by Terry Brooks
The silver dust fell upon its face and golden daylight erupted. The creature screamed, falling back and pawing at its former face, the radiance blinding and flames licking its pale, dissolving skin.
“Now, Charles!”
Sudden half-freedom bolstering his desperation, the Heliwr rammed the other vampire against the wall. Rib bones shattered. Snarling in pain, the creature lost its grip on the Dark Thorn but fought to grasp Charles anew. He did not let it. He clubbed the vampire across the face, driving it to its knees, and in one fluid motion swung the staff like a sickle at the other vampire.
The butt of the Dark Thorn penetrated its chest, killing heart and life.
Years of battle training coming to his aid, Charles yanked the Dark Thorn clear of the dead undead and spun to confront his last enemy. It didn’t matter. With broken bones and a jaw that hung awkwardly to one side from the strike Charles had delivered, the vampire had not moved from where it had slumped to the catacomb floor. Beaten, Charles thought. Berrytrill hovered nearby, fists full of silver dust if needed. It wouldn’t be. The creature from Annwn looked up at the knight, a broken thing, the hatred filling its eyes the only lively aspect about it.
“Geht et ovah wit, knight,” the vampire mumbled, barely able to speak.
“That’s what I do,” Charles said coldly. Without waiting for a reply, the Heliwr drove the Dark Thorn through the vampire’s chest like a stake.
The creature died with a hollow gasp.
“Thought you were done for,” Berrytrill said.
“No time for applause,” Charles said, catching his breath. He gave the fairy a dark look. “Don’t let that happen again, Trill.”
“My fault, no doubt,” the fairy agreed, already guiding up the passage.
Given angry purpose at being caught off guard and pushing his family worries aside, Charles reduced the corpses to ash with the Dark Thorn and then chased after his guide. It didn’t take long for the Heliwr to navigate the underground world. Upward they traveled, not speaking, the fairy watching for further ambushes and Charles ready for one if it happened. The world of the dead began to fade away, fewer burial holes chiseled out of the living rock. The grade leveled eventually, the fire in his legs matching that in his heart, and he finally came to a dead end in the passage where a set of stairs vanished upward into a stone block.
“This vampire we hunt knew how to get out,” Berrytrill noted.
Charles nodded. “So it would seem.”
“It knows more than it should.”
The knight did not stop to contemplate how the vampire knew the inner workings of the Vatican. Instead, Charles unlocked the secret door by touching hidden catches in the wall designed by Leonardo da Vinci—entering the correct combination just like the vampire would have had to do.
The response was immediate. A series of clicks filled the tunnel and the stone door at the top of the stairs dropped several inches and slid silently aside.
Charles took the stairs two at a time into the musty odor of parchment and ancient ink. The Heliwr stood within the lowest levels of the Vatican Secret Archives. More than fifty miles of shelving contained tens of thousands of volumes, prints, engravings, coins, and parchments, most from ages past but all of great importance. It was daunting to imagine reading it all. No one had, as far as Charles knew. The Cardinal Archivist and his prefects knew the library better than anyone and the secrets it held. Occasionally Charles had inquired after that knowledge when needed for his knightly role. He was lucky in that regard; only a select few were granted research access to the Secret Archives every year.
There were secrets hidden here no one had laid eyes on in centuries. Had the vampire fought for entrance into the archives for information, as Merle believed?
Or for something far more sinister?
Charles stomped the stone tile to the right and the door closed behind them.
“Being a prince or no, there are some marvels in this world I do so care to quietly observe,” Berrytrill sighed. “I could spend years and years reading here.”
“Do not forget why we are here, Trill,” Charles chided. “Keep a lookout. The two vampires below were left there for a reason, and we are close now. The object of our hunt is on the other side of this bunker. Can’t fall prey now.”
“Good point,” the fairy said, speeding ahead.
