by Terry Brooks
The Cardinal of the Secret Archives did just that and, once finished, nodded for the others to vacate the room.
Lazarus did not object but went willingly.
Once the room emptied, Cesare Farina spoke a few ancient words and the wall reformed, cloaking its priceless contents in secrecy again.
“I have ordered the Swiss Guards not of my retinue to return to the catacombs below, just in case this is a ruse,” Pope Urban notified, turning to leave. “Follow me. This should not take long.”
Cringing beneath the imprisoning grasp of Lazarus once more, the Cardinal followed his pontiff out of the Secret Archives, through several bookcases and doorways, and up flights of stairs. The Swiss Guards once outside the restoration room were indeed gone. The Pope led but he did so slowly, his personal Swiss Guard detail still protecting him, Beck Almgren a step behind. Even though he led, Urban kept an eye on the vampire almost as closely as Charles did from the rear of the retinue. All the while, the Dark Thorn was an assurance of warmth beneath his hand.
It did not take long for the odd group to leave the ancient building and enter the cool night air of Rome. Charles knew the area. The Cortile della Pigna surrounded them, the courtyard bounded by other Vatican buildings, the walls featuring alcoves filled with tall statues from antiquity and more modern artwork placed sporadically about the grass lawn. To the south through the library, the Borgia Tower stood, its heights a sentinel over the Cortile del Belvedere. The Sistine Chapel lay just on the other side with the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica lording over all. Charles could feel the portal thrumming nearby, deep in the catacombs, far from where they stood if one did not know the secret passageways that littered Vatican City.
With the high walls of the courtyard boxing them in, the Pope had brought the vampire to an area that was not easily fled.
“Wait here,” Pope Urban instructed.
“Where is the spear?” Lazarus asked again.
“That is none of your concern,” the pontiff chided. He looked at Charles and then at Beck Almgren. “If the vampire attempts to flee or cause other mischief, Heliwr, I trust you and the Bearer of Prydwen can subdue him until my return. The Thorn and the Shield should be enough, correct?”
“I would accompany you, Your Eminence,” Captain Almgren said.
“You will not. This I must do alone.”
Not waiting for a response, the Pope strode south toward St. Peter’s Basilica, his guards remaining a shield about him. Charles waited like the rest beneath the stars. None of them spoke. The Cardinal Archivist prayed in whispers, an act that clearly unnerved Lazarus. Captain Almgren scowled nearby and did not take his eyes from the vampire. Berrytrill sat upon Charles’s shoulder, arms folded, his leafy face scrunched up in barely contained irritation.
Charles felt as his guide did. No matter his desire to see Lazarus destroyed, he did not like that the vampire was near to getting what he wished. That wasn’t all though. The knight did not like the deadly sin of power craved in the eyes of the Pope. He did not like being effectively removed from decisions, Urban now in control. And was the Pope in control? A vampire as ancient as Lazarus undoubtedly had duplicitous tricks to use when it suited. Even though the Cardinal Archivist had corroborated the identity of the vampire, something felt missing, a truth that could haunt them for days yet come. The feeling they were being misled grew like an angry itch.
One Charles could not scratch.
He mulled on that, still trying to unravel the puzzle that was Lazarus. After long minutes, Pope Urban returned and strode toward them across the courtyard lawn, bearing a long item wrapped in white cloth. Without a word, he unwrapped it and brought free a spear from antiquity, its design clearly Roman, its long tip glinting in the weak starlight.
“The Holy Lance,” the Pope presented, letting the cloth fall to the ground.
“It looks new,” Berrytrill observed.
“The wood shaft has been replaced several times, fairy, but the point has never lost its edge in all the centuries since that day it punctured the side of Christ.”
“What now, Your Holiness?” the Cardinal Archivist asked.
“I will speak with the Heliwr. In private.”
Unsure what Urban wanted to discuss, Charles followed the Pope deeper into the courtyard where distance and night cloaked them in privacy. As a precaution, Charles gathered the magic of the Dark Thorn to his use and spoke three simple words, the spell keeping their conversation private.
