They reached the top, and it took Lux several minutes of driving his thick shoulder into the splintered wood of the steel-enforced door to knock it open. Too much noise, he had to admit, but Fymurip, with his slender dagger and sword, could not break the locks free. There was no other choice.
It finally gave, and they paused a moment to let the echo of the cracking door die away. Then, they moved to a small pile of marble near the base of the barracks that lined the eastern wall.
“The old man didn’t give us a clue as to where in this mess to start looking,” Lux said.
“He probably didn’t know.”
Lux nodded. “Well, we’ll have to search stone by stone. Find a door, perhaps, or a passage leading down into the hill where the old structures lay.”
The Citadel had been built atop centuries of older stone work. Some claimed that the structures below the keep offered miles upon miles of corridors and hidden rooms bereft of life, and yet swarmed with all manner of ghosts and other devilment. That was one of the reasons why it had been left alone by most thrill-seekers, but that was the only logical place for Gunter Sankt to be living, if he was here at all. Lux had no desire to venture into such a dark, musty netherworld. But he saw no other option.
“We could split up,” Fymurip suggested, pointing across the yard to the other side of the complex. “Sweep the ruins from the ends, inward. That’ll allow us to cover more ground.”
Lux shook his head. “No, that isn’t a good idea. It’ll be dark soon, and truth be told, I’m not inclined to search these ruins without support.”
“I’m indespensible now, eh?”
Lux could see a tiny smirk spreading across the Tartar’s face. He huffed. “I wasn’t the one who stalked off in a fury just a day ago. If you wish to work independently, be my guest. But with this sore shoulder now, I might not be so readily available to provide assistance should your wolf come howling.”
“Very well,” Fymurip hissed. “Let’s start over there.”
They searched the ruins, starting with the barracks and working their way into the center of the complex.
They moved from building to building, many of which lay in overgrown disarray. Lots of crows, ravens, larks, and other fowl had built nests throughout the cracked stonework. Lux shooed away a hawk and snatched her eggs. He tapped one open and ate the yolk right there. Fymurip did the same with a few small sparrow eggs, then snatched a snake from its perch in a stone cruck, not to eat it, but to gather its poison and spread it along the edge of his dagger. He then tossed the snake aside and resumed his search.
An hour later, as the sun began to set, Lux’s foot broke through a rotten slat.
Fymurip managed to catch him before he tumbled down the hole that the slat had covered. Lux adjusted himself, knelt down, and pulled away the remaining planks.
They stared down an old dry well. Someone had placed a ladder in it that disappeared into the darkness. Lux grabbed a torch from his hip, lit it, and set it over the hole.
“That’s a good thirty feet,” Fymurip said, whispering so as to not allow his words to echo down the well.
Lux nodded. “I’ll go first.”
Fymurip held the torch until Lux was settled onto the ladder. Then he handed it down. Lux moved carefully, slowly, so as to test the ladder. But it was relatively new and well- constructed, more than capable of holding the German’s weight. He moved a little faster, which allowed Fymurip to clear the top of the well and pull the slats back over to cover their descent.
Nausea struck Lux’s stomach like a thunder clap. “I don’t feel well,” he said, pausing to let his stomach adjust.
“Neither do I,” Fymurip said.
Lux tried to keep moving, but every step became harder, until his eyes could no longer adjust to the poor light. The stone shaft of the well began to quake and surge, and Lux felt the yolk of the hawk egg lurch into his throat.
He dropped the torch and barely managed to hang on. “What’s happening to us?”
But Fymurip clung to the ladder as if he were about to be sick. “I—I don’t—I don’t—”
The last thing Lux saw before falling to the bottom of the well was the blue-green etheareal face of a blud spirit.
*****
Fymurip awoke to a white face. The face smiled as if the man possessing it were a friend, but he didn’t know who it was. Certainly not Lux, for the face was very old, the man’s cheeks a pasty grey with a full white beard down to his chest. Around his neck sat a rusty gorget, and from what Fymurip could discern through the dried crust in his eyes, pieces of chain mail adorned the man’s shoulders and hung loose to his waist. Somehwere below that set of thick steel links lay a white leather shirt that bore a gold cross set in a red field.