Charles watched him go, extending his own senses into the faintly lit area. The vampire was not far away. He knew that. He could also feel the groups of people above enjoying Rome’s night and all its wonder, wholly unaware of the evil that had infiltrated the city. Vampires were relegated to myths, legends, and sappy romance novels that left middle-aged women aquiver. None of those people knew the truth. Ages past, very real Tuatha de Dannan fey and other magical beings had fled this world for Annwn to begin life anew. The Church had driven them out with iron and the sword.
Those Catholics above knew nothing of that. And if they had known, such creatures would have been labeled blasphemously evil.
When Charles had crossed half the distance to the far wall, passing hundreds of rows of books and gathered scrolls, Berrytrill came flying hurriedly back.
“Swiss Guards ward the restoration room,” the fairy shared.
“And beyond?”
“The vampire.”
Charles quickened his pace. Time was of the essence and Berrytrill would have cleared the way of traps—magical or otherwise. It didn’t take him long to traverse the rest of the room. The path the Dark Thorn showed him fully realized, Charles slowed as he peered around a last set of bookshelves to assess the situation on his own.
Berrytrill was right. Almost twenty Swiss Guards stood at the entrance to the restoration room of the Secret Archives, weapons aimed through the glass that comprised the room’s long wall. The guards did not concern him though. Beyond, in the room, he could just make out the unruly white hair of Cardinal Archivist Cesare Farina, his lined face drawn with fear, and fresh bruises blooming where he had been struck.
And at his side the unmistakable presence of the vampire.
Charles did not waste time. He strode into the middle of the Swiss Guard as if he commanded the entire world. A guard moved to obstruct the knight almost immediately.
“Halt! Now!” he demanded.
“I am here to speak with the Cardinal Archivist,” Charles said, loud enough for the occupants in the restoration room to hear.
“Only those given leave by Captain Beck Almgren can ent—”
“Let him pass!” Cardinal Archivist Farina yelled.
The guard frowned but moved aside. The others of the Swiss Guard let the Heliwr pass as well. Striking the floor with the Dark Thorn to gather all attention to him and with Berrytrill hiding in the crux of his armpit, Charles strode through the glass door designed to keep moisture and contaminants out and into a situation he immediately did not like.
Cardinal Archivist Cesare Farina, also a member of the Vigilo, sat next to the vampire at one of the dozens of tables used for the maintenance of the Secret Archives’ precious documents. He did not move. The vampire had fingers about the old man’s neck, his grip absolute, one that could end the mortal’s life instantly. The creature had also taken two other prisoners; two restorers, undoubtedly working the late shift with their Cardinal, sat at the rear of the room, both men staring blankly as if in a trance.
“Charles Ardall,” Cardinal Cesare Farina greeted with a weak smile.
“Are you three okay?”
“We are,” Cardinal Farina said. “The vampire has not harmed us.”
With Berrytrill now hovering nearby, Charles gazed then at the subject of his hunt. The intruder from Annwn was definitely a vampire. Thin skin. Prominent fangs. Eyes set within gaunt features. But he was unlike any Charles had seen too. Instead of possessing the northern European features that marked those who had entered Annwn millennia ago, the vampire had a dark Middle Eastern aspect to him. It told Charles that this vampire was likely not bitten and turned in A
nnwn, but in this world long before the fey had left, and had ventured to Annwn at a time much later.
Knowing that, it made the creature ancient beyond belief. It did not stop there. The eyes proved the theory if his heritage did not. The entity that stared back at Charles bore the weight of ages, a depth of soul the knight had only seen in the eyes of Merle. It was more than that though. Power radiated from the vampire, old power derived from centuries of experience that reverberated the air like a high-tension power line.
Charles had encountered several vampires in his time as Heliwr but none like this.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he questioned finally.
The vampire smiled, fangs born. It was a smile that lacked humor. “I want what you want, knight.”
“What would that be exactly?”
The vampire cocked his head. “For me to gain that which I desire, of course.”
