To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty)

by David Niall Wilson

  In the central tent, a tall thin figure sat quietly, his thoughts turned toward his own mind. All of his concentration was inward. He couldn’t afford even the slightest spark of his true being to slip through the walls of his control. His mask of humanity had to remain complete and compelling. There were other enemies than Jacques de Molay present, and none of them could be taken lightly. He’d sensed the passing of the guardian, Santos, among others. The fleeting ghost-touch of Kli Kodesh’s ancient essence flitted about the shadows, but never quite made itself known. He couldn’t be certain whether the old one would detect him or not. It was even less likely that he would be able to guess at Kodesh’s reaction to his presence. Best that none knew he was there, for the moment, and that he assume it to be so.

  The brothers gathered about him closely, and they all knew of his “condition.” He could not travel in the light of day, but had to sleep—at times to be borne upon their shoulders, or hauled in a cart. It was a penance, so they believed. He had traveled thus for hundreds of miles, and as each of those miles passed, the danger of suspicion grew, and the tales of his devotion to his Lord, and to the

  Church, multiplied. It would have to end soon, or he would have to leave—possibly for good. There was no way he could let the truth be known.

  He wanted to call out to the others, to join them. The road had brought longings he’d not known he still had—a desire for open road and bright stars shining down on a road to new lands. It had been dead within him for so long, this urge toward adventure and the open road, that it suddenly made him feel very alive. He smiled at the thought.

  The tent flaps were pulled wide, and Bartholomew, one of his followers, made his way into the interior of the tent. He did not speak, but instead stepped forward, nearly dragging the cowl of his robes on the ground he bowed so low. In his hand he held a bit of paper, and this he placed on the floor before his master’s feet. He backed away without a word, sweating profusely and breathing shallowly.

  Glancing down, the thin priest read the words on the message quickly. It was in Philip’s bold, arrogant script.

  “We have them trapped like rats. Soon the Church will have the opportunity to cleanse them. We ask your blessing in the coming siege. The men are restless—it could mean the difference of days or weeks.”

  As representative of the Church it was his duty to bless. He was to sanction the spilling of blood in the name of God, and this message was Philip’s way of asking that he bestow that blessing this very night. There was time. The sun was hours from the horizon, and it had been too long since he’d walked among men freely. Another foolish urge, he knew, but another that made him smile as well.

  Rising, fighting to maintain the inward concentration that would allow him the control he needed for the blank-faced, stoic guise he wore in mortal company. It was his shield against detection, as long as he was able to maintain it. He strode purposefully to the front of the tent and pushed the flap aside, stepping into the night beyond. The monks at the door looked at him in surprise, then returned to their silent vigils. There were other matters within that required their attention.

  Leaving them behind, he strode through the camp. His dark red robes glistened like black liquid in the darkness, and the whisper of silk against his thighs as he moved was rhythmic and hypnotic. He moved with a grace that would have shamed a dancer, and he moved directly toward Philip’s tent. No time to waste, no reason to do otherwise.

  He came to a halt just outside, and the guards were already scrambling back through the door as they sighted him striding from the shadows. In truth, though they respected the Church very much, Bishop Eugenio made them nervous. He could feel their fear trailing behind them as they fought to be the one who would enter the tent to announce his arrival—and to not be the one left outside to greet him as he arrived. He drank in their fear and was surprised at how much the sensation pleased him. “Your Eminence,” a bulky young swordsman spoke up, stepping forward and kneeling in the dirt, head bowed.

  The tent flap opened, and suddenly the opening was filled. Philip stood there, untired by the day’s journey or the evening’s battle. His eyes were alight with the thought of victory after so long on the road, and his spirits were high—undoubtedly aided in this by the fruit of the vine. He stepped from his tent and knelt quickly, if not overly reverently, reaching out to take his visitor’s hand and bring it to his lips.

  “I thank you for coming,” Philip said. “It is a grand day, or will be when the sun rises upon it. It will be a good thing to face it with the blessing of our Lord.”

