The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death

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The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 34

by Brendan Carroll


  “You do not understand the business here, my Brother,” von Hetz did not waver. “You must not harm Brother Ramsay. He is innocent.”

  “He is a traitor!” Beaujold responded and took a step forward, but the Knight of the Apocalypse held his ground.

  “He has betrayed nothing,” Von Hetz objected and glanced at the Knights standing beside the door. “His secrets are locked up even from his own consciousness. He could not betray us even if he were so inclined. We must take him back to the Grand Master… whole.”

  “Too dangerous.” Beaujold looked at Ramsay and then glanced back at his companions.

  “You will destroy us all if we lose the secrets in his possession. He cannot pass them on in his present state and I will not allow you to kill an innocent man. Especially our Brother.”

  “And I will defend him as well,” Christopher entered his own declaration of intent as he stepped into the office from the laboratory door and stood near the Apocalyptic Knight facing them down. Merry stood framed against the blackness of the lab. Her first impulse was to go to Mark Andrew. He looked bad… sicker even than when Cecile had poisoned him. She fought within her own foggy mind for clarity.

  “You are outnumbered, Brother,” Beaujold told the dark Knight and cast a disdainful look at the apprentice. Christopher fully realized the gravity of the choice he had made. Standing against a Knight of the Council was a quick and sure way to find himself stationed in Afghanistan permanently… or dead.

  Ramsay made a choking noise and coughed. He raised his head slowly and then pushed himself unsteadily from the chair. The five men eyed each other warily as Ramsay made a clumsy grab for the golden sword and dragged it to him across the desk. Beaujold almost bolted forward to stop him, but von Hetz moved his sword into position to strike. Mark clasped the hilt in both hands, barely able to raise the length of the blade toward the ceiling as he turned to face them, swaying and bleary-eyed.

  “You have come to kill me,” he said hoarsely as if surprised by this development. “But I know you cannot kill me unless I allow it. I hold the secret of death for all of you. If you kill me, you condemn yourselves to everlasting life regardless of what time has in store for you. Even if you should be burned to a cinder, you would live on, cursing the day when you tried to murder the Chevalier du Morte.” He coughed again and spit on the floor. He looked as if he was already at Death’s door.

  “Your apprentice is here,” Beaujold told him. “Pass along your secrets and die like a man, Ramsay. Your time has ended. Do not continue your disgrace to the detriment of the Order of the Temple of Solomon. Repent and receive salvation, Brother.”

  “My appren… Christopher?” Mark squinted at the young man on his left, brandishing the two knives against the three swords.

  “Yes, Master,” Christopher did not take his eyes off the Knight of the Sword. “I am here to do your bidding.”

  “He cannot pass on his mysteries,” von Hetz’ voice boomed in the little room.

  Dambretti frowned at d’Ornan who shrugged. The Healer’s eyes were wide with fear. How could he kill one of his own Brothers?

  “He has lost his memory. Our only hope is to take him home and help him recover,” von Hetz tried to reason with Beaujold.

  “Your brain is muddled by all those ancient scrolls you study, my Brother,” Beaujold insulted him, raised his sword a bit higher and tried to judge Ramsay’s condition. “Do not force me to destroy you as well.” It was obvious to him that Ramsay could not possibly carry through with his threat. He could barely stand.

  D’Ornan drew in his breath at this outrageous threat. Beaujold had lost his reasoning. Why not just take Ramsay? They didn’t have to cut off his head. If absolutely necessary, they could do it later. Von Hetz would help them subdue him and Christopher would be no problem, but von Hetz would not allow any of them to seriously harm the Knight of Death just yet and Simon knew the Ritter to be stubborn unto death. They would have to kill him as well.

  “Brother Thomas, we’re wasting time,” Dambretti spoke for the first time. “It would not be wise… Brother against Brother? What harm could it be to take him home alive? I beg you, Sir, think before you leap.”

  Beaujold let go a string of curses in French, warning the Italian to be quiet, but not before Ramsay’s head jerked around at the sound of the Knight of the Golden Eagle’s voice.