“You have broken into the home of the Catholic Church,” Charles said unflinchingly. “You have killed many men this day, your own as well as those from the Swiss Guard. My fellow knight lays wounded. Not the best way to ensure aid in your quest.”
The creature shrugged. “I had to gain your attention, Heliwr.”
Charles did not like the sound of that.
“Why do you have need of me?”
“Besides the ancient wizard who yoked you into service, Heliwr, you are the only one with the respect needed to enter areas of this city that I wish admittance to,” the vampire said. “You and you alone.”
“Hate to break it to you, vampire,” Berrytrill chimed in smugly. “But the Knights of the Yn Saith are despised by the Church.”
“That may be, fairy,” the other said. “I still have need of your master.”
“My master, he is not, not at al—”
“I am Charles Ardall,” the Heliwr said, cutting his guide off before the conversation turned ugly. “And this is my quiet guide, Berrytrill. Who are you and why are you here?”
The vampire grinned self-mockery. “I have been called He Whose Life Dies Not. The Sable Warlock. The Fatal Revenant of Scarl. In this land, long ago, I was Mortuis, The Dead Who Walks. The world has wept ever since those days. Because that was not my birth name. Once, I was dead, the result of illness, and entombed for four days before being resurrected and returned to sunshine, a light that holds no love for shadowkind. A miracle some called my return. The miracle turned to ashes in my mouth long ago. I have learned to hate that day I entered the world with a second life.”
It didn’t take Charles long to realize what the vampire’s true name was but he could not believe it.
It was impossible.
“You are Lazarus of Bethany,” Charles said finally. “Or you think you are.”
The vampire nodded. “One of many names, but that was my first.”
“Blasphemy,” Cardinal Cesare Farina growled.
The vampire squeezed the old man’s neck, snarling. “The only blasphemy, priest, is what your God did to me that day. Do not believe me? Open your mind.”
The Cardinal Archivist squawked in sudden pain and his eyes rolled back into his head as magic filled the room. Charles could feel it, ancient and potent. Unsure of how the knight could even act to prevent what was being done, Cesare Farina breathed in suddenly, eyes returned to normal, body shuddering and fear twisting his features.
“It is true. He is Lazarus,” the Cardinal Archivist whispered, shaking still. “I saw…that day. Christ…”
“But that would make you millennia old,” Charles argued.
“I have witnessed much,” Lazarus said. “Through the blood of Jesus I was returned to life after four days of death. It was a blood that changed me forever, just as my blood is a plague to all who meet me. He did this to me, called me to help fulfill His will and convince the world to believe in Him. A will that has cursed me for centuries.”
Cardinal Farina shuddered anew. “Proof. Real proof. In my mind,” he whispered, rubbing at his temples. “I saw your sisters there, that day…”
“Martha and Mary did right by me,” Lazarus continued. “My sisters sent for the Christ, whom I followed out of devotion and love. I saw the truth of His will even then, the reasons for it, even if I knew not its implication for my own soul. I followed God, to see right done in a world that yearned for it. The truth could not dispel the judgment—the jail time—that was given to me though.” The vampire sneered, eyes flashing pent rage. “I was not asked if this is what I wanted.”
“He returned you to the living though,” Charles said, putting a small bit of trust in what the Cardinal Archivist had seen. “Some would call that an incredible gift.”
“They have not walked my life,” Lazarus said. “Destroyed lives. Families decimated. Spread evil.”
“Of course. You are a true vampire,” the knight said. “A killer.”
“I am that. Make no mistake.”
“But you blame Christ for your actions since then?” Charles said. “I am sorry, but even vampires have a choice.”
“Therein lies the irony,” Lazarus growled, his eyes grown darker. “After my resurrection, I learned He waited two whole days before making the journey to Bethany, days I still lived my mortal life. Two whole days,” the vampire seethed. “Choice, you say? You mock. By that time, I had passed beyond into…beauty. Absolute peace. I have since learned hatred for the reason of my rebirth. ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ Christ, I curse those words, words that I have read more times than breaths I have taken, unable to ignore the bloodlust with which I was cursed. I no longer believeth yet I live. Through His blood. Choice? What choice? It took centuries of searching for an answer to counter my existence—a hunt that has led me here.”