Fymurip reached for his dagger, was surprised to find it still affixed to his belt, but strong hands held him firm on the stone slab.
The old man raised his hands in peace. “Calm yourself, my Turkish friend. There is no need for violence here. . . not yet anyway.”
“Who. . . where am I?” Fymurip glanced around the dim room. Torches burned from sconces in the walls. At least ten men—were some women?—stood in the shadows of the torchlight, holding curved blades, long swords, and bows. Lux lay on a wooden table nearby, unconscience.
“Kebrawlnik does his job well,” the man said.
“Who?” Fymurip asked.
“The blud spirit that aggravated your descent down the ladder. His job is to disorient, confuse, and if the moon is right, nauseate. I cannot afford to have the wrong sort enter my home.”
“Who are you?”
“The man you’ve been seeking.” He opened his arms and bowed low. “I am Gunter Sankt, knight and cleric of the Ordo Teutonicus. Welcome.”
On cue, Lux began to stir as if from a deep sleep. The Romani that had held Fymurip down now took their place beside Lux, and when he finally came to, his reaction was the same. He reached for a weapon and struggled under the tight control of the Romani. It was not quite as easy to hold Lux down, his strong arms tossing one of the Romani to the floor. Gunter Sankt moved quickly, despite his age, to calm the younger cleric.
“Peace, my brother,” he said. “There is no need for that here. I assure you, you are among friends. You have found the man you have sought these past few days.”
Lux stopped struggling, and his eyes grew large. For a moment, it looked as if he were going to kneel before Gunter Sankt and pay homage, but he paused, collected himself, and said, “The cross. Where is it?”
“In good hands, under my personal protection.”
“I must see it. Now!”
Gunter sighed, shook his head in disgust, then nodded to one of his Romani who quickly left the room. “The impatience of youth. I thank God every day that I am beyond it.”
“Patience is indeed a virtue, my brother,” Lux said, “but I am on a mission for our Grand Master Duke Frederick, and its mandate takes precedence. Time is not a luxury I have.”
Gunter did not reply. He waited until the gypsy returned with a small cedar box. He took it and opened it slowly. There, in the center of a small piece of purple felt, lay a silver cross.
It was smaller than Fymurip had imagined it. He could tell by Lux’s reaction that he too shared that surprise. It was simpler, more workmanlike than he had imagined as well. Not simplistic, not at all, but it could easily be mistaken for any other silver cross worn by clergy or royalty. It could fit in the palm of a hand. It looked as if, over the years, it had been tarnished and cleaned, tarnished and cleaned. In many places, Fymurip could see the markings of polish, and at one point, it had been worn as jewelry around the neck; he could see the small clasp at the top where a chain used to lay. Apparently it had not been worn like that in a long, long time for no chain existed now. And it did not possess fine jewels and gold filigree as the stories told. The only adornment it had was a small, oval-shaped ruby in the center of the crossbar, representing the blood of Christ.
“That’s it?�
�� Lux asked, letting his voice rise.
“What were you expecting?” Gunter asked. “One big enough to carry on your back?”
“Do not blaspheme, Gunter Sankt. You are in no position to make light of this. You are in violation of your oath. Why are you here? Why have you not delivered this cross back to its rightful owner, back to the Order?”
“Its rightful owner died on his own cross centuries ago. Saint Boniface, God bless his soul, was only its caretaker, until he died in Frisia. You do not know the whole story, my brother.”
“Then enlighten me,” Lux said, turning to face Fymurip. “Enlighten us.”
Gunter closed the box and handed it back to the Romani. Then he began. “At the Last Supper, Jesus did indeed bless this cross with his kiss. But what you do not know is that at his scourging, the whip itself hit the cross and made an indentation that imbued its finery with doubt, with anger, greed, fear, all of the terrible aspects of such a brutal act. Jesus in his final moments tried to reinvigorate the cross with another kiss, but he was too weak, had lost too much blood. And thus, the cross passed from him into the wider world, where it moved from hand to hand, unclean, cursed if you will, until it reached the Ordo Teutonicus, and to Simon von Drahe, my Lord Commander.
