drift in a blurry state of confusion while trying to calm his heart. It was very nice here in the tiny observatory. Yet, only a few hundred yards away, three Knights who would have his head waited for him to return and somewhere out there was another, waiting for him to make a mistake and there were others if these failed to accomplish the mission. More than he cared to think about. But the observatory seemed somehow displaced from everything else like an impenetrable fortress that no one could breach. A dozen such places flashed through his mind and he saw different observatories made of different materials, situated in different places. Mud bricks, stone, wooden. All set high on cleared mounds, hills or mountain sides. Each one surrounded by silvery circles of water illuminated by the light of the full moon. Was he an astronomer as well as an alchemist, assassin and rapist?

“I would really like to check that out,” she told him quietly and he realized that she had been talking to him about his wounds for several seconds. She scooted around on the floor and pulled off his boots, then started unbuttoning his pants.

“Check what out?” he asked in alarm and grabbed her hands, thinking of what had just happened, or more precisely what had not happened and his subsequent thoughts about Simon d’Ornan.

“That cut on your leg, silly,” she giggled and brushed his hands away. “And I need to look at your stomach and your back. Those were awful wounds. And if there is any time left, I’ll examine your other… parts.”

“Trust me. I know how my other parts are doing,” he rolled his head back and forth on the hard floor and began to laugh.

She stopped what she was doing and looked at him in surprise. It was the first time she remembered hearing him actually laugh out loud. It was a pleasing sound and suited him very well. She could imagine him laughing at a great many things, but this was not funny. Perhaps his sense of humor was as morbid as his trade.

“What’s so funny, Chevalier du Morte?” She frowned at him and goosed him in his ribs. “Did you think I was going to take advantage of you… again?” She laughed at him.

“No! Yes! I mean, would you? I am at your mercy, but remember, I’m injured so you must be gentle.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had truly laughed aloud. The sound of it was strange in his own ears. She crawled over him, carefully avoiding his hip and lay next to him on the hard wooden floor. He kissed her feverishly on her neck and face and the world seemed to retreat, leaving them in their own private dimension.

“Don’t you ever worry about anything important?” he whispered in her ear and wrapped his arms around her. “You haven’t even asked me about what happened. We may be killed any moment.” His words were incongruent with his actions. He didn’t seem to be incapacitated in the least, nor did he seem overly concerned about dying at the moment. In fact, he seemed oblivious to the world outside their tiny sanctuary.

“The Indians like to say ‘It’s a good day to die’. I don’t care what happened. All that matters is that you are here with me now,” she told him softly. “Just love me before it’s too late.”

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D’Brouchart sat in the leather armchair in the library with a glass of brandy in his hand. Montague stood in front of one of the tall bookshelves, perusing the titles of the numerous volumes there as if he were in a public library. Cecile leaned against the desk with her arms folded across her stomach. They were waiting for Maxie to return with the Chevalier d’Epee. Sir Montague kept clearing his throat and coughing as they conversed, obviously displeased with the topic of conversation. He purposefully kept his back to the woman as he tried to concentrate on the titles. He would have given anything for the opportunity to browse this library at his leisure, but the woman had said something that made his mind reel and vision blur. She had asked the Grand Master to explain what she would have to do to become a Templar, if she decided to try it at a later date.

“You would have to prove yourself,” the Grand Master was telling her. “Submit to an investigation of your character. Show that you are worthy of the title. Study the works of the ancient Church Fathers. Accept the Christ as your Savior. Learn the secret doctrines kept by the Order. Learn the true nature of Christianity as the Christ taught it. Learn the history of the Order… the true history. Learn your trade, so to speak. All those things and more. Apprenticeship takes years. But there is something that you must know.”

“And what is that?” She asked him raising one eyebrow.

“There are vows,” he told her casually. “You would have to take the vows and pass through the Initiation.”

“I hardly see a problem with your initiation,” she shrugged. “I have read as much as I could find about it. Surely there is nothing involved that I could not manage to survive. Is it true that you spit on the cross, worship a severed head and exchange obscene kisses?” Montague almost choked before controlling himself. These were the trumped up charges of the Roman Church which were used against the Templars during the Inquisition. Untrue. Lies, misrepresentations and slander that had brought about the early demise of some very decent men.

“You most likely know nothing of our Initiation,” he shook his head condescendingly. “What you have read is but speculation, guesswork, lies at best or, even worse, accounts taken from the confessions tortured from the Brothers during the Inquisition and most of them were but servants, not Initiated Knights or Officers. I believe that there is one part of the vows that you would find most difficult, my lady.”

“And what part is that?” she asked him, displaying some amusement at his archaic mannerisms.

“The vow of chastity. The thing that you find most amusing about us. Never to allow your lips to touch the lips of women. Avoiding the company of women. Could you do that?” He raised both eyebrows.

“Wouldn’t it be the lips of any man for me?” she asked in surprise.

“No, why should it be changed to accommodate you?” he asked. “I believe that the vow in its present form would suit you just as it suits the rest of us. You would have to give up your sex life, mademoiselle. Simply put, wanton association between men and women is forbidden, but in your case, it would be the same since you insert yourself into the male role. Once the vow is taken, we devote ourselves to the Order and the fulfillment of its goals. If an action does not benefit the entire Order, it is not indulged simply for pleasure. If an association between the sexes is for the purpose of procreation, the bearing of children, then such associations are acceptable, even for Templars. Otherwise, chastity is required of the Knights of the Order.”

“That’s preposterous!” She laughed. “Your Knights are not sexless, sir. I can attest to that.”

“My Knights are only human,” he countered. “That is what confession is for.”

This was the same thing Dambretti had told her. It didn’t make sense.

“But that is not to say that you would be free to do as you please and then confess as often as you need to cover your sins. We are not Born Again Christians, Miss Valentino. We take our vows quite seriously. The Initiation Rites were designed to sort the truly devout from the riffraff. The enlightened from the profane. The wheat from the chaff, so to speak. You would not make it through the Initiation unless you were sincere in your devotion to God and, in order to do that, you must know who God is.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” she shrugged. “I don’t want to be one of your Knights. I just asked out of curiosity. I only want to share their immortality. I couldn’t care less about your vows and your moral responsibilities and your arcane lifestyle. It holds no interest for me and immortality would not affect my lifestyle in any way that I know of. I see that it does nothing to quell the desires of the flesh. I mean, it doesn’t make you impotent, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he nodded and smiled at her. “In fact, it keeps most of my Knights in the prime of their lives. Ready for almost anything… any time.”

Maxie opened the door to the library and ushered the Knight of the Sword into the room. The man looked ghastly. His thin hair was muddy and stuck to his head, his clothes were disheveled and dirty. He had a long rip in the fabric of his shirt under his right arm and a slash in his left boot just above his ankle. He limped slowly into the room, pressing his right arm against his side where Ramsay’s deadly sword had struck at his ribs. He locked eyes with d’Brouchart briefly and then stood with his eyes lowered, silently waiting for the Master to speak. He was outdone and totally ashamed.

“Sir Beaujold, what of Ramsay?” D’Brouchart spoke to the man in French and then stood up.

“He has escaped me,” Beaujold told him flatly in French and looked back at the security agent frowning. “I would have had him, but for the interference of these two… morons.”

“Had him?” Montague turned from the bookshelf, casting a disdainful look at the man. “You mean you would have cut off his head without waiting to ascertain his condition.” The Knight of the Holy City was also fluent in French and extremely agitated to see the Knight of the Sword in such poor condition. He was embarrassed for him, ashamed to be associated with him. The man deserved it as far as he was concerned. The Frenchman would have killed Ramsay without a decent hearing.

“You will have some explaining to do, sir,” the Grand Master narrowed his eyes at the Knight of the Sword. “Where are your Brothers? Your incompetence has embarrassed this office. I should have placed Dambretti or Barry in charge of the mission!”

Cecile Valentino laughed.

“I beg to differ, sir,” she said in perfect French, startling and embarrassing all three of them. “I believe the reverse may have been true had not the morons interfered. I saw no sign that Sir Ramsay was ready to capitulate when he had his sword under your chin, sir. Nor do I remember seeing him limp away when he left you in my charge.”

D’Brouchart chuckled softly and sat back down. He resumed the conversation in English. Beaujold’s face went from ashen to deep red. Maxie shifted nervously behind him, as cold sweat beaded on his forehead. It made his head hurt even worse as another wave of nausea overtook him. Why did she insist on provoking these maniacs? Didn’t she realize that he was the only man in the house and Ramsay was still out there somewhere?

“And what of my other Knights?” he asked Beaujold. “Have you seen them?”

“I have not,” Beaujold told him. “The last I saw of Brother Dambretti, he was being led into this house by that woman.” He nodded at Valentino. “And as far as the others, I believe that they were taken prisoner and placed in the basement. However, there is a great deal of blood upstairs in Ramsay’s bedroom. I am afraid that something terrible has happened to the Knight of the Golden Eagle.”

Valentino glanced at Maxie who snorted and then eyed the blond man sourly. She had almost forgotten about the Italian and the promise she had so carelessly given to the perverted bodyguard. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was he still upstairs? Surely Maxie had taken him out to the old shelter with the others. So whose blood was in the bedroom upstairs? Her heart skipped a beat as the possibilities flashed through her mind. If the perverted idiot had done irreparable damage to Dambretti, she would be in very serious trouble. She had had the same trouble with the sadistic bastard when they had killed d’Brouchart’s apprentice. Only her intervention had saved the young man from a much worse fate than a simple shot to the back of his head.