  “Lucio? Dambretti! Where are you?” He squinted into the shadows. The mercury had affected every facet of his being. His eyes felt as if they had been frozen and were only just now thawing. His knees wobbled back and forth and every joint in his body hurt. No headache had ever hurt quite so badly and even his ears seemed stuffed with cotton. He could see Beaujold plainly enough and recognized him for exactly the threat he was and von Hetz, but the two figures by the door were only fuzzy shapes.

  “Brother Ramsay! Lay down your weapon, please!” Simon shouted at him. Beaujold would use this as an excuse to do what he wanted to do so very badly and how could they stand against him if he said that Ramsay came at him with the sword?

  “Simon? Simon! Step forward and show yourself!” Ramsay blinked rapidly, trying to sort out the blurs in the background without losing sight of the Knight of the Sword.

  Christopher chose that moment to end the standoff. He was not immortal. He could not afford to stand there forever, arguing and bickering. He lunged at Beaujold and then jumped back to draw his attention away from Ramsay. Beaujold automatically turned to attack the apprentice and Von Hetz stepped between them. Christopher darted around the two Knights, crossed the space between Beaujold and the door and faced D’Ornan and Dambretti. Simon raised his sword instinctively and Christopher darted in making a fake swipe at his ribs with the dagger. D’Ornan brought the sword down to ward off the blow as the apprentice fell back. His blade struck the carpet, ripping a long slice through it. Ramsay staggered forward and raised his sword in Dambretti’s face blinking and frowning at him, barely able to retain his footing. The poison still poured through his veins, making him cold and sluggish. Simon fell back against the doorjamb, not wishing to harm the apprentice. Dambretti faced the apprentice, holding his sword up, weaving back and forth, ready to fend off the two knives, but like the Healer, he did not want to hurt Christopher.

  “Lucio? Brother?” Mark Andrew asked again and raised the twisted blade higher, turning left and right, looking for someone, something or anything to afford cover or some means of escape. The light glinted off the golden blade as he stumbled toward the door.

  Dambretti fell back against the wall as he passed while Christopher tried to close in on d’Ornan again, drawing him away from the door enough to allow his Master to leave the dangerous confines of the office.

  “Answer me! Lucio! Christopher! Answer me, damn you!” Mark demanded as he zeroed in on the Italian, now standing in the deeper shadows. He could not focus on the Italian’s face in the dim light. He needed to hear the voice again. Lucio was his friend and his Brother. Surely he would not attack him. When Dambretti failed to answer him, he swung the blade blindly at the shadowy man and stumbled forward, closer to the door. Dambretti parried the blow easily and actually shoved him toward the hall. He stumbled forward three steps, stopped and turned. Lucio followed him into the hall and had to parry another wild swing.

  Christopher continued his dart and retreat attack on d’Ornan. Simon realized that the boy had no intention of actually stabbing or slashing him and so they kept each other busy while the Italian ‘helped’ Ramsay down the hall toward the stairs, trying to get him out of the building and away from Beaujold without giving away his intent. Neither Simon, nor Lucio could say anything without risking the wrath and consequences of going against the mission leader and objectives. It would be tantamount to treason.

  The apprentice was not sure the Healer would not harm his Master, but he did not want to do something he would regret. He knew that d’Ornan was his Master’s lifelong friend. Then again, Simon was a Frenchman like Beaujold and the Grand Ma
ster favored him above all the Knights. He didn’t want to think it was possible, but he could not take any chances. Of Dambretti, he was sure enough to know that the Italian would not strike a blow against Ramsay.

  At the other end of the long, narrow room, the Knight of the Sword and the Knight of the Apocalypse were engaged in serious combat. They fought all the way around the desk, exchanging a number of blows, any of which, had they hit the intended mark, would have been mortally debilitating. At the moment, only Cecile’s cherry wood desk was mortally wounded. Ramsay’s ‘favorite’ chair had been destroyed at the outset and the lamp was now on the floor, casting confusing shadows in the room. Konrad pleaded with Beaujold to stand down, but had to work hard to keep the enraged Frenchman from destroying him. He appealed to every sensibility and reason, but Beaujold was beyond listening.