“By sheer will and good conscience, von Drahe almost brought it back from darkness. But his premonition of his own death before the Battle of Dragu stopped the cross’s revival, where it fell into my hands. . . my, unclean, unworthy hands. For years, I tried, as von Drahe had, to bring the cross back to its glory, but I could not do it. What I could do, however, was protect it, and with the help from these fine men and women around me, I have done so. I have kept it out of the hands of sinners and of evil men who would see it used for dark purposes.”
Fymurip could see that Lux’s head was about to explode. He’d never seen a man’s eyes bulge so red.
“What are you talking about?” Lux asked, his chest rising angrily with forced breath. “How can you possibly protect it in this godforsaken place? There is evil here.”
Gunter nodded. “Yes, there is. But I would rather it fall into the hands of those who worship the Old Gods, than to see it back in the hands of the Order, in the hands of your duke.”
“Duke Frederick is a saintly man, a pious soul! You do not know him.”
Gunter wagged a finger. “Oh, but I know whom he serves, and I know what they want.”
“Who?”
“The Eldar Gods.”
The old man tensed as if the words themselves struck pain in his heart. Lux wanted to reach out and slap Gunter’s coarse face as if doing so would somehow force the lie back into his throat.
“That’s a lie! Why would Duke Frederick be in league with the Eldar Gods? That would be an irredeemable sin. I do not believe a word of it.”
Gunter scoffed. “I can assure you, Lux von Junker, that I haven’t risked life and limb all these years simply to keep a silver bauble out of the hands of a saintly man.”
“How do you know my name?”
Gunter chuckled. “Ferrymen have loose lips, my brother. You should not have used Royal coin.”
Fymurip couldn’t help but smirk as Lux gave him the evil eye. But the big man recovered quickly. “Perhaps I did that on purpose. Perhaps I knew that word would get back to you that a Teutonic Knight was in town.”
“Perhaps,” Gunter admitted. “But now that you have found me, you refuse to believe what I say.”
“Because it’s ridiculous. As I’ve said, Duke Frederick wants the cross simply to bring it back to Saxony, so that it may lay in state as a reminder of our charge and duty to fulfill God’s promise. That is all.”
Gunter shook his head, moved forward. Fymurip reflexively placed his hand on his dagger, then thought better of it. The old man wasn’t moving in anger, or to place hands on Lux. He was simply moving closer to whisper his next words.
“My young brother, one of the hardest of the deadly sins to avoid is greed. Greed for money, for fame, for women, for power. It could very well have been the duke’s original intention to heap praise and security upon the cross, as you say. But trust me when I tell you, such humility is no longer in his heart. Duke Frederick is in contact with the Eldar Gods, and they seek the cross so that they might use it as a doorway through which to cross from their ethereal realm to ours. Imagine it: What mortal army could withstand a Teutonic Knight battalion with Eldar Gods in its ranks? Why, your Duke Frederick could cut a swath of death and desolation from here to Nippon. Trust me when I tell you that this is our future. . . if we allow this cross to fall into Duke Frederick’s hands.”
“And what of the Hanseatic League?” Lux asked. “Why do they seek the cross?”
Gunter shook his head, sighed. “That motive is harder to divine. It’s unlikely that they want it simply for its silver, for its jewel. I daresay that there isn’t enough raw mineral in it to pay for a night’s carnal pleasure. They may or may not know its power. I suspect that they have a buyer for it, someone who knows of its nature and wishes to do the very same thing that Duke Frederick wants. There are necromantic wizards who I’m sure would love to get their boney hands on it. It’s someone who’s willing to pay a God’s bounty, I can tell you that. And from the League’s perspective, it’s simply a business endeavor, one that they’re willing to kill for. It cannot fall into their hands either.”
Lux jumped off the table and motioned for Fymurip to follow him. They huddled in a corner, out of earshot of the Romani. “What do you think?”