Valentino frowned deeply at him. If Maxie had ruined her plans, she would kill him herself.

“Enough!” she snapped. “You have seen your Knight. Now let’s get on with the exchange.”

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Lucio Dambretti sat on the huge slab of limestone outside the defunct fall-out shelter, staring at his feet dejectedly. Konrad von Hetz stood a few paces away with his hands on his hips looking up the trail where Ramsay had disappeared. They had waited for almost forty-five minutes for the Knight of Death to return. The German’s wet hair had dried in the hot summer breeze and he was beginning to perspire, wetting it again. But the heat and the uncomfortably hot Texas weather was not nearly as disturbing as what he had seen in the Golden Eagle’s mind. The blond woman was up there somewhere and Ramsay had gone to her, even after all they had been through. That Ramsay had not betrayed the Order was a great relief, but the woman was another problem altogether. Sir Ramsay was hopelessly enmeshed in an emotionally devastating conundrum concerning the woman and what to do about her. The problem was serious, but not without remedy.

Lucio’s conversation with the woman had been highly disturbing and Lucio was wrong for having delved into his Brother’s business in such a personal manner, but even so, Lucio could not be punished for being inquisitive. He could be punished for being infatuated with this woman, but it was hardly worth mentioning. It was the old secret that the Italian harbored concerning Sir Ramsay’s past. Never would he have thought it possible that Mark Ramsay could be a criminal. That he could have been a criminal for over 800 years and that Lucio Dambretti had been aware of it all those centuries was nothing less than miraculous. Von Hetz admired Dambretti’s devotion to his former Master and mentor, but it did not excuse either one of them. A Knight of the Council was required to report such things. In keeping quiet, Lucio had made himself an accessory to the crime even though Ramsay had threatened him. Another minor crime, threatening to inflict harm, coercion, intimidation; it was nothing less than extortion on Ramsay’s part. A crime any way it was viewed. Ramsay was guilty of a heinous crime and he could not go unpunished. There were no statutes of limitations in the Order. The matter would have to be addressed and the sooner, the better.

Von Hetz had long suspected something dreadful was buried in Ramsay’s brain, but considering the Knight’s vocation, he had never delved too deeply when making his mental connections with the Knight of Death. He confined his probing to very basic, very simple levels such as where the Knight might be or what he might be feeling at any particular moment, strictly on the superficial level. These ‘sightings’ were usually done at the express request of the Grand Master or whenever unusual circumstances or events transpired such as those that had precipitated this trip to America.

The Ritter did not hold Dambretti’s reluctance to enter the water-filled tomb against him. He knew quite well that the Italian had an unnatural fear of water and dark places. His fear must have increased tremendously upon the thought of entering a dark place completely flooded with water, but human nature was such a pitiful melee of treachery and deceit, especially when women and honor were involved. Ramsay would forgive the Italian for his hasty words even though his anger was simmering and his suspicions were piqued at the moment. Lucio had put up an admirable fight against the intrusion into his thoughts, but his efforts had only brought the secret more quickly to the surface. The Ritter suppressed the urge to reach out to Ramsay’s mind even though he thought he already knew what might be occurring on top of the hill. If Ramsay raped the girl or murdered her in a jealous rage, he would be in deeper trouble than ever and he had definitely been in the blackest of moods when he had left them. The punishment for rape was severe enough, but to kill an innocent Christian, especially a woman, without even the somewhat mitigating excuse of war to justify the crime, the only punishment would be death. The tall man chewed his lip thoughtfully. What would be done, would be done. But the question remained: Go up or go back?

“What shall we do now, Brother?” Simon asked. The Healer stood at his elbow echoing his thoughts aloud. The Healer had been strangely quiet since emerging from the cavern, concentrating his attention on the young apprentice. Christopher had very nearly drowned in the last moments of their captivity. He was still coughing up foul, black water from his lungs.

“We are obligated to return him to the Master,” von Hetz said without looking at him. “It will be for Sir d’Brouchart to decide.”

Dambretti stood up. His humiliation was complete. He had almost failed his Brothers in their need; he had angered his friend and Brother to the point of committing a serious crime and then betrayed him to the Apocalyptic Knight after eight centuries! Now they were all in danger again from above and below. He looked up the hill and then down the path toward the mansion. He was certain that Brother Ramsay would not have gone back up the hill if he had not made that foolish remark about ‘his woman’. The Scot would have simply left her sleeping there and been done with it, but he had been stupid and opened his mouth… again. His words had been totally out of order and uncalled for. Now he had most likely made the Scot an enemy for life of and in the case of the immortal Knights of the Council that meant a long, long time. He owed him everything! And now he owed him an apology if could get close enough to deliver it. He doubted he would get the chance to ask his Brother for forgiveness before he was either one or both of them were dead. If Ramsay hurt the woman and found out afterwards that his words had been empty braggadocio… the Italian shuddered at the ramifications.

“I will go for him,” Dambretti told them. “I drove him away. I will go for him. I know where he is, Brother.”

Von Hetz turned his gaze on the Italian, surveying him slowly, as if searching his thoughts… again. Simon frowned and shook his head.

“I’ll go with you, Sir,” Christopher spoke up from his perch on a smaller boulder where he had been cleaning the mud from his daggers. The young man stood up, waiting for Dambretti’s answer.

“Go and take the boy,” von Hetz nodded to him. “There is the matter of Sir Beaujold. Watch for him, Brother. An extra pair of eyes may be needed,” the German warned and turned to Simon. “We will go down to the house and see what has become of Miss Valentino, and her servant.”

Lucio retrieved his sword from the boulder and sat down, wiping it clean on his shirt. The silver blade, ornately engraved with Egyptian hieroglyphs, sparkled in the sun and thinking with some regret that he did not have his own apprentice with him. Most likely he would need to pass along his Mysteries before the day was over, before Ramsay administered the Final Rites to him and cut off his head. Even worse, he might have his head cut off before he passed along his Mysteries and Ramsay administered the Final Rites. Either way, he felt sure that he was about to die and all for nothing. Nothing except his incredible ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He regretted that he would not be able to say goodbye to Amelia. She was a good, Sicilian girl. He jerked his head toward the Apocalyptic Knight and was relieved to see that the man was no longer looking at him. It wouldn’t do for the man to learn about his latest in a long line of good, Sicilian girls.

He looked up at Christopher and smiled crookedly.

“Are you ready then, il mio dolce?”

The young man returned his smile and nodded before coughing up another mouthful of nasty water. Lucio could see that the apprentice wanted nothing more than to wreak a bit of revenge on the Knight of the Sword and the ugly man with the big gun. Behind both their smiles was a look of fatalistic doom wherein they assumed that this small act might be their last official assignment as members of the Order. They both had some explaining to do.

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Mark pulled on his sticky, damp boots and stood up, grimacing slightly at the feel of the cold, blood and water soaked leather against his bare feet. He retrieved his shirt and pulled it on over his head. His hair was still damp as he brushed it back out of his face. His fears had returned with a vengeance. He should not have allowed her to keep him here with her for so long. Even the few minutes they had spent together in the observatory might have meant the difference between life and death for either or both of them.

“Hurry!” he urged her as she laced up her own boots and then stood up in order to fasten the buttons on her jeans.

“Where are we going?” She looked up at him with just a hint of fear in her voice. She regretted having kept him here for so long. She might have taken the only advantage he had, the only chance he had left to escape the man bent on killing him. The curly-haired one with the dancing eyes had surely told the others where she was… where he might be found.

“Back to the house,” he told her and took her arm. “We have to get away from here before it’s too late. We have to get my car. You say the keys are in your room? Can I find them?”

“Probably not and besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” she told him as he started down the ladder.

Once they were out in the open, they broke into a run, dashing for the relative safety of the stunted trees and bushes growing further down the side of the hill. Instead of following the path past the old shelter, they cut across the rough ground, slipping and sliding on the steep incline, keeping themselves concealed as much as possible behind the limited vegetation. At one point, they were forced to lie flat on their stomachs under a gnarled cedar as they waited for Sir Dambretti and Christopher Stewart to pass on the trail above them. Mark watched these two with a mixture of pain and regret. The mud was drying and sticking to them and very soon they would be the same color as the earth.

Merry tried in vain to scrape some of the goo off of her as they ran through the twisting garden paths to the patio. Mark motioned for her to be quiet as they edged down the wall to the first set of double doors. He leaned cautiously around the door facing and then jumped back, slumping low and shaking his head. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, listening as if he could hear them. Merry could hear nothing. Valentino and several others were in the library. Mark crawled past her without the slightest hint of noise, though he still carried the sword and the dagger, one weapon in each hand. Merry crawled after him, trying to emulate his movements.

They left the patio, went down and around the house to the door leading into the kitchen. The Knight made a foray inside the service door, crouching low against the wall until he could see into the kitchen. There were two servants at work, the cook was preparing dinner and a maid was putting away dishes in the cupboard. Mark straightened up and looked back at Merry. He smiled at her from his mud-smeared face and flicked some cedar needles from her shoulder, causing her to smile in return. They were a mess.

“Sometimes the direct approach is best,” he told her quietly, repeating von Hetz’ words. “Act natural,” he added and then had to smile at her appearance. Her muddy face reminded him of the Celtic lads who had covered themselves with mud and blue paint just to scare their enemies to cowardice. He shook his head at the unexpected memory. Was he that old? Surely not. The sword was a problem. He tucked the Flaming Sword inside his bedraggled trousers alongside his right leg away from the two servants and put Merry on his left side to cover the cut in his pants.