  Beaujold's mind raced as adrenalin pumped through his veins and gave him the impetus he needed to ward off the German Knight's practiced blows. Anger threatened to raise its devastating head as he realized that von Hetz was holding back. An insult of the worst kind. He threw new vigor into his attack forcing Konrad to stop his verbalizations and put more effort into saving his skin.

  In the hallway, Dambretti stuck out one foot and Ramsay went down on his hands and knees. The golden sword skittered away on the tile floor. D’Ornan broke away from Christopher and followed Dambretti and Ramsay into the hallway. Beaujold grabbed a heavy vase from one of the tables and flung it at Christopher’s head, causing him to fall back in the corner before he could pursue the Healer. When Simon skidded to a stop just outside the door, Ramsay’s neck was in the perfect position to receive the death blow which would take off his head. Simon looked down at his long time friend. He already had his sword drawn back. He could take his head.

  “Kill him!” Beaujold shouted at the Healer as he parried the Ritter’s blows and shoved the desk toward the dark Knight. “Take his head!”

  Merry retreated through the laboratory and made her way into the hallway as the two combatants destroyed Valentino’s office with the heavy blades, sending showers of paper shreds, chipped wood and glass splinters flying around the room. When the fight poured into the hall with her, she pressed herself against the wall, trying to stay clear of the fighters, looking for some way to help Mark. She had to suppress a scream when she saw the Healer standing above the downed knight with his sword over Mark Andrew’s neck.

  The Healer wavered, glanced at her once and frowned down at the back of Mark’s head before raising his sword a bit higher. When she saw that d’Ornan might actually follow the instructions shouted from the other room, she made her move. Beaujold screeched at him again and d’Ornan’s face drained of what little color it had left when the Knight of the Sword broke off his attack on von Hetz and started toward the door. The Healer brought the sword up and prepared to turn and face his fellow countryman. He could not and would not kill the Scot. Both Dambretti and Merry screamed “No!” at him.

  Christopher charged Beaujold and Merry simultaneously launched herself at the Healer. She knocked d’Ornan bodily away from Ramsay, giving him the time he needed to scrabble after the sword and regain his feet once more, using the golden sword as a crutch. Merry bounced off the deceptively sturdy little Knight like a rubber doll. Dambretti caught her in his arms, dropping his sword in the process and went down on his knees under the impact. He made one feeble attempt to stand up before catching a glancing blow from the hilt of Ramsay’s golden sword on his left temple when Mark Andrew turned, swinging the deadly sword wildly at the shadows around him. The Italian went down with the woman on top of him. Christopher grabbed Beaujold by the shoulders, literally flinging him back into the office into the Apocalyptic Knight’s arms and made his way into the hall through the rubble of Valentino’s office. He reached the corridor in time to leap on d’Ornan just as he regained his feet, smacking him soundly on the back of his head with the butt of his dagger. D’Ornan went down again, this time unable to get up. He lay on the floor clutching his head in both hands as blood oozed through his fingers.

  Beaujold tore loose of von Hetz’ grasp and bolted for the door. He drew his sword back over his left shoulder and prepared to finish the command he had given. Ramsay was leaning over the hilt of his sword, trying to recover enough equilibrium to decide which way to run in the confusion. Christopher flung himself on the Knight of the Sword when he emerged from the office and they fell away in a tangle of boots and blades, sliding along the waxed tiles together, cursing and shouting.

  Mark straightened up again as the Apocalyptic Knight emerged from the office into the bright light of the corridor. The dark Knight moved in on the two men struggling on the floor and batted the enraged Knight of the Sword off the apprentice with one gloved fist. Ramsay turned and fled as best he could down the hallway toward the stairs, following the flow of fresh air from the open basement doors. Beaujold regained his footing and rushed von Hetz again, swinging his sword with deadly precision, almost removing the Ritter’s right arm and then his left, but the German Knight was much too nimble to be caught off guard. He leaped from side to side, narrowly avoiding the blade as Beaujold took sizable chunks from the masonry walls. Christopher scrabbled about the floor in search of the dagger and knife he had dropped in the tumble with the Knight.