Fymurip rubbed the growing stubble on his chin, breathed deeply. “I think he’s an old, senile goat. But, he may be right.”
Lux shook his head. “I can’t believe that Duke Frederick is working with the Eldar Gods, a man I have loved and respected for so long. It’s. . . it’s not possible.”
Lux turned to Gunter and said, “If what you say is true, then why did you risk exposure by letting us come here? Why not kill us beforehand and keep your location a mystery?”
“God teaches us that in the midst of life, we are in death. I am in death, Lux von Junker. I am old, tired, enfeebled. My time is over. I have done all that I can do. It is your time now.”
“Mine? What do you mean?”
Gunter reached for the cross again, held it up so that the torchlight caught its simple beauty. “I pass the Cross of Saint Boniface to you, to hold and to cherish, to protect, until the end of your days.”
Lux shook his head, and Fymurip grabbed the man’s arm in order to keep him from moving too swiftly toward Gunter, lest his actions be misinterpreted by the armed guards nearby. “Easy, my friend.”
“I’m not worthy of such a charge, Gunter Sankt. I cannot—”
“Any knight, who would take the council of a Muslim Tartar as easily as you, is the right man. You are a brother of God, but you have a practicality of mind and of spirit that is obvious by your demeanor, your carriage. No. You’re the one.”
Lux dropped slowly to the floor and sat there quietly, perhaps in prayer, for a long time. He never clasped his hands together, and Fymurip could not see his mouth move as if reciting words from scripture. It surprised Fymurip that Gunter Sankt said nothing nor did he move, for the entire time Lux contemplated his situation on that hard, dusty floor. Perhaps they were connected mentally in some way, worshipping together, seeking truths in the ethereal plane, where all truth resided. Fymurip remembered himself having such cathartic moments in the worship of Allah before a battle, setting his mind straight for what he was required to do.
Fymurip backed away and let his friend have the time he required.
Then Lux stood, quickly, his eyes fixed on Gunter Sankt. “They’re coming, aren’t they?”
The old cleric nodded. “All of them, scores, perhaps hundreds. They are gathering now in the city. They will have breached The Citadel wall by morning.”
“Unless we stop them,” Fymurip said, surprised at his own determination. In truth, this was hardly his fight. This was a Christian battl
e, between Christian forces. Why not just walk away? But was it really just that? A Christian squabble? If released onto the world, the Eldar Gods would make no distinction between Christians, Muslims, or Pagans. They would kill anything that stood in their way. Fymurip wondered if the Hanseatic League, in their desire to sell the cross for profit (if that was indeed their motive), understood that. Probably not. Men whose minds were clouded with greed were always blind to the truth.
“Very well,” Lux said. “We’ll face them, and we’ll do what we can to turn them back. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time as a knight, it’s that sometimes, the best weapon in war is chaos.”
“What do you have in mind?” Fymurip asked, his interest piqued.
“They are expecting us, the Romani, the cross.” Lux placed his hand on Fymurip’s shoulder, and winked. “Let’s give them something that they’re not expecting.”
VI
Lux dragged a blade over Fymurip’s exposed arm. Blood spilled from the wound. The Tartar did not wince or howl in pain, but Lux could tell he was unhappy.
“This is a foolish plan,” he said. “It is madness.”
Lux shook his head. “Mad times demand mad tactics. It will work. It has to work. Blood of Christ,” he said, patting Saint Boniface’s Cross that now hung from his neck on a cord. “Blood of Fymurip Azat.”
Lux let droplets of Fymurip’s blood fall on a rag, then he tied the rag around a bolt, notched it in his crossbow, and let it fly over the wall and into the morning darkness of the streets below. He tied similar rags around three other bolts, and let them fly as well, all down the wall, much to the chagrin of Fymurip who walked along with him, wounded arms crossed, eyes filled with rage and fear. Lux ignored the silent protest, though he had to admit at least to himself, that the Tartar was right. It was a risky move, and one that might backfire. But they had no other choice. None that Lux could see, anyway.
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 8