The Last Refuge

by L. A. Blackburn

  “I will,” said Nathan with hesitation.

  “It’s enough,” Delgado smiled weakly, and with a shaking hand, wiped the tears from Nathan’s face. And then, the hand that had given him so much love all his life fell to the floor and moved no more. As Nathan thought of Delgado’s sacrifice, kindness and love that the old man had shown him over the years, it was almost too much for him too bear. He slowly lay his friend on the cold stone floor, wiped the tears from his eyes, tucked the book in his shirt and dashed from the library at top speed toward the mainland. Fear nipped at his heels as the sound of hot pursuit came from behind him. He saw two other monks on his right and left racing toward the narrow sandbar that promised safety on the other side. Nathan never saw the arrows, but heard their whistle as they flew pasted his ears. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw the savage blood-spattered face of a raider running viciously after him. Nathan quickly crossed the sandbar and made for the tree line as fast as his feet would take him with the sound of fur-clad feet pounding behind him. Thankfully, the storm subsided long enough for the moon to shine a guiding light on the landscape. With death on his heels, he quickly drove into the underbrush of the forest, making his way toward the path with newfound hope. Only the monks knew this forest, and Nathan knew all too well how easy it could be to become lost in it. But in spite of his knowledge of the forest, he still did not know exactly which way the pursuer had gone. There was only one path through the woods, so he sprinted for that route as quickly as he could. Though the rain had ceased, the wind picked up and blew in his face, slowing his progress with each passing moment as swaying branches and flying leaves made it difficult to stay on the path. Nathan stopped for a moment and sat down to rest on some when two raiders came toward him on the path. He must have passed them as he ran through the woods and, luckily, they hadn’t seen him yet. Quickly, he knelt behind a large stone and waited for them to pass. Finding a fallen tree limb close-by, he carefully picked it up so as not to alert them. Abruptly, they stopped, turned and looked around the path. Nathan was forced to take cover in the brush again and wait for another opportunity.

  “Did you hear something?” said the first. Something didn’t seem right to Nathan almost immediately. They dressed in the skins and armor of pagan raiders, but lacked the muscle and size the raiders produce from constant toil of combat and spoke in the language of the area.

  “It’s your imagination,” said the second as he sat down on a nearby stump to rest.

  “Where do you suppose he hid that blasted book?” said the first.

  “If you hadn’t hit him so hard we could have asked him more,” said the second.

  “Put up quite a fight for a fat monk, didn’t he,” said the first with a chuckle.

  Dark thoughts filled Nathan’s mind as he took a large limb from the ground, dashing out of the darkness he hurled himself at them catching them both off guard. Nathan beat at them with the limb like an ancient savage, smashing the first at the base of his skull, dazing him and striking the second in the ribs with a resounding crack. Quick as a snake, the second man rolled to his feet plucking a knife from his belt and slashing through Nathan's tunic near his thigh, sending a warm blood-soaked stain crawling across his pants. Then, a flash of moonlight revealed an attacker, Brother Dolward.

  “You maggot sucking pig,” spat Nathan. “I should have pounded your face to mash when I had the chance.”

  “Catch him or it'll be the end of us both,” the first yelled to Dolward.

  Nathan cursed at himself under his breath. If they caught him with the journal, Delgado’s sacrifice would mean nothing. He threw himself into the underbrush and surprisingly made little noise as he plowed through the woods toward the coast hoping to loose his pursuers somewhere along the beach. As he ran, he remembered the stories about disappearances in the Irish countryside, never to be seen again. Normally, he dismissed such superstitious thoughts but this night the full moon peered through the treetop, looking down upon him with a menacing light that gave him a singular sensation of being watched. He snatched quick glances around the area but saw nothing. Thankfully, the moonlight on the path helped him on his way and giving him a small sense of security, when suddenly, he heard the faint curses of Dolward behind him in the distance as the pretender tracked him through the woods. Nathan had a certain advantage in that the forest seemed to be part of him as he moved through it with ease. The events behind him made his head swim with confusion. Why was this book worth murder? Suddenly, the woods released him to a wide boulder-laden clearing with a large mist-covered pool in the center. Without thinking, he ran into the icy waters and skirted the water, hoping this may cover his tracks and give him enough time to make another plan. Lack of planning was an unfortunate flaw that Nathan knew well. On many occasions, Brother Delgado had disciplined him for his impulsiveness and given him firm slaps about the head and shoulders to remind him to control himself.