They walked into the kitchen as if nothing had happened. The cook glanced up at them, frowned when Merry shrugged apologetically and then went back to his salad. The maid stared at them indifferently. She would have to clean the mud from the floors. She muttered something in Spanish under her breath and shook her head.

Merry headed straight for the back stairwell and Mark nodded to the maid who eyed him suspiciously as he passed. The passage up to the second floor and into Merry’s bedroom was almost too easy. She closed the door softly and then began rummaging frantically through the drawers in her dresser. Her hands shook as she pulled her clothes out, throwing them helter-skelter about the room in panic. She looked up at him and shook her head. The keys were not there. Not where she remembered hiding them.

“I swear I put them here,” she told him and began to cry in frustration. His keys had been important to her. She remembered stealing them from Cecile’s desk in the library and bringing them up here. She remembered how it seemed as if she had to have them, had to have everything pertaining to him in her possession. Even his rental car keys. She remembered how the keychain looked in every detail. A clip held the keys on a silver chain attached to a gold and silver medallion into which his initials had been engraved and filled with black lacquer. Just his initials. MAR. No address. No phone number. She had needed it. Mark opened the door a crack and looked out into the strangely quiet hallway. Merry attacked her bureau with the same reckless abandon, pulling out the drawers, dumping the contents on the floor, all the while muttering ‘Where? Where?’

Mark could hear someone walking up the stairs, two someones. He watched the top of the stairs with one eye, waiting to see who was coming. Beaujold’s head appeared above the top riser, followed closely by Maxie’s ugly face still sporting the bandage on his nose. Mark eased the door to and signaled for her to be quiet. Merry froze and they waited until Maxie had escorted the Knight down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. Mark nodded to her and she began searching even more desperately than before.

Mark opened the door again and resumed his surveillance of the hallway.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

“Sir, I must protest!” Montague pleaded with d’Brouchart as they made their way up the steps and back inside the mansion. “Do not do this. There must be some other way.”

“Enough!” d’Brouchart raised his voice and held up the baculus as Montague opened the door. “I will have my Knights returned to me.”

Sir Montague cringed away from the twisted ivory staff with the orb of cracked amber on top. The golden claws surrounding the imperfectly cut crystalline ball reflected the light in brilliant flashes. He could see the triangular white emblem suspended inside the crystal with the red cross emblazoned on it. He had never seen the baculus of the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, but he had heard of it. It was unclear why the Master had it now. He had told the woman that he needed to get the missing ingredient for the Tree of Life from the Range Rover before they could continue with the exchange of 'goods'. The thing frightened Montague and he knew quite well that it had absolutely nothing to do with the ceremony associated with bestowing immortality. All he knew about the baculus was that it was ancient, perhaps even prehistoric if the words of Louis Champlain held any water at all. According to the Knight of the Golden Key, the baculus, like the Golden Key, had been handed down from the Atlantean god-kings to the extinct race of Djinn until it had passed into the hands of the poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. It was as enigmatic as the pyramids in Egypt and as mysterious as the stone rings at Salisbury. Whatever its source, its power was great and mystical and he wanted nothing to do with it. He held the door open for the Master and they stepped into the spacious foyer of the mansion.

Mark eased the door of Merry’s bedroom open and strained his ears to hear the voices below in the foyer, where someone had just entered through the front door. His heart froze as he recognized the voice of d’Brouchart, the Grand Master and the Knight of the Holy City, Sir William Montague. What were they doing here? He’d never known the Master to travel with Montague and he’d never known of Montague going on missions of this sort. Cecile had certainly outdone herself this time in more ways than one, but where was the formidable lady? She was not in the foyer, greeting her guests. They had let themselves in.

“Now let’s get this thing done,” d’Brouchart told his companion.

Mark stepped into the hallway in complete silence and edged his way out onto the balcony far enough to see over the railing. The sight of the Grand Master with the baculus almost made him faint from fear.

He had to get Merry out of the house now. He had no intention of going with her, but had not told her yet. He would send her away and do what he had to do to ensure that the Order was protected. Now his plans would have to include protecting the Grand Master. Since his memories had returned, his duty had been quite clear to him. The possibility of accompanying the woman was out of the question. It would be a useless endeavor. His situation was very precarious and there were no options open for him other than the remote possibility of regaining his standing within the Order. There was no hope for the relationship between himself and the Pixie. Love or not. It didn’t matter. He had to go back or he had to die. There was nothing in between. No gray area… only black. The one thing he was worried about at the moment, however, was Merry’s safety. He had to get her away from the house before the Grand Master did whatever he was planning to do. Once she was away, he would come back to do his part.

He slipped silently back into the room and scrambled through the stuff on the floor, looking for the damned keys with renewed urgency.

“Wait! Wait!” Merry looked up with dawning realization. Cecile had almost caught her with the keychain the fourth night of his captivity. She had left them in a candle jar in Cecile’s bathroom. “I remember now. I left them in Valentino’s room. And my pistol’s gone, too! Cecile’s been in my stuff!”

“Damn it!” Mark beat the floor with his fist. He grabbed her by the shoulders and set her down in the midst of the ruin. “Look, forget the keys for now. I have some unfinished business here. We’ll have to split up. I want you to get the keys and take my car. Try to stay out of sight and for God’s sake don’t stop to argue with Cecile. Kill her if you must, but get away from here. I’ll wait here until the coast is clear and then I’ll settle this thing with the others. Meanwhile, I want you to go into town and wait for me there. Where can you go? Where can I find you?”

“There’s a Bed and Breakfast Inn. Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast. Cecile owns it. I can go there, but I don’t want to leave you. How do I know you will come?” She frowned at him and tears welled up in her eyes.

“I have to come,” he smiled at her and lied. He was not a good liar. He’d never had much cause to lie and didn’t hold much store by liars. “I have to return the car to the rental agency or pay the late charges.”

“That’s very funny,” she sniffed and he pulled her to him, hugging her briefly and then kissing her passionately, perhaps for the last time.

“You’re a sorry liar, Mark Ramsay,” she cried into his shirt when he released her. “You won’t come.”

“I’ll come if I can. I promise,” he said and then kissed her once more. “Now go before Maxie comes down from upstairs.”

Merry got up slowly and then went to the door quietly. She opened it slowly and peeked into the hall. She glanced at him once more and he nodded to her, smiling, willing her to go and then she let herself out into the hall.

“Deo gratis,” Mark whispered when she had gone and sat down in the floor. He crossed himself and repeated a brief prayer, asking God to protect her and begging for forgiveness of his sins.

When he finished the prayer, he felt somewhat better, though he hardly believed that God would be listening to him. He picked up the sword from amidst the clutter on her floor and tossed the dagger on the bed.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

“What is that?” Cecile eyed the baculus with a suspicious frown.

“The missing ingredient in the formula, Mademoiselle,” d’Brouchart said. “It is not really an ingredient that you do not have, but a tool and the knowledge to use it.”

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “So what do we do now?”

“I need space,” he told her and Montague stood behind him with a permanent frown etched on his face. The Grand Master was lying. This was not the Tree of Life ceremony. What was he up to? “Is there somewhere we can go outside. It must be done outside in the open, under the eyes of God, but it should be safe from prying eyes. I’m sure you understand.”

Valentino’s smile faded. She did not savor the thought of leaving the protection of the house with these two men and she did not want to take Maxie with her. He expected to receive the gift as well and she had not bargained with them for him. The last thing she wanted was an immortal Maxwell Sturgeon. The man disgusted her. He was stupid, freaky and ugly. She couldn’t imagine having to put up with him forever.

She rounded the desk and reached in the drawer, removing a snub-nose revolver that she had taken from Merry’s dresser drawer.

“Just in case you decide to try something stupid,” she told them. “And don’t even think I don’t know how to use it or don’t have the nerve. I’ve used it before.”

“You will not need it, mademoiselle,” d’Brouchart told her. “But if it makes you feel better…” He shrugged.

“I know. I know. You’re all immortal, but I also know that I can at least temporarily disable you and you bleed just like the rest of us.”

“Well said. Shall we go then?”

Valentino opened the patio doors and waved them outside. “How’s this?”

“Too confined,” he told her and looked at Montague as if to warn him to silence. “We are too close to the building. Electrical fields interfere with the effectiveness of the baculus. Wiring, you see?”

Valentino sighed in aggravation as she looked around. The garden was almost a jungle. The closest place that was more or less wide open was up the hill behind the house where she and Merry had built an observatory in an old service building. She sighed and motioned them toward the garden path.

“Up there,” she nodded to the limestone hill rising up above the trees behind the house. “It’s flat up there. Will that do?”

“It may be… acceptable.” D’Brouchart gazed up at the hill, shading his eyes with one hand. “Yes, I believe that will do quite well.”

They started down the picturesque path through the garden. The cool breeze under the trees brushed his face and caused the silver windchimes in the branches above their heads to jingle softly. When D’Brouchart glanced up into the branches of one of the ancient oak trees overhanging the path, he was not surprised to see the Knight of the Apocalypse looking down at him. He raised one finger to his lips and continued on without stopping. Von Hetz made a slashing motion across his throat as a signal to Simon. The Healer was perched on another branch, higher up. They would not attack. Not yet. They waited for the two Knights and the woman to pass and then dropped silently on the walk behind them.