“Do you sense any intention other than what the creature said in the depths of the Secret Archives, Charles Ardall?”
“I do not know,” Charles said, glancing back at Lazarus. “Something is not right. The vampire speaks true but not. There is something in all this he is not telling us.”
“The Holy Lance cannot fall into its hands. Do you understand?”
“As wielder of the Dark Thorn, I agree.”
“I wish something of you then,” Urban continued. “I do not want to be parted from the spear, not for any reason. There must be a spell you can weave to make this so. My forbearers have protected the Holy Lance for centuries. I must do so as well.”
“That could be very dangerous,” Charles said, apprehension filling him. “Magic is not something to be taken lightly. Merle has been very adamant about situations like you suggest. For a knight to enact magic on another person is a grave risk. Magic can go wrong; it can be unpredictable. And you being the Pope with great responsibility and with intense public scrutiny makes it—”
“An even graver risk,” the Pope finished.
“It is my role to keep the two worlds separate. If something happens, it will be obvious to the world, more than likely.” Charles paused. “To be blunt, you should not be taking part in any of this.”
“I must accept that risk,” Urban said, ignoring the Heliwr’s warning. “It is my job to end creatures like this. I also cannot lose the spear. It is one of the foremost relics in my possession and under my protection.” When Charles did not immediately agree, the Pope stepped closer. “You will do this. I take full responsibility for the magic employed upon my person. It is a necessary evil and burden I must bear,” he whispered.
Charles said nothing, simply nodding. The proper spell came easily enough. He had bound elements many times during his tenure as Heliwr, and it was not a difficult way to fulfill what the Pope requested. It still bothered him to enact magic on another person though. The warning Merle had given him remained.
Even so, it had been many years—since the beginning of his apprenticeship under Merle—that his own magical abilities had gone awry in some fashion.
But that did not mean it could not happen now.
“Hold the spear as you would when striking Lazarus,” Charles said.
Pope Urban did so. Charles called upon his magic, the Dark Thorn bolstering him. He wove a spell from the ether, from ancient words, calling on the power of the world through his heels as well as the power connecting him to Annwn through his staff.
It did not take long. The Pope’s right hand began to glow a warm blue where it held the shaft of the spear.
After he finished the spell, the glow disappeared.
“The staff cannot be taken from your fingers,” Charles said, the flush that came with enacting magic gone suddenly. “I can undo it once we are finished. The magic has bound the carbon atoms in the staff’s wooden shaft to the carbon of your hand. Test it. Try to release the Holy Lance.”
“I cannot let it go,” the pontiff said, all too pleased. He turned his back on the knight and strode back toward the others. “Time to end this evil’s life.”
Charles ended the privacy spell and followed, still wary.
“Kneel, creature,” Pope Urban said, holding the Spear of Longinus before him for emphasis. “I bring the death you have asked for.”
Lazarus released Cesare Farina and knelt as asked.
“Slay me, Pope Urban the Fingerless,” Lazarus whispered.
The leader of the Ca
tholic Church hesitated a moment before raising the Holy Lance to strike. The warning that had been growing in Charles’s heart shrieked to sudden life.
“No!” he yelled. “Wait!”
Before Charles could intercede, it was too late. As the spear began to fall toward the vampire, the weapon suddenly vanished.
As did Lazarus.
Charles and the others stood frozen, unsure what had just happened. Then the horrified howls of Pope Urban filled the courtyard with chilling clarity. Blood spurted into the night from a right hand suddenly maimed, lacking every digit, the Pope bent over in wild-eyed, pained terror.
“Charles, Lazarus flees!” Berrytrill yelled.
“Follow him!” the knight roared.
Berrytrill had already done so, vanishing almost as quickly as the vampire. Charles chased after, ignoring the pain-racked sobs of the Pope and surprised anger of his captain and guards. As his guide hunted for Lazarus, Berrytrill left a trail of fairy magic dust—a trick of Heliwr guides centuries old—and Charles followed this, having already called on the spell that would allow him to do so.
It became quickly apparent what path the vampire had chosen. The trail glowed on the air before Charles, for his eyes only.