  “If you were only as quick with your mind as you are with your temper,” Delgado liked to say.

  When he felt he had gone far enough, he climbed from the water and threw himself face down on the rocky soil, praying that no one saw him. He lay on his back for a moment, heaving air into his spent lungs and quickly washing his injured thigh. Then to his right, he noticed a round patch of earth where nothing grew except small mushrooms on the edge of the ring. Perhaps it was the way the moonlight beamed down upon the rocks bathing the whole area in a peculiar light, or possibly the fact that the stories of the rings terrified him since as long as he could remember. Either way, it bothered him being near it.

  “Witch’s circle,” he whispered to himself.

  True or not, the stories were quite clear about night travelers who step inside of the circle and most of the tales ended badly. Oddly, he thought for a moment that he heard the tinkling of a bell nearby, but, shaking his head, dismissed it as fatigue. Nathan slowly crawled away from the dreadful circle, being careful not to upset any of the surrounding ground. He went to the pool and pressed his face into the cool depths and drank so deeply he thought he might drown. When his thirst faded, he looked down at his reflection in the pool and struck it with his fist, sending ripples across the water that shimmered in the moonlight. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he felt his life unraveling. Delgado was dead along with everyone he once knew and their screams of terror echoed in his ears like a screech of a buzzard. Brother Dolward’s involvement mystified him. Even so, he couldn’t think about that now. Nathan carefully took the journal and began thumbing through the pages, trying to make out any sentences or passages as best he could. The writing revealed a mixture of ancient Hebrew and Egyptian and the front page held a Latin inscription that stood out clearly in the moonlight – “Brendani Navigatio,” meaning “Brendan Navigator.” The thought that this book belonged to the famous priest that founded his monastery pushed the limits of impossible. Many fake copies of his famous works floated around in the world, and Nathan knew that. But still, if this book truly came from the Vatican library, maybe it was real. Father Brendan was famous for his travels and accounted many adventures to a place he called “The Land of Promise.”

  The sound of snapping twigs and breaking limbs on the other side of the clearing froze Nathan in an instant. He sat in the full moonlight with the safety of the trees yards away. This night he would remember well.

  Three

  “A Strong Spine…”

  He quickly tucked the journal in his tunic, ducked behind a group of tall rocks and listened as they approached. Tall, moss-crowned boulders littered the area with small tufts of grass jutting out from between them, making it hard for him to watch their approach. He climbed atop a large fallen boulder, hoping that the bare rock would hide his tracks. Without warning, the rock moved under his feet, tilting itself downward into the earth and opening an entrance to a hidden tunnel. He crept downward into the mouth of the burrow, careful not to overturn any of the rocks as they balanced themselves like acrobats on the hard clay floor. It wa
s larger on the inside than he’d guessed with a path that descended into a cavern littered with rock spikes from the ceiling like the broken teeth of a dragon’s jaw. Toward the end of the cavern, a channel led to a chamber glowing with torchlight and echoing with the exchange of voices. Nathan thought it a robber’s den for a brief moment, but as he approached he heard familiar voices and was relieved to see both Abbot Conner and Brother Damon. Perhaps they found refuge from the raid in this mysterious place. But when he approached, Conner’s eyes flashed red as he struck Nathan a blow to the side of his head that dropped him like a rotten tree.

  “Tie him up,” ordered Conner.

  Damon’s face twisted with savage glee as he kicked Nathan repeatedly in the stomach, rolling him over and tying his hands behind his back. The sound of rushing water rumbled from beneath the earth below with a hollow reverberation. Nathan gasped, trying to catch his breath through the pain. Damon rummaged through the candlemaker’s clothing and tore the journal loose from its hiding place, holding it up with a smile.