“What in God’s name?” Simon whispered as they watched the unlikely trio disappear up the path.

“Exactly,” von Hetz nodded. His blood ran cold at the sight of the ancient device in the Master’s hand. “This is not a good thing, my Brother.”

Simon nodded. His blue eyes were wide with terror as they followed their Master at a safe distance along the red brick path leading back the way they had just come.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Mark stopped in his tracks in the library, then flattened himself in the shadows before looking out the wide windows into the garden as the two Knights dropped down onto the path behind Valentino. He waited for the appearance of Dambretti and Christopher, but the Knight of the Apocalypse and the Knight of the Serpent started off together after the Grand Master without waiting. No one else joined them.

“Damn it!” he cursed under his breath.

Beaujold was upstairs with Maxie, probably undergoing the same treatment that Dambretti had received. Merry had not come down yet. Dambretti and Christopher Stewart were out there somewhere. Here was the Mystic Healer and the Apocalyptic Knight. And what on earth was the Grand Master planning to do with the staff? Where were they going? Were they all looking for him? He went back to the hall and squinted up at the second floor landing. Merry, Merry, come on, he thought, as a feeling of dread overwhelmed him. He went back to the window just as the two Knights disappeared into the depths of the garden. Merry, Merry…

He ran down the hall and took the stairs two at a time.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

“Where could they have gone, Master?” Christopher Stewart asked as he looked around the top of the bald hill.

“I have no idea, little brother,” Lucio shook his head. He was not above being relieved to have found that Sir Ramsay and the blond were no longer in the observatory. He had been further relieved to find no traces of blood inside. At least Mark Andrew had not killed her there. His conscience was freed of that thought. Perhaps he would not die so soon after all. Perhaps Ramsay had seen the true nature of his remarks.

They started back down the trail toward the house. There was nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. When they reached the place where the door to the shelter was located, Dambretti suddenly grabbed the apprentice and threw him behind an upright pile of boulders, placing one hand over his mouth when they came to rest against the stones. Someone was coming up the path. They positioned themselves behind the rocks and waited.

“Holy Mary!” Dambretti whispered breathlessly when he saw the Grand Master carrying the baculus up the hill.

D’Brouchart found him out immediately and looked directly at him, meeting his terrified eyes with a stern look of warning before traveling on up the hill. Valentino followed behind the Knight of the Holy City with a pistol pointed at his back. She wore a look of grim determination mixed with expectant delight on her face.

“What is going on, Master?” Christopher whispered the question.

“Only God knows,” Dambretti told him reverently. “But I am sure we will soon find out.” He started out of his hiding place, but then fell back quickly. “Wait! Someone else is coming.”

They fell in silently behind Simon and von Hetz when they passed the same way a short time later.

“What is happening?” Lucio caught up with Simon, startling the healer.

Simon just shook his head and kept walking, too disturbed to speak.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Mark Andrew tried every door on the second floor. Merry was not there. He hoped beyond hope that she had left via the service stairs and was now on her way to town. He bolted back down the stairs and out through the patio doors, turned left and ran toward the garage. The El Dorado was still parked in the building just as they had left it, along with the white Cadillac limousine and the dark blue four-wheel-drive SUV. He stood looking at the cars in shocked silence. Where was she? Where had she gone? His mind went blank. What to do? Go back to the house? Follow the Grand Master? He knew how to hotwire a vehicle, even a new one. Christopher had kept him updated on the newer models. The SUV would be easiest. He eyed the vehicle and chewed his lip nervously. He could leave now… or… he could do the right thing. He had brought them to these straits; it was his duty to see it through to the bitter end. If he left now, he would have no hope of ever finding peace. If he played his cards right, he could regain his standing and perhaps take time out next year for a long overdue holiday. There were no rules against going on holiday… in America… in Texas.

“Damn it!” he shouted into the dim interior of the building before racing back out into the midday sun. He looked back at the house once more, searching every window in sight for signs of life and then up at the limestone outcropping behind the garden.

There were no more options. He was out of time. He ran back toward the garden and up the path where the Grand Master and the rest of the strange entourage had disappeared.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

D’Brouchart looked about the relatively flat top of the barren hill and walked to a spot near the center of the clearing. Sweat ran down his neck, soaking the collar of his dress shirt. He hooked one finger under the knot of the tie and tugged it loose. Montague took up a stance near his left shoulder. The Master held the baculus out in front of him and set the base of the staff upon the ground.

Sir Montague shuddered. He longed to be back in his office in London, sitting in his comfortable leather chair, reading the Wall Street Journal on his computer screen, sipping a cup of Earl Grey. Buying and selling stocks was his forte. Checking the market trends. Overseeing the financial holdings of the Order. That was his first love. This mystical stuff was beyond his comprehension. He was a businessman, not a Magus. As a history buff and an armchair philosopher, he loved his wine in the evening, a good cigar and an old Bogart movie. He took two holidays a year. In the spring time he spent two weeks basking beside the pool at the Villa north of Pompeii and in the dead of winter he took another two weeks in the Florida Keys staying in one of the quaint old hotels there. It now seemed that his whole life flashed in front of his eyes like a dying man, but his first duty was to God and whatever the Grand Master said was final. It was the Will of God that he was there when he should have been dead years ago. Every moment of his life was a precious gift from the Creator and Master of the Universe. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the worst. He would see this thing through to its conclusion and do the best he could to serve God and his Master. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and touched the butt of the pistol there.

“If you would, my lady,” d’Brouchart addressed Valentino solemnly “please stand in front of me and face the Staff of Power.”

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. “Staff of Power. It figures,” she muttered.

Valentino positioned herself directly in front of the staff, but kept her distance. She trained the pistol on Montague.

“If anything goes wrong, I’ll shoot him first and then I’ll shoot you and take your staff. Got it?” she warned them both and they nodded solemnly.

D’Brouchart nodded and then drew himself up to his full height, an unlikely six feet, three inches, though his weight made him seem shorter, and raised his eyes toward Heaven.

“All ye gathered here,” he began and the words drifted across the hilltop as if he were speaking into a microphone “behold the work of God and tremble. From the bowels of the earth I call upon the powers of the Creator of the Universe to work his mysterious miracles for the benefit of the children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”

Valentino kept her eyes moving nervously back and forth from the globe of the baculus to the faces of the two men. Montague had stopped watching her and was now staring at the amber orb atop the ivory staff. It seemed that a tiny flame had been ignited in the center of the cracked glass. The white triangle seemed to be ablaze inside the crystal. The wind whipped around them suddenly, picking up bits of dried grass, cedar needles and debris. A cold shiver coursed up the accountant’s spine. Something very bad was going to happen. He was sure of it.

“O great Creator of the Universe. Most Excellent and Holy, most High, look down upon the misery of your people and help them in the hour of their need. Bless them with the miracle of your abundant love and show them signs of your all powerful presence.”

Montague squinted at the globe. The flame in the center grew brighter and it seemed that the brilliant rays of the midday sun dimmed a bit. He blinked his eyes and glanced at the woman. She no longer watched him. The pistol was still pointed at him, but her eyes were glued to the top of the baculus.

Montague had never heard these words before. The fear in his heart made his pulse race and his legs tingled. He didn’t know if it was just his imagination or if it was some effect of the ceremony. Perhaps the Master was just trying to frighten the woman with some mystical display. He swayed slightly and righted himself quickly. It almost felt as if the ground had shifted below his feet. He had to get hold of himself or they would be picking him up off the ground.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

The three Knights of the Council of Twelve and one apprentice lay on their stomachs at the crest of the hill like truant school boys and peeked across the flattened ground at the three people standing near the observatory tower.

The apprentice lay next to Simon D’Ornan who had begun to whisper prayers in French. Christopher crossed himself again and again as he watched the strange drama unfolding in front of him and tried to keep up with the prayer that the Healer was praying next to him. He knew which one it was, but he said the words in English. His French was worse than his Latin.

The sun dimmed as if clouds had passed in front of it and his ears popped. Glancing up, he saw nothing, but blue sky. The wind blew bits of dried grass, dust and debris in his face. None of them looked up or said anything when Sir Ramsay joined them quietly. He lay down next to Christopher and squinted into the dust, pushing the Flaming Sword out in front of him on the ground, ready for attack or retreat. They could easily hear the voice of the Grand Master as it echoed eerily in the silence. Even the insects in the grass had ceased their chirping and buzzing. Gradually they became aware of an oppressive humming noise, more felt than heard, enveloping them. The clear blue sky turned a sickly shade of green.

“Santa Maria!” the Italian Knight uttered his favorite sobriquet. His voice sounded strangely muffled in the gloom.

“In the name of King David and King Solomon, I summon forth the powers that lie beneath the mountains of the earth and beneath the seas and beneath the fields of grain and beneath the waters that flow. I call upon the great and powerful mind to ease our burdens and make quick the building of the temple.”

Von Hetz drew in a sharp breath and turned his eyes on Dambretti, looking at him in absolute shock. Never in his long career with d’Brouchart had he seen such a thing. In fact, he’d had no idea that the precious relic was anything more than simply that: a relic. Now he marveled that this staff was somehow part of the Master’s mystery. Dambretti had no idea what was happening, but the look on the Apocalyptic Knight’s face told him more than he wanted to know. Simon continued his frantic prayers and Christopher continued crossing himself though his eyes were closed tightly against the dust. Mark Andrew scuttled back a bit and then threw himself down on the ground beside von Hetz.