And it led into the Vatican Library.
Back the way they had come.
Charles sprinted, the Dark Thorn still called forth. The Heliwr could not believe what had just happened. Knowing he could not help Urban, he followed the magic trail back into the Library. The magic Berrytrill employed showed Lazarus retracing his steps toward the Secret Archives—and likely back through the passageways beneath Vatican City the vampire had used to gain the archives in the first place.
Lazarus planned on returning to the portal.
The vampire might have had another destination in mind but that did not feel right. He had come from Annwn; Annwn is where he’d return. Charles could locate the creature every few minutes with the Dark Thorn but those were precious minutes he would not lose, minutes that could make a difference.
It was a risk Charles would have to take.
He broke from Berrytrill’s glowing trail and, rather than entering the Secret Archives, sprinted into the Cortile del Belvedere toward St. Peter’s Basilica. He ignored the parking lot, the Borgia Tower, and the Sistine Chapel. He instead tore through corridors both secret and well traveled during the day, hoping he did not make a mistake. The only chance he had was cutting the vampire off before he entered Annwn. If Lazarus did, Charles would have a much harder time tracking him, killing him, and retrieving the powerful relic. The creature was unnaturally fast, able to cover distances with great speed. But the tunnels beneath the city were long and meandering. Charles had to hope he was quick enough to take advantage of a more direct route. He had one chance, and speed was his only ally.
Charles burst into St. Peter’s Square. The grandeur of Vatican City met him, ornate buildings of architectural beauty dwarfing humanity. Several dozen people still milled about the Square, some walking hand in hand, others photographing the splendor of the city at night. Charles ignored their surprise and eventual protestations at his erratic appearance with the Dark Thorn. He left them all behind. In seconds, he entered the heart of Catholicism, St. Peter’s Basilica, purpose driving him. Down through the nave he ran, into the heart of the massive structure. No one stopped him. Soon the Papal Altar and Baldacchino rose over him, the tomb of Saint Peter beneath. There Charles gained the entrance to the Secret Grotto that held the hidden door into the catacombs beneath, sweat freezing his burning skin even as he ran faster into the world’s depths.
After numerous twists and turns through the catacombs, Charles came to the corridor that led to the Secret Archives in one direction and the portal to Annwn in the other. Breathing hard, he peered around him with spell-empowered eyes.
The trail Berrytrill created had not yet reached these corridors.
Which meant Lazarus likely hadn’t either.
Hoping that was true, Charles waited.
Just when the knight thought that he had made a mistake and was about to use the Dark Thorn to locate the vampire, he sensed movement coming toward him from the direction of the Secret Archives, a disturbance of air, a quiver of sound that could mean only one thing.
Calling the fire of the Dark Thorn to bolster his need and senses, he waited.
When Lazarus tried to pass in a blur, Charles tackled him.
Both of them went flying.
The vampire’s momentum threw them down the corridor a dozen yards. Magic kept Charles mostly safe as he skidded to a halt beneath Lazarus, lashing out with fire born of anger, determination, and need. Caught by surprise, Lazarus fought back immediately. The vampire was faster than the Heliwr and quickly had the knight by his front clothing, fangs bared in anger. He brought the Holy Lance up in defense against the Dark Thorn, the dead fingers of the Pope still attached to it, both of them vying for an advantage.
“Give this up, Lazarus!” Charles roared.
“I go to fulfill a debt that comes with my death!”
Charles sent the fire of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s face. Hair singed, Lazarus roared like a lion caught in a grassfire. He tried to flee. The knight did not allow it. He tripped the vampire with hastily drawn magical tethers, sending the other sprawling to stone. Charles was on him in a second. He slammed the cudgel of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s jaw, a strike that did nothing but anger the vampire more, and pressed the head of the staff into the other’s chest, to pin the night creature against rock.
“This does not concern you, Heliwr!” Lazarus said, unfazed. He held the Holy Lance at his side but did not use it to attack. “I go to my death!”
“I no longer believe your lies!”