  “Is that it?” asked the abbot.

  “It has Brendan’s markings on front and back,” said Damon handing the journal to Conner who tucked it in his belt. Nathan could barely believe his ears.

  “You killed Delgado for a blasted book?” Nathan said with disbelief.

  “Of course not,” said Conner with a hand-motion to Damon. “For what this journal can help me find, I’d have killed a hundred monasteries myself.”

  Damon gave a silent nod of understanding and pulled Nathan to a connecting chamber with bright painted symbols and knot-work patterns crossed the walls all around showing the caverns ancient pagan past. Small antechambers branched from the main cavern in all directions as a menacing sensation crawled up his back like a poisonous spider.

  “Delgado cared for you. He cared for all of us all,” insisted Nathan.

  “Shut up, you don’t know me,” barked Damon.

  The malevolent abbot shouted for Damon from the other chamber, startling him to a scrambling run into the next chamber. Nathan had hoped to hear some justification for his loss, some reason why the only person who loved him was taken away from him so brutally. But now, he was more confused than ever, and it began festering into anger. He knew it was wrong, knew it was against what Delgado taught him, but the rage inside him filled the dim hole that remained in his heart when Brother Delgado died in his arms. Nathan heard them arguing in the next room but couldn’t make it out. Suddenly, the abbot emerged with a look of disgust on his face and irritation in his eyes as he grabbed Nathan by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” Conner ordered as he placed a rope around Nathan’s neck and towed the young candlemaker to the corner of the main chamber.

  Damon sheepishly took the end of the rope and followed him like a browbeaten dog. Conner took torch in hand, went to a neighboring wall, pushed against the stone that easily yielded to his touch, ducking into a dark passage that descended still further into the gloomy earth below. Nathan could not tell how far down they had descended nor could he tell the time of day anymore for time seemed to stand still in his mind for the moment. His thoughts echoed with Damon’s warning but made no sense at all to him. After several minutes of descending, the path finally leveled off and opened into an enormous cavern filled with ornate constructions of all sizes. The flicking torchlight glimmered off of gems embedded in the stones above that took light as the flame drew near. In the distance, Nathan glimpsed the faint outline of an enormous abandoned castle looming like a dark sentry protecting what remained of a great city. He remembered the stories of the mysterious folk that supposedly lived in caves systems in various parts of Wales but had always dismissed it as foolish fantasy. And yet, what his eye beheld may have been the proof of his error. They led him to the gate of city, yanking the rope at his neck to signal for him to stop.

  “Why are we stopping?” Damon said with terror in his voice.

  “Wait here,” Conner ordered as he pushed the ancient gates open. Countless years of caked dust flew into the air as he pushed open the tall lattice that guarded the way, dropping clumps of grime to the earth to the trampled on. Multi-colored bricks of hand-made glass paved the path, signifying the immense beauty that would have been a hallmark of the castle in a time long forgotten. His course took him to a waterfall that emerged from the rock ledge above, forming an unbroken sheet of water until it collected into a pool below. He marveled for a moment that it appeared more like a mirror than a waterfall but quickly brushed this trivial thought aside. Putting down his torch, he reached to a nearby outcropping of quartz crystals and broke one off. Holding in his hands for a moment, he shook the stone quickly for a moment, and suddenly, it began to glow with unusual radiance. Holding the crystal toward the water a completely different reflection began to emerge. In front of Conner sat a man wrapped in dark silken robes, surrounded by torchlight, sitting on a raised dais with arms folded across his chest as though in contemplation. The corrupt abbot bowed at the waist.

  “My master,” Conner said reverently.

  “Why have you come?” said the man. His voice was deep and ominous like a hungry beast awakening. “Have you found the tome?”

  “I believe…” said Conner.