“What is this, Brother?” he asked when von Hetz looked at him.

“We must confess,” von Hetz told him and plucked at the silver earrings in Mark’s hair before hitting him on the shoulder with his closed fist. “Shrive me, Brother.” He did not wait for a response before beginning his confession. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have taken the name of the Lord my God in vain. I have lost my temper with my Brothers. I have disobeyed the commands of my Master. I have taken the thoughts of my Brothers against their will. I have willfully injured my Brother.”

Ramsay hit the Knight on his shoulder and nodded “Go in peace, my Brother, your sins are forgiven.”

“What is my penance?” Von Hetz asked him in surprise.

“Most of those weren’t sins, Brother. They were part of your duty. God understands.” He hit the man again and closed his eyes. It was his turn.

“Shrive me, Brother. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have lost my way and sinned against God. I have committed adultery against the Order. I have lost my temper with my Brothers. I have had impure thoughts. I have broken my vows of chastity and I have spoken during a meal. I have drunk spirits without just cause. I have taken the name of the Lord, my God, in vain and I have committed murder and rape in my heart. I beg Your forgiveness.”

“Go in peace, my Brother, your confessed sins are forgiven,” von Hetz hesitated briefly and then hit him again and turned to Dambretti.

Mark Andrew frowned deeply at the Knight of the Apocalypse. Surely he had not heard him correctly. Von Hetz had added a word to the litany. He was sure of it, but he wasn’t sure what word it had been. There would be retribution, punishment for what he had done. Dambretti stared at him and then hit him on the shoulder.

“Confess, my Brother, before it is too late.”

“Shrive me, Brother,” he said in Italian and then began to confess his own sins which included impure thoughts and driving his Brother to anger. Mark pretended not to hear the confession, but was greatly relieved when the Knight of the Golden Eagle did not mention breaking his vows of chastity though he did include lying with a woman over thirty times since his last confession. Mark knew that this could not be Meredith. Well, at least not all thirty… surely…

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Sir Montague swayed again and realized that it was not his state of mind, but a rather more alarming development. The ground was indeed moving below his feet! He looked up at the sun and saw it riding high in the sky through a greenish haze, but the hill top seemed shrouded in twilight, as if it were early evening. His ears popped and he repressed the urge to stick his fingers in them. He worked his jaw, trying to make them pop again to no avail. Everything sounded muffled. Valentino gave a short shriek when she felt the ground move, but quickly returned her gaze to the baculus, unable to look away, mesmerized by the Master’s words and entranced by the flames in the amber ball gripped in the golden claws.

“O great and powerful Lord, I beseech Thee, I implore Thee in the names of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Of Joseph. Of King Solomon and his father, King David. Show us Your greatness.”

A slight tremor shook the earth and small rocks skittered down the hillside. A bolt of purplish lightning streaked from the sky and struck the earth in the dead center of the hill. The electrical bolt split into thousands of branches, dancing about the surface of the exposed limestone rocks, engraving them with strange markings, before disappearing into the ground. Valentino slapped her hands over her ears as the thunder which accompanied the lightning, threatened to deafen them all. Montague seized the opportunity to relieve her of the pistol and threw her easily to the ground at his Master’s feet. D’Brouchart turned around and looked toward the place where the ground steamed and hissed from the impact of the strike. He began backing away slowly, almost stumbling over the woman behind him.

Ramsay was up first, quickly followed by von Hetz and Dambretti. Christopher was still confessing a considerable list of sins to Simon, which seemed impossible since he had just confessed only a few hours before in the cave. Simon stayed with the apprentice, but wore a shocked look on his face. Mark heard only part of his apprentice’s words. “… and murder in my heart six… no, seven times… at least and impure thoughts about Master Dambretti and Miss Sinclair and I have grumbled against God three times. I cursed my luck six times and Master Beaujold a dozen or more times under my breath and I…” Mark didn’t know if Simon’s shock was because of the Grand Master’s activities or the apprentice’s sins. The three Knights raced across the shaking, shuddering ground toward their Master who continued to back away slowly. Montague dragged Cecile Valentino back by one arm, while she kicked and struggled to free herself from his grip. Ramsay reached for her other arm and yanked her to her feet just as the entire hill seemed to lurch under them. All six of them were thrown to the ground as a splintering noise erupted from the center of the hill, followed by a geyser of steam that shot several dozen feet into the air.

“Hurry, Brothers!” d’Brouchart shouted at them. “We must abandon this place at once.”

They clambered to their feet with the assistance of Simon and Christopher who were finally able to join them. Already, Christopher was chalking up another list of sins as he cursed the pitching, rolling ground beneath his feet. Valentino regained her footing and grabbed hold of D’Brouchart’s arm.

“What is this?!” she shouted at him above the rumbling noise. “What have you done?!”

“Behold the Insects of Sherma!” he exclaimed jubilantly and held up the baculus toward the sun. “Those mystical creatures of legend which carved the stones of the Temple of Solomon from the living rock.”

“What?!” Ramsay threw up both arms and turned toward the Master in consternation. He watched in stunned amazement as the rocks seemed to heave and move of their own accord. “That’s impossible. Surely, not! What have you done?”

Von Hetz caught his arm and shook his head. The noise of the cracking rocks and hissing steam was making it impossible to be heard above the din. “The Insects of Sherma, Brother!” the Apocalyptic Knight shouted in his ear. “The instrument God used to carve out the polished marble stones for Solomon’s Temple! And thus spake the Lord ‘Let their habitation be desolate’!”

They moved in a tight group toward the side of the hill, stumbling and starting and stopping and holding on to each other as the ground continued to shake and roll under them. Ramsay grabbed Valentino again and dragged her along with them in spite of her desire to go in a different direction. He stopped short at the sound of a shotgun blast and ducked instinctively as the shot whined past, barely missing his head.

Mark heard Merry screaming his name and looked up to see Maxie standing at the top of the path with the shotgun barrel pressed under her chin. The barrel burned into her skin as she tried to jerk away from him. He had one arm around her neck. Valentino broke free from Mark and ran haphazardly across the heaving ground, stopping beside Maxie. She stood looking back at them with rage and fear on her face.

“Merry!” Ramsay shouted and stood up, then almost fell before taking a step forward.

“Hold, Brother Ramsay!” d’Brouchart shouted at him.

“Yeah, hold, dipshit, or I’ll blow her head clean off!” Maxie’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Give me the gun!” Valentino yelled at Montague.

The Knight of the Holy City looked down at the pistol and then back at the woman, shaking his head in the negative. It was none of his business if these miserable people killed each other. Ramsay snatched the pistol from him and threw it across the space between them. Valentino picked it up and advanced on d’Brouchart.

“Give me the staff!” she shouted at him as he, too, backed away from her. She raised the pistol and Merry screamed again, this time with a different tonal quality. She was staring wild-eyed at something behind them.

The beleaguered group turned and beheld an awesome sight as an immense white form slowly emerged from the ground near the center of the hill. It was huge, larger than a train engine and shaped, oddly enough, like a common grub worm. Its skin was snow white and ribbed with grayish stripes. Hundreds of centipede-like legs lined the length of its fat body and its head appeared to be armor plated, resembling that of a rhinoceros replete with a row of hooked horns down the center. On either side of its head were long, black pinchers at least four feet in length with the appearance of those found on a Rhinoceros beetle. They watched in fascination as it reared on its hindmost legs and sprayed a fine line of milky liquid from its mouth. The fluid struck the ground, hissing and sizzling in a long, perfectly straight line, cutting down through the rock like a powerful laser beam.

Valentino glanced at the monstrosity, almost fell and then quickly regained her footing before screaming at d’Brouchart again.

“Give me the staff!” She raised the pistol and pulled the trigger before he could react. The bullet struck Montague in the shoulder spinning him around. Simon caught and held him upright. She turned the pistol on Christopher Stewart, the next available target. Christopher froze, staring at her in wonder before sinning again in his heart. “Give it to me, now or the boy dies!”

D’Brouchart shook his head. It was not an option. He could relinquish the ancient artifact no matter what she did.

She aimed the pistol at Christopher's head, but was thrown off balance as another fissure opened in the ground very near where the Knights stood. They moved away from it quickly in terrified silence, oblivious to the threat of the pistol, when another of the great white worms wiggled from the crack, seemingly inflating as it rose from an impossibly small opening. This second creature rose immediately on its rear legs and sprayed another line of the milky liquid at right angles to the work of the first worm before undulating away a few paces to repeat the process. The first worm was busy making more lines of sizzling rock. The two beasts were cutting the hill apart in a systematic grid pattern.

The first complete rectangular blocks rose into the air very near to where they stood. Again, they moved away from the strange sight, backing slowly toward the ugly man who still stood, forgotten, holding the shotgun to Merry’s head. Mark had temporarily forgotten about Maxie when the larger, more immediate threat had appeared on the hilltop with them. The first two white blocks of polished limestone rose into the air slowly accompanied by deep rumbles from within the earth and then toppled toward them, landing on their sides with tremendous crashes. Small pieces of rock and debris flew into the air under the enormous weight of the building stones. Small geysers of steam erupted from the earth in several places at once. The Knights turned as a group, taking the Master with them as they fled toward the shoulder of the hill where the path started down toward the garden, ignoring Maxie and Valentino’s shouted warnings to stay back.

Merry stomped on Maxie’s instep in the ensuing confusion and broke free from his grip. The Knight of the Apocalypse reached back for Mark as another tremor threatened to throw them to the earth.