“I have not lied,” Lazarus growled lowly, fangs fully extended. Charles could see in the other’s eyes a desire to kill the knight, to rend him from limb to limb—that need eroding the creature’s control and only a moment away from reality.
Charles realized this was the moment Merle had portended.
“You stole the spear, Lazarus,” the Heliwr argued more calmly.
“I did,” the vampire admitted, the fire in his eyes banking a bit. “But I promised I did not intend to kill anyone. I still do not. You are safe and I have killed no one. I did purchase a service though. And that service must be paid in full.”
Charles kept the magical pressure on his opponent. “Not today. I will fight you to the end. Do the right thing. Give up the Holy Lance.”
“I smell your wife on you,” Lazarus growled. “Your soon-to-be son! I sense you are worried you will die fulfilling your knightly duty. Do not. Not this day. But neither should you devastate their lives with your loss by pressing me, Heliwr! You have greater deeds to fulfill! And I will not take another life!”
At that, he heaved Charles backward, sending him flying.
He slammed against the wall with such force it would have killed a normal man. The Dark Thorn saved him though, softening the powerful brunt of the assault, though his magic could not prevent it entirety. His head hit the wall hard, the breath in his lungs left like a gale, and all went dark as he slid down to the ground against his will, struggling against unconsciousness.
He had no idea how much time had passed when a shrill voice filled his ear.
“Where’d he go?!” Berrytrill screamed.
“The portal,” Charles mumbled, shaking his head. “Follow him!”
The fairy guide did, leaving the Heliwr behind. Sweat pouring freely, Charles regained his feet, battling the wave of nausea and weakness that threatened to overcome him. He fought both and won. Soon rage took over—at what had been done to him and how the situation had unfolded—strengthening his resolve.
Stumbling a bit at the start, he went after his guide. The catacombs took him back to where it all had begun. As he followed the fairy’s trail, a cacophony of broken sounds rolled through the underground tunnels, getting louder with every step. Then he realized wh
at it was.
It was the sound of echoing gunfire.
Another battle raged. Had the portal been compromised again? Or did the Swiss Guards fight only against Lazarus? When Charles finally burst into the portal cavern, he was not prepared for what he saw.
A new threat had not entered Rome.
A dead threat had.
The vampire corpses that had littered the cavern were now reanimated through dark arts, attacking dozens of Swiss Guards, trying to break through to the entrance where Charles now stood. In front of him, Bruno Ricci fought, arm slung, looking every bit as dead as those he faced. But Carnwennan was blinding white-hot power, the magic of the Arthurian knife bolstering its bearer’s strength and resolve. The portal knight sent swaths of lightning deep into the zombie midst, keeping them at bay long enough for the Swiss Guard to form a counterattack.
The vampiric zombies came on, an unending torrent that felt no pain. Charles hadn’t seen it in time. The runes tattooed on their skin.
Life after life’s death.
“Are these vambies?” Berrytrill mused. “Or are they Zompires?”
“Be careful,” Charles growled, ignoring his guide’s poor attempt at humor. “To get caught by one would be your certain death.”
“Look to the portal!”
Charles did so. Lazarus stood before the Annwn gateway, calmly, still holding the Holy Lance. He had either made his way through the melee or enacted the rune magic after he had gained the portal, creating a zombie diversion while he waited. But for what?
Or whom?
Then Charles saw movement within the shimmering portal.
An old woman stepped free of the void, ratty gray hair hanging limply about a pinched, wrinkled face. Her clothing was destitute like a beggar’s but rings with various priceless gems that would have made the greediest coblynau miner envious sat upon every finger of her hands, verifying her identity.
The witch Lazarus had made his bargain with.
Charles suddenly understood.
“Don’t do this, Lazarus!” he roared.
The vampire ignored him. He handed the Holy Lance to the witch and knelt. Raising it and wasting no time, the old crone struck. Lazarus met the thrust with his entire being as if offering himself in sacrifice to the witch. When the metal pierced his heart, every muscle in his body snapped taut. He leaned back and, coughing crimson into the air twice, gasped several unintelligible words before going limp.