  “I don’t give a devil’s hell what you believe,” shouted the man as suddenly flames shot upward from the torches. “I allowed you access to the Senary Scroll so you could free me from this cursed place. But, as you can see, I’m still here. Have you found the second half of the Dim Skean? Have you found the Septenary Scroll?”

  “This is Seer Brendan’s journal. It should tell us where to find the Septenary Scroll. I’m sure of it,” insisted Conner, holding it up in the light. “I need time to carefully translate it properly. Master, you better than any understand the hazards of an incomplete darkcraft. Please be patient, it is only a matter of time.”

  “We shall see,” the man hissed. “I hate this loathsome prison and long to see the banks of the Nile again.”

  “Thanks to your instruction, I can begin some plans immediately,” said Conner.

  “Very well, but I grow restless,” said the man as his image in the waterfall vanished.

  Conner cast the quartz crystal into the falls as its light faded to a glimmer. Taking his torch again, he trudged back to Damon and Nathan, knowing that he wasn’t powerful enough to oppose his master unaided. However, if he had full use of both parts of the Dim Skean tome, then perhaps he might have enough power. It had been years since he first found this abandon castle of an Eldritch and thought it amusing that they were ever referred to as the “Fair Folk.” Villagers used the term more out of fear than respect since an Eldritch could be either generous, or cruel, at a moments notice. The corrupted abbot searched many years for a solitary place to practice what most called “sorcery” when he discovered the ancient tunnel system. The castle and tunnels may have been abandoned when the Roman’s invaded since they began building and destroying the forests.

  As Conner approached, the sour smell of bat dung filled the air like a foreboding fog and overhead the leather-winged creatures fluttered haplessly about, seeking to hide their sensitive eyes from the torchlight. On occasion, Damon’s head twitched from side-to-side as nameless sounds in the blackness beyond the torchlight twisted his face with miserable fright. At the monastery, he was the example of a seasoned scribe in spite of his young age, demonstrating scholarly prowess and confidence. However, here in the passages, he held to the rope around Nathan’s neck as a frightened child grips a mother’s apron. In the torchlight, the journal peered out from under Conner’s arm tempting him with foolish thoughts of somehow grabbing it with tied hands, but without a torch for light, where would he go, how far could he go before he stepped off a ledge to fall to his death in the cold darkness of the earth. The cold staring eyes of Conner and Damon told stories of self-seeking vice wrapped in a veil of shadows like the face of a viper before it strikes. Nathan tried to mumble through his gag to
get Damon’s attention but was met with a smack to his head by Abbot Conner. They marched on in silence for what seemed like miles, until finally, the pace began to slow and light poured from an opening in a new chamber. It was humid and dank. The roaring of rushing water reverberated off the walls and sent vibrations through the rocks under their feet. Inside the chamber, a lonely wooden cover lay over the large circular opening of a deep well in the rock floor large enough to swallow a horse and rider with ease.

  “Damon, move the lid,” ordered Conner.

  Panic ran through Nathan as he realized that drowning was to be his final end, he shot a pleading look at Damon, hoping for any sign of mercy. But Damon only turned his head as he pushed the lid from the well. Sweat from his wrists along with the moist air of the underground tunnel caused his bonds to swell and loosen. Anger gave way to panic as Nathan tore himself free from his bonds, took hold of the rope around his neck, darting behind Damon, wrapped the rope around the scribes neck before he could react. As Nathan tightened the rope, choking his captive enough to get their attention, Damon began coughing and gasping for breath. In his haste, Nathan forgot to remove the noose his own neck. They stood much to close to the well opening reminding Nathan that if he choked the life from Damon and fell into the well, he may well hang himself in the process. No matter. He was in it till the end and would not be turned.

  “I’m going to help you,” wheezed Damon.

  “And I’m returning the favor,” spat Nathan, turning his attention to the abbot. “Give me the journal, release me, and I’ll let him go.”

  An intense silence fell as Abbot Conner gazed into Nathan’s panic filled eyes while the desperate youth tightened the rope around Damon’s neck. At first, Conner appeared to hesitate. But hesitation and cunning are sometimes confused with each other.