Mark Andrew looked directly into the eyes of Konrad von Hetz and smiled. He winked at the German before breaking from the group. He turned and made straight for the terrified security guard with the golden sword held above his shoulder. Maxie brought the shotgun around to fire at him just as he made a final leap into the air. The second shot exploded from the barrel, but it was too late. The shot passed cleanly under the Knight and rattled off the hillside behind him. The Chevalier du Morte landed squarely in front of the ugly man who had tormented him for the past several days. He looked him briefly in the eyes and then grasped the sword in both hands as the man struggled desperately to reload the shotgun. Mark stepped forward, dipped slightly and then turned completely around, bringing the edge of the sparkling blade just above the level of the man’s shoulders.

The sword struck home and Maxie’s horrified face disappeared along with his head down the side of the hill. His decapitated body crumpled to the ground at Ramsay’s feet, spraying a fine line of blood into the air. Mark Andrew raised the sword again intending to stab the lifeless carcass in a fit of rage, but was stopped by the sound of Merry screaming his name again in terror.

The ground rocked and swayed violently, throwing the Knights to the ground. Valentino screamed in rage rather than terror, scrambled to her feet and charged the after the Grand Master.

Turning to find her, he saw that another of the great worms had emerged from the hole left by the first blocks. Merry had begun to run in that direction, but now she was stopped a few yards away, staring at the thing in terror, frozen in place, while it worked its way up the bottom of the newly excavated slab, polishing the exposed stone to a mirror finish with short, cone-shaped blasts of the same volatile liquid. Christopher raced toward her and dragged her away from the worm.

Valentino had caught up with d’Brouchart and was struggling physically with the Grand Master, still trying to take the baculus from him. The ground shuddered violently again throwing them both to the ground. Simon stumbled along with Montague leaning on his arm. Dambretti shouted something to von Hetz and then tried to crawl across the ground toward the Grand Master who was perilously close to the edge of the newly created, steadily enlarging pit, where more and more blocks were being quarried. The great beasts seemed to have no regard for the humans on the hill. They went about their work as if nothing else existed, blindly working completely without the aid of eyes. The Master hung onto the baculus desperately with one hand as it dangled over the edge of the pit. Valentino rose up on her knees and fired at Dambretti. The bullet struck him in the leg and he rolled over on the ground clutching his leg, cursing in Italian.

Von Hetz came alongside Ramsay then hurried on toward the Master. He would take up where Dambretti had failed. As he passed Ramsay, he shouted one word of warning.

“Beaujold!”

Ramsay turned quickly, in time to avoid being split down the middle by the Knight of the Sword’s wicked silver blade. He recovered his balance and charged in under the man’s sword, grabbing hold of his legs, bringing him down heavily on his back, knocking the breath from him. Ramsay pinned him to the ground and sat on his stomach with his knee on the Knight’s wrist, effectively preventing him from raising the sword again. He pulled the bejeweled dagger from his pocket and looked down at the man who would have his head in spite of everything. Beaujold’s sunken blue eyes bespoke no regret, but held only hatred for him, even unto death. He had several long cuts on his forehead, no doubt from Maxie’s hospitality.

“Cry mercy or die!” Ramsay told him through clenched teeth.

Beaujold did not beg mercy, but rather spat at him instead. Ramsay raised the dagger to finish him and was startled as someone grasped his arm, preventing the final blow from falling. He looked up into the face of the Italian.

“Don’t do it, Brother!” Dambretti shouted at him. “Don’t make his sin your sin.”

This simple statement made, Lucio let go of his wrist and pressed his hand against his leg, before limping away. Whatever Ramsay decided to do would be the Will of God and Dambretti had done his share of work for the day. He was angry, terrified and in pain. They could all go to hell in a handbasket for all he cared.

Mark Andrew looked down at the man again and then brought the hilt of the dagger down viciously, administering a devastating blow to the side of the Knight’s head instead of killing him. The blue eyes rolled back and he felt the man go limp under him. Mark Andrew pushed himself up and picked up the silver sword which lay next to the unconscious Knight of the Sword. Perhaps he would have to kill him later, but now was not the time. He turned without letting up the pressure on the Knight’s wrist and surveyed the havoc behind him.

More and more slabs of rock were being pushed out of the hill. The ground shook and reverberated with the sounds of the blocks crashing to their sides. At least a dozen of the worms had emerged from the earth and were busily polishing the rough undersides of the quarried blocks. Mark was fascinated momentarily by the sight of the finished limestone building blocks, ready to be placed into use.

The Master was still struggling to hold onto the baculus as he slipped closer and closer to the brink of the pit. Von Hetz attempted to hold onto the Grand Master’s legs and avoid Valentino’s pistol while she struggled with him for possession of the staff, intent upon wrenching it from the Master’s grip. Half of her body was hanging precariously over the side of the pit as she held onto the ivory staff with one hand and tried to get a clear shot at von Hetz with the other. She screamed and lost the pistol as her body slipped over the brink and she was forced to grab the staff with both hands. Von Hetz reached haphazardly over the edge of the pit and tried to grab her hand while D’Brouchart desperately grappled on the loose rock for a handhold as he was inexorably dragged further over the side into the gaping hole by the Cecile’s weight dangling from the ivory staff. Mark Andrew went to their aid and knelt beside the Apocalyptic Knight who had managed to get hold of the staff, easing some of the weight from the Master’s arm. They reached out together to Valentino and she grasped the German’s hand, but refused to let go of the baculus with the other.

“Take my hand!” Ramsay shouted to her as she dangled between the staff and side of the pit.

She looked up at him in shocked horror before letting go of the staff long enough to grab his hand. The ground lurched against them as one of the worms started climbing the terraced steps cut into the pit directly below them with one of the cut blocks balanced on its long pinchers. The ground shook continuously as the creatures flipped the blocks back and forth, polishing the surfaces. Von Hetz and Ramsay clung to the slippery rock face while Valentino hung suspended against the wall just below them. The thin veneer of topsoil, loose sandy pebbles and sprigs of grass fell into her face, making it difficult for her to see them and vice versa. Another of the cutting creatures in the pit rose up and began to spray a line of the acidic liquid along the face of the wall below them, cutting the bottom surfaces of what would be a new row of blocks. The two Knights fought to drag the woman up and out of the way, but they couldn’t get enough traction against the slippery, smooth surface of the stone on which they lay without tumbling in after her. Valentino screamed as the acid crossed her back just below her waist and then her grip went limp in their hands. They both tried to hang onto her, but saw there was no hope as the lower half of her body was neatly severed from the top half.

Ramsay heard his own voice join with the last of her dying screams as she slipped from his hand. It was the fourth time in as many days he had made such a noise. He thought his heart would stop in horror and God would strike him dead on the spot. He rolled over onto his back and gazed up at the murky sky above his head. It was too much. Unbearable. Blackness threatened to close in around him.

Von Hetz climbed to his feet slowly and then helped d’Brouchart recover the baculus from the brink of the precipice. The Master inspected the globe of the baculus for damage and clutched the staff to his chest protectively. They started away toward the side of the hill again and the path leading back to the house. Von Hetz shouted over his shoulder to the Knight of Death to get up and move before one of the beasts made a building stone of him. He lay frozen on the hard rock, staring up at the cloudless sky. The ground continued to shake and roll as the mindless creatures went about their work oblivious to the human drama playing out in their midst.

Mark Andrew covered his face with his hands in despair and squeezed his eyes shut against the vision of Cecile’s face. This nightmare receded instantly as the breath was knocked from his lungs when something heavy landed on his chest. He opened his eyes wide, gasping for air and looked into the face of Thomas Beaujold. The man just wouldn’t quit. Mark slid his right arm out sideways, attempting to grab his sword, but it was a few inches out of reach, lying next to Beaujold’s silver sword where he had laid them in his haste to assist von Hetz.

The wild-eyed Knight wrapped his hands around Mark Andrew’s neck, choking him ruthlessly, simultaneously banging the back of his head against the rock.

Stars danced in front of his eyes where Valentino’s face had been only seconds before and blackness of a more physical nature closed in on him. He made a grab for the man’s ears and saw one of the huge creatures rearing up behind him. With every bit of strength he had, he pulled on Beaujold’s head rolling them both over and over on the stone as the crazed Knight of the Sword refused to let go of his throat. A hissing line of steam arose very close to them as the worm went about constructing its portion of the grid. Mark could feel the heat from the chemical reaction all along his right side. He let go of Beaujold’s head and punched him on his left side where he knew he had inflicted the severe wound during their last encounter.

Beaujold loosened his grip and cried out in pain, grabbing his side with both hands. Mark Andrew hit him again under his chin and knocked him off balance onto his back directly onto the steaming line of hot rock. The Knight of the Sword shrieked anew and scrambled up from the rock while Mark rolled away from him in the opposite direction, coming up with both swords. The man stood facing him unarmed, still unwilling to yield.

The worm reared itself above them again, making ready to spray them both with the searing liquid. Ramsay slashed out at its bulging underside with Beaujold’s sword. The thing let go a high-pitched trill and collapsed like a gossamer balloon made of spider web thin material.

The wind caught the empty shell and draped it over the Knight of the Sword. The man fell screaming and kicking in agonized madness under the seemingly harmless looking material that resembled the collapsing canopy of a parachute. Ramsay stood staring at the incredible sight unable to comprehend the situation until another of the things raised up from the pit next to him, much too close for comfort. He turned and ran toward the rest of the shocked spectators who stood watching in morbid fascination as the mythical Insects of Sherma dismantled the bedrock, methodically cutting and polishing the enormous slabs of stone, making them ready for the long dead architect and builders of King Solomon’s Temple.