  Mark made it to the stairs with little trouble and found them with only one tumble onto the bottom riser. He clambered up the steps holding his sword in one hand and his stomach with the other, leaning his right shoulder against the railing for a guide. His vision had cleared, but the pain in his stomach had not relinquished its cruel hold on him. The bulk of the mercury had gone down the toilet in Cecile’s laboratory, but enough of it had permeated his body to kill a battalion or two. If he had thought his stomach empty before von Hetz had poisoned him, he now knew the true meaning of being completely without a morsel of nourishment in his entire digestive tract. His stomach would never forgive him and he would never forgive the Ritter, even if his actions had been well-intentioned. Glancing back once more from the foot of the stairs, he saw Dambretti easing the unconscious woman to the floor. The Italian bent over her, checking her pulse. Mark called her name once before pushing on, up the steps, into the dark night air and freedom. Lucio would take care of her. Lucio was his friend and his Brother. He was a good man. The sound of his name being bellowed behind him spurred him on.

  The mercury burned him from within. It was as if he could feel every vein, every artery and every capillary in his entire body. His blood seemed as heavy as the quicksilver in his lab and his stomach convulsed again and again, drawing him over painfully. He made a mental note in spite of everything to make notes of his symptoms in his journal when and if he ever got home. He shook off the ridiculous idea as he painfully climbed the stairs. Journal? What journal? Was he a damned doctor or research scientist on top of everything else? When he reached the basement doors, the cool night air washed over him and he stopped briefly, leaning against the double doors to catch his breath. He could hear the sounds of Valentino’s party above him and to the left, though he could only see shadowy figures beyond the colorful lights strung around the verandah. Using the sword as a makeshift cane and guiding himself along the brick wall with his other hand, he tromped through the flower beds to the corner of the building and then headed across the open lawn toward one of the outbuildings. Surely he would find his car there.

  The building he had mistaken for a garage was a barn, a stable to be more precise. Three horses were parked where he had expected automobiles. He looked about in confusion as one of the horses, a nervous black stallion of beautiful proportions, pranced and snorted in his stall. Inside the stall he caught the animal’s halter in his hand and stroked its nose, leaning his head against the horse’s jaw, willing the animal to remain calm long enough for him to get a saddle on him. Looking around as best he could, he located a sleek English saddle thrown over the rails of the next stall. It had been a long, long time since he’d had the unpleasa
nt misfortune of riding a beast under such desperate circumstances. The black horse would no doubt be hard to handle, but he would be the best choice. The other two animals were stocky and shorter, but the stallion reminded him of some of his own horses. Strong and fast. What horses?

  With great pain and much work, he saddled the stallion expertly without thinking and found a bridle for him. The stirrups were adjusted for someone much shorter than himself, but he could not afford to waste any more time. He gripped the hilt of the sword in his left hand and the horse’s mane in the other, stuck his right foot in the high stirrup and used the remainder of his strength to mount the prancing stallion as it shied away from him, slamming against the boards of his stall. The short stirrups made his knees feel as if they were in his face and made it impossible to ride correctly, but the cramped posture actually helped him maintain his balance as the pain in his stomach caused him to bend forward over the horse’s neck much like a jockey on a racehorse. He slapped the stallion’s flank with the reins and the horse bolted from his stall, through the stable, galloping out into the night air, ready for a good romp.

  Ramsay had no idea where he was going or how far he would have to ride to get there, he was just going away from the madness, away from those who would see him dead again… and again. When he sensed he was far enough from the house to slow down, he dragged the sword across his thighs, wrapped the reins around his hands and let horse have his way. The stallion slowed to a fast walk, jarring him unmercifully, adding to his misery. A palfrey would have been nice just then. A waxing gibbous moon shone above the rocky landscape and he knew he was either heading west or east. Tomorrow night would be the full Buck moon. He wondered at the trivial knowledge that he had stored in his brain, but searched the sky for the constellations long enough to determine that he was heading west before closing his eyes and hanging his head, breathing hard against the ache in his stomach and the new anguish growing in his back and shoulders. He brushed all thoughts away except two: stay on the horse, block the pain. Stay on the horse, block the pain.

 

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