“And Jesus wept,” Cesare Farina added, tears filling his eyes. “But not for the sorrow of your sisters at your passing or for the lack of faith some in Bethany felt but instead for what He would do to you.”
“Perhaps this Cardinal Archivist is not as dumb as I took him for,” Lazarus said. He patted the old man’s bearded cheek like a child’s. “No, He wept for the atrocity that I would become, for the travesty of life I would reflect, for the hypocrisy of His cause. He needed the miracle for the Word and his everlasting Church. He knew what he created, the miracle that would grow his flock. And for that I am forever damned.” He paused. “If He had only arrived two days earlier, thousands of lives I have taken would have not known my bite, my curse. If only He had let me lie in my cave and remain in the peace and tranquility of death. If only He—”
“Life is filled with ifs, Lazarus,” Charles said. “They don’t allow you to revisit and correct. Ifs are best forgotten.”
“That is where you are wrong, Charles Ardall,” the other whispered. “I will set right this wrong. Tonight.
“An if shall set me free.”
Charles could barely comprehend the historical gravity of what he found himself in. Let alone the danger. He knew the Bible and the main writings that comprised the doctrine Catholics adhered to. The creature across from him didn’t just know history that had shaped the world. Lazarus was history. The vampire possessed knowledge that every scholar would desire; he also undoubtedly knew information that could be used for his evil purposes. If Charles had already been on edge, he was even more so now.
Yet the Heliwr felt a growing sense of sympathy for the vampire. Of pity. The man that had been Lazarus of Bethany was something else now, betrayed by the very goodness he had followed, had loved. The act that the Word had enacted—if what Cesare Farina had seen was true—was an evil far more virulent than what the vampire had become since his first death.
“You mentioned a hunt that has led you here,” Berrytrill said.
“Matters such as these require a certain decorum, fairy,” Lazarus said. “Today is the most important day of my life. It necessitates a longer explanation so that history
may be made whole again. Let my reason for coming here and the bargaining for what I want begin.” He paused, looking directly at Charles. “I will let these two workers free, if the Cardinal Archivist takes me to a very specific text I know exists in these Secret Archives, a writing so old and so ancient that only a handful have ever laid eyes on it, let alone read its pages.”
“You shall not lay your sinned hand on a single page under my care,” Cesare Farina muttered, his steel returning. “This library is owned by His Eminence. No creature of Hell has ever been given leave by the Pope to do as it pleases here. Not ever.”
“And yet here I sit, priest, in your home,” Lazarus said, taunting Cesare Farina with a sharp shake. “The Pope won’t mind giving me his leave. This is in his best interest, after all.”
“Which text would you be after?” Charles asked.
“The Bible.”
“I could have given you one from any hotel in Rome,” the knight snorted.
“No. The Bible. The first Bible,” the vampire said. “The Bible that is unsullied by editing fingers and biased purpose by those in power. The Bible that exists with the full text of the Word. There I will find what I seek.”
“Blasphemy,” Cardinal Farina croaked. “The Codex B is the oldest edition here and its contents are well documented outside these walls.”
“The Codex B, as you call it, is shyte,” Lazarus said, running a sharp fingernail down the man’s cheek, but his eyes never deviated from Charles. “That came into existence centuries after the original. There is another text, one I have been assured exists, and in it I will confirm my salvation and set right the wrong done me.”
“No such book is here, Lazarus,” the Cardinal Archivist said.
“You dare twist words with me. I smell it on your breath,” the vampire mocked. He grabbed a fistful of the old man’s white hair and yanked his head back. “It is not a book but a set of scrolls, more the like.” Charles could only watch the vampire’s fangs inch closer to the exposed neck. “Answer me!”
“It’s not a book!” Cesare Farina screamed, feeling death on his neck.