“What now, Master?!” Simon shouted above the noise.

“I must send them back where they came from!” D’Brouchart answered him and then held out the baculus toward the monstrous insects. He began another incantation while Ramsay left them quietly and went to find Christopher and Merry.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Sir Ramsay caught up with Christopher Stewart just as he was nearing the entrance to the old bomb shelter. The ground was still shaking and trembling from the tremendous works going on atop the hill. Water alternately gushed and trickled from the opening which was now clogged with tumbled down boulders and debris.

Merry clung to the apprentice desperately and the young man did his best to comfort her. He could hear Christopher using the same soothing voice that he most often employed whenever he was speaking to his pair of deerhound pups back in Scotland. Mark Andrew took hold of her arm and turned her around abruptly, eliciting a short shriek before she recognized him. He looked into her eyes and saw there a mixture of conflicting emotions. She blinked up at him, frowning in bewildered confusion; her deceptively innocent beauty seemed permanently marred by an expression of total fear and incomprehension. He kissed her lightly on the lips, hugged her briefly and then released her before repeating the same actions with his apprentice.

It was the embrace of a brother for a sister and he realized that his feelings for her had changed radically in a very few short minutes. He still loved her, but his duty to the Order had crashed in on him and brought him to his senses. No matter the nature or depth of his feelings for her, there was no hope and he had buried them in the deepest pit of his mind. It was the only way he could cope with the present intolerable situation.

“Take her down to the house,” he told the young man. “Stay with her until I come for you. Don’t let her return here.”

Merry caught his arm. “No!” was the only word she could manage as fresh tears sprang to her eyes. He knew that she was saying no to more than his return to the top of the hill and he could do nothing for her. Nothing for himself. Mark Andrew could not look at her again or he would have taken her and run.

Christopher dutifully took hold of her arm and pulled her along with him beginning his litany of reassuring phrases, sounding much like a priest or a father speaking to a child. She stumbled after him, trying to look back as Mark Andrew retreated up the trail.

He had to go. There was no other way. Mark did not dare even the shortest glance back.

When he reached the summit of the trail, the sight of the devastation appalled him and renewed his own fear of the magick his Master had wrought here in the bright summer sun. Huge gleaming blocks of limestone lay neatly arranged in rows of threes across the flat top of the hill beside a gaping pit from which wisps of steam drifted. The terrible insects were no longer working the quarry. The only evidence of their existence was the flapping, blood-smeared silk that looked like a downed battle flag, lying directly in front of him. It was the remains of the creature that he had slashed with Beaujold’s sword. There had been nothing in the thing, but air… no blood. The blood looked too red, too real in the brilliant sunshine. This was the place where he had left the downed Knight of the Sword. The bright red streaks on the white limestone reminded him of the Templar Cross and white mantel. The Templar Cross on the white shield. The Templar Cross on the white disc on his sword. Blood, the color of life and white, the color of divinity. There was nothing but death and destruction on the hill top and the sight chilled him to the bone causing a deep shudder to pass through his soul.

This was the blood of the Chevalier d’Epee and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he knew that the Knight was beyond help this time. Even so, someone would have to finish the job, though he was not sure that it should be him. It was now up to the Grand Master to decide what would be done.

Sir Edgard d’Brouchart stood with his four remaining Knights surveying the scene in wonder and awe. The Grand Master turned to look at Ramsay as he approached them slowly and the others followed suit. Mark stepped over the lifeless body of the security agent; his eyes were locked on the big, red-haired man holding the staff of twisted ivory. He knelt on one knee in front of the man, laid his golden sword on the ground between them and bowed his head, exposing his neck for them to do as they would.

He closed his eyes and waited. Rough hands closed on his shoulders and he was pulled to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw the face of the Grand Master very close in front of him. The watery blue eyes searched his face briefly and then he received the kiss of greeting.

“Brother Ramsay,” d’Brouchart said simply. “The Chevalier d’Epee has fallen. Attend to his needs.”

Mark Andrew retrieved his sword from the ground and walked purposefully to where the gossamer strips of the destroyed insect waved lazily in the light summer breeze. Only the Knight’s knees and lower legs were exposed as he lay wrapped in the bulk of the remains. Sir Ramsay used the Knight’s silver sword to cut away the light fluff around the man’s upper body. It floated away on the breeze, disappearing like wisps of steam or ghosts of tormented spirits, fleeing in the heat of the noonday sun. He had to close his eyes as he steeled himself mentally against the sight of the Knight’s face and fought down the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He crossed himself and knelt beside the inert body.

Sir Thomas Beaujold was no longer recognizable as the man he had been for so many years. There was no skin and very little flesh left on his upper body. His blue eyes were exposed in hollowed sockets and his teeth grinned up in a skeletal caricature of his former self. Bare white bone made up his forehead and scalp and his ears were missing along with his nose. His arms and chest and everything else that had been touched by the skin of the worm were bloody masses of muscles, tendons, exposed ribs and breastbone. The man’s breath rattled in his chest and even his lungs could be glimpsed expanding and contracting through open slits between his ribs. He still breathed, but how could it be so? Why did it have to be he who looked upon his Brother’s dying moments?

Ramsay caught his breath sharply as the light blue eyes moved in their sockets. Not only alive, but conscious!

“No!” he said aloud and brought one hand up to cover his mouth.

“God is merciful! God is merciful!” he said the words that he no longer believed and almost bolted when a bloody, bony hand suddenly took hold of his collar, pulling him down over the grotesque face. Sir Thomas was trying to speak to him. He leaned closer and held his ear very close the lipless mouth.

Three raspy words rattled in the man’s throat and escaped through his teeth.

“Shrive me, Brother.”

The hand dropped away. Ramsay scrambled away from him and stood on his knees beside him with his forehead pressed against the hilt of the Flaming Sword of the Cherubim, breathing hard, trying to master control of his emotions. He had seen nothing like this in ages. The Knight of Death inhaled deeply and then leaned over his downed Brother.

He tapped him lightly on the shoulder and nodded before saying “Your sins are absolved, Brother. Go in peace.”

“Forgive?” one last word rattled from the Knight’s throat along with his final breath. Mark Andrew knew he would have only twelve minutes to complete the ceremony before…

He raised his eyes to the bright, blue sky and then held the sword in both hands, point up.

“I am he that liveth and was dead and behold, I am alive forever more in God, the Creator of the Universe. I hold the key of Death. I have seen the work of thy labors and have been witness to the devotion of thy trust, O Brother. By this act I commend thy soul to the Creator of the Universe and set thee free of this broken body. Until we shall meet again in Paradise, I bid thee farewell. Dominus vobiscum. Pax vobiscum.”

He bent over the Knight of the Sword and kissed the bare teeth before making the sign of the cross on the bare bone forehead. His Brother’s blood was all over him and the cross stood out in stark relief against the ghastly background, a reminder in blood and bone of the Order he served. He had seen many things, but this qualified as one of the worst so far. He placed his hand on the cold surface over the red cross and paused as the knowledge of the Secret of the Knight of the Sword was transferred from the dying man’s mind into his own. In the heat of the battlefield, this would be one of his most vulnerable moments, when he could do nothing but sink into several moments of complete oblivion to the world around him.

The weight of the Chevalier d’Epee’s mystery bore down on him as if one of the limestone blocks were crushing him temporarily and then subsided as the knowledge made a space in his head. He released his hold and got wearily to his feet. When he raised the gleaming sword above his head, the sun flashed off the blade as he brought it down in one resounding blow, slicing cleanly through the man’s neck and well into the rocky ground beneath him. The sword’s song of death wafted eerily across the space between the Knight of Death and the tiny band of mourners, waiting near the trail’s head.

Ramsay turned away, took two steps and sank to the ground. He looked up at the clear sky and spoke directly to God “Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness. Forgive me, O Lord, for I am lost.”

Brother Simon and Brother von Hetz were beside him suddenly, helping him up and literally dragging him away from the scene. He remembered nothing more until he opened his eyes again sometime later. The blue sky was above his head and he lay on the flat boulder near the mouth of the collapsed tunnel leading down into the ruined hillside. Pushing himself up tiredly, he found his sword lying next to him. He was alone. They had left him. A good sign at least that he would be welcomed back into the fold, though his penance might be heavy, it would be bearable and then he would go home to Scotland. To his home.

He picked up his sword and walked determinedly down the trail leading back to the red brick mansion set amidst the dark green trees in the shallow valley between the limestone hills. The sky seemed bluer here and the leaves of the trees greener. The roses in the garden were pinker and the gazebo whiter. Everything in this place stood out, sharply defined, acutely burned into his mind. He longed for the soft colors of the meadows, the cloud-smeared skies and the deep shadows of the ancient and holy places where the oaks spread immense limbs overhead and he could lie on the fragrant grass and listen to the songs of the faeries next to some aged standing stone covered with ancient moss.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Merry sat in the wicker peacock chair in the library, staring out the window with a blank look on her face. Her crystal blue eyes moved, but they did not see, as they scanned the garden paths under the trees for something… anything. Christopher Stewart stood near the window watching the same garden paths below the patio. His face lit up when he saw Mark Andrew making his way quickly down the path toward the house. The apprentice threw open the glass doors and stepped outside. His Master glanced at him briefly, nodded curtly and then disappeared into the house. Christopher heaved a long sigh of relief that his Master had been spared. He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled a little tune as he clumped down the steps into the garden. He paused under one of old weeping willows and glanced back the house as if unsure whether to stay or go up the hill again. The sounds of shouts drifted down from the new made quarry as the others struggled to clean up the mess. Christopher turned and jogged up the path toward the sounds of the voices. His Master would have to deal with Miss Merry alone and he would be in enough trouble without at least attempting to make amends to the others by volunteering his assistance. Christopher could offer his Master no comfort, nor could he help him avoid this unpleasant business with the woman or the even more unpleasant business yet to come.

Inside the library, Mark Andrew knelt in front of the Pixie one last time and took one of her hands in his. The blank expression had been replaced by one much harder to bear. Her eyes were full of profound sadness.

“Merry… Meredith,” he said her name and realized inanely that he didn’t even know her last name. Valentino’s disembodied voice rang in his ears. How so very typical!

“Merry,” he began again. “I have come to say farewell.”

“I know,” she nodded and placed one hand on his cheek before touching the silver earrings entwined in the dark strand of hair above his right ear. There were no tears, no protests. “I love you, Mark Andrew.”

He smiled at her, slipped the little silver ring from his pinky finger and dropped in her hand before pressing her fingers to his lips.

“It’s not a fair trade, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll send your trinkets back when I have the time to unlace them.”

“You had better not, Mark Andrew Ramsay.” She managed a smile for him. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

He nodded and stood up. Merry looked up at him expectantly and he bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. She pressed something in his hand and he looked down at the keys to his car, resting in his bloody palm.

“God be with you, Meredith,” he told her as he backed toward the open doors. He kept her face in his sight until he stumbled over the threshold and found himself on the verandah.

Merry stood up shakily and stumbled to the door, holding on to the furniture as she went, overwhelmed by the urge to call him back, but she only managed to blink back the tears as she watched him disappear up the garden path. It was hard to believe he had ever been there. The clock on the mantel chimed and she shrieked before she realized what it was.

“I will see you again, Sir Ramsay,” she whispered when she had recovered somewhat.

She pressed her tear-stained face against her own reflection in the glass of the door. Turning away from the door, she looked down at the ring clutched in her hand and then pressed its smooth, cold surface to her lips.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Mark Andrew rushed blindly up the stony path. Over eight hundred years had passed since the last time he’d cried and he had no intention of allowing anyone to see him crying now. It was always Mark Andrew who caused others to cry. The death of his brother in 1187 had seen the last of his tears. He was far too old to start new habits and he had to get away from her before he lost his resolve. There was work to do on the hill top and they had to get away before the local authorities came out to investigate the disturbance. When he reached the summit of the hill, he found his Brothers straining against one of the newly cut blocks, trying to push it over the side of the pit. The body of the downed Knight was wrapped with von Hetz’ cloak and the Knight’s sword lay atop the shrouded body. Another, smaller bundle lay at the Knight’s feet. Mark swallowed hard and turned away from the sight. The body of Valentino’s security guard, along with his head, his shotgun and everything that might have indicated his passing was no longer in evidence. All signs of the bloody confrontation between Ramsay and his two latest conquests had been obliterated. There would be no signs that the Knights had ever come here. There would be no signs that anything had happened here other than some sort of abandoned stone works. Only the finest forensic investigation could ever detect that human blood had been spilled on these rocks.

The dust had settled. Their work here was done. Finished.

Each one of the men left standing atop the barren hill wore a different expression. Simon looked as if he was only just recovering from being ill. The Master wore an expression of disgust. Montague grimaced in pain and held one hand pressed against his shoulder while blood oozed through his fingers. He picked up the smaller bundle that had been wrapped in his own coat and tucked it under his uninjured arm before starting off down the trail. The Italian looked angry. He met Mark Andrew’s gaze briefly before jerking Beaujold’s sword off the body. He handed it over to Christopher Stewart then hefted the Knight’s body from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. With one last look around at their professional handiwork, he followed after Montague with the Healer on his heels. The Grand Master walked behind them carrying the baculus aloft in front of him like a priest in a funerary march. The sound of a song drifted back to him. Simon was singing in an ancient language. Words that Ramsay no longer recognized. Halfway down the trail, d’Brouchart turned and waited for him. Ramsay sent Christopher on ahead of him and the Ritter passed them by without comment.

“This… lady friend of yours…” The Master swallowed hard and looked up at the sun. Sweat stood out on his forehead and the collar of his shirt was soaked. “How can we leave her behind?”

“How can we take her, Sir?” Mark asked and looked him straight in the eye as his heart lurched.

“We cannot take her with us. You know that,” d’Brouchart looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze.

“She will hold her peace and keep silent,” Mark told him. “I give you my word, Sir. On my oath, she will hold her peace. These two who have perished here have no ties. She told me this much herself.”

“And if she calls the police? What then?” D’Brouchart squinted at him. “She knows your name. She knows your face. She knows you live in Scotland. Scotland can become an extremely small hiding place for a murderer.”

“If she turns me in,” Mark drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing “if she turns me in, I will pass along my mysteries and forfeit my own life. Is that good enough?”

The Master met his gaze for several long moments before nodding briefly, turning on his heel and continuing down the hill.

Christopher waited for him at the foot of the garden. They passed the red brick mansion and Ramsay averted his eyes from the windows of the house lest he see some glimpse of the woman there. If he should see her, his will would surely weaken and his broken heart might betray him in front of his Brothers. His mind was black with despair though he knew quite well that Merry would never turn him in. He suddenly took Christopher’s arm and dragged him toward the garage. He had to get away… Now!

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Lucio Dambretti lowered his grisly burden into the rear of the white van. He backed away, blinking back tears as he remembered their little adventure on the way to this cursed place when Beaujold was wrapped in the expensive Persian rug. He regretted every word of it now. He had never had much love for the sanctimonious Knight of the Sword, but he was glad it would not be his duty to inform the Knight’s apprentice of the death of his Master. Simon would have that dubious honor. It would be Ramsay’s duty to transfer the mystery to his replacement and it would be the Master’s duty to bestow the gift of immortality on the new Knight. Sir James Argonne would record the events in archives and Sir Barry of Sussex would prepare his body for burial. Sir Montague would purchase a fine coffin for him in London with the impression of his sword carved on the surface. The Ritter would perform the funerary rites and Simon would sing the litany. Only Philip Cambrique would be spared any personal role in the process. He would simply arrange for the transfer of the body and procure the proper papers from Rome and Edinburgh. Sir Louis Champlain and Sir Hugh de Champagne would accompany the body to Lothian for entombment beneath Ramsay’s little chapel.

Next to Ramsay’s two chores, the Italian felt that his was one of the most distasteful when one of the Knight’s fell. He would be asked to examine the body to make sure that that Thomas Beaujold had indeed departed from the empty shell. Only once had Ramsay been required to repeat the Key of Death Ceremony, but that had been long, long ago under some very mysterious circumstances that Dambretti didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand. One of them had fallen while on a mission in Romania, buried by a rockslide. They had found the ‘body’ a week later in a small village inn, alive, but not alive. Ramsay had killed him and they had transported him back to France in a box, but the Key of Death had not worked for some strange reason and Ramsay had been forced to ‘take more aggressive steps’. What that meant, Dambretti had no idea. He shuddered to his toes at the memory and then closed the doors on the van.

There would be much to do when they finally got back to Italy. He placed one hand on Simon’s shoulder and gave him a supportive smile. He purposefully turned away from the Grand Master, lest he be blamed for this entire fiasco as was usual. He stopped to watch the black El Dorado as it passed by them on its way toward the highway.

“Your Grace?” He looked back at the big red-haired man and waited for instructions

“There is much work to do, Golden Eagle.” The Master tugged on his coat sleeve, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Brother Simon, see to Sir Montague’s needs. Ritter, if you please,” he said as he handed over the baculus to the German Knight.

There would be favors to call in, documents to prepare, bribes to pay. Lucio hoped that he would not be called upon to assist in making the arrangements. He only wanted to get back home to Naples where he intended to get drunk and then sleep for a week or two after the burial, before wallowing in self-pity and guilt for a few years. Of course, Amelia would be there to help him get through it all. He could not help but feel a measure of responsibility for what had happened to the Knight of the Sword. The Italian had been senior to the French Knight by several centuries. If he had been more reliable, the Master would have put him in charge of the mission rather than Beaujold and then, perhaps, things might have turned out differently. In charge or not, he knew in his heart that the Master would place a great deal of the blame on him. It had always been so. Never in charge, but always responsible.

Von Hetz held the baculus reverently, but frowned at the disappearing automobile carrying Ramsay and his irreverent apprentice.

“Your Grace?” The German asked the same open-ended question as the Italian.

“We will meet with him in Italy,” the Master told him after a protracted silence. He brushed his hands together as if washing them and turned toward the van as the healer held the passenger door open for him. “I will ride with Sir Beaujold. Golden Eagle, take the wheel.”

Dambretti sighed and shook his head. He had hoped to drive Montague’s rental car back to town. He had actually hoped to have some excuse to lag behind so that he might say goodbye to the woman. Somehow he felt that he owed her an explanation for Mark Ramsay and all that had occurred. Somehow he had hoped to wrangle an invitation to return next summer… just to check on her. But it was not to be so. Not this time. He glanced back at the house once more, wondering if she might be watching them.