  “I am not certain how our Lord truly perceives all of this violence,” he answered, drawing Philip back to his feet easily, aware that the man was astonished by his strength. “I will offer my blessing, nonetheless. We must end this, and soon.”

  “That much we agree upon Your Eminence,” Philip replied. “War sounds so much more pleasant when the bards wrap their tongues about it than it seems when one is caught up in the middle of it. I’ll be as glad as any to return to my castle, and my wife, and spend a few weeks—maybe years—deciding the fate of battling cattle herders.”

  “Let us do this. Let no more blood be shed without the proper invocations and blessings. Let this be a battle for all that is godly and righteous.

  Of course,” Philip said curtly. “How could I wish it otherwise? If it were not for the atrocities involved, I certainly would not be standing here before the holdings of Jacques de Molay, nor, I’m certain, would I find myself in such fine company.” Turning back to the guard who’d first noticed their visitor arriving, Philip barked his commands quickly. The young man stumbled over himself to get away and spread the word. All those not injured or on the front line already were to assemble.

  It had been a short conversation, much as expected. Philip was as intimidated as the others, as uncomfortable as any. He attributed his fear to God, to the tenets of Church and faith, to his upbringing—to a lifetime of supporting a Faith that rarely supported in return. The Church was fast becoming an agent of fear, another road to power for those not graced with royal blood.

  None of that would matter in the moments to come. What could inspire fear on the one hand could inspire greatness on the other. He would bless their weapons, put the words and power of God behind the deaths they would cause, and they would go to the battle with the glow of faith burning from their eyes and lending its strength to their arms. It had been so through the crusades, through the pages and histories of the Bible, warped as those were becoming over the years.

  He had seen too many such battles, too many tragedies attributed to a force for the greater good, to put any faith in powers beyond his own. Fortunately, in all the centuries of his life, his own had never proved lacking.

  He strode through the gathering ranks of Philip’s men purposefully, looking to neither side, but concentrating on the air a few feet above the heads of those directly in front of him. He didn’t need to watch where he was going. His senses were keen enough to guide him, and they were scurrying to get out of his way, in any case. He fully believed that the superstitious cretins would move tents or cut down trees to prevent them blocking his passage if they thought it would aid their souls on the road to “Heaven.”

  He could hear the sounds of the battle in the distance. Small fires had cropped up all around him, some with the aromas of food wafting from them, others merely warding against insects and adding to the illusion of size the army wanted perceived by those on the walls of the keep.

  He could make out small figures scurrying about on those walls, shadows against the dim light of the moon. The closer, brighter light of the campfires, and the deeper red of the fires near the siege engines, the tar and pitch that would be slung over the walls, clinging to walls and men alike, burning them to ash.

  “Praise the Lord,” he muttered.

  “What, Father?” a soldier standing nearby asked, fluttering around him like a nervous bird. “Is there something I can get you? Is something wrong?


  Nothing.” He brushed the man aside and continued along the rapidly forming line to what passed as the center, wondering if he could, after all, bring himself to mouth the meaningless words that he knew he must utter to pacify them all. Somewhere out there, Montrovant and the others were waiting, seeking what could not be found. There were matters much more important than the coming battle, or the lives of a few knights—even that of a king—in the balance.

  Philip motioned that he should approach, and he did so, though nothing in his manner or gait suggested that it was due to any desire to be near the monarch.

  “There is a great evil loose upon the land,” Philip cried out. “An abomination before the Lord. Men worshiping idols, forsaking the God of their fathers and their father’s fathers for the promise of dark powers. We move to put an end to this—to drive that evil back to the darkness from which it arose. We walk in the shadow of the Lord. We act in the name of His Church. This night we will receive his final blessing, and soon, very soon, we will prevail in the task lain before us.”

  Turning, he locked eyes, then he continued.

  “Bishop Scarpocci will administer the sacrament.”

  Stepping forward, Eugenio lowered his head and began to pray loudly and without passion. All around him the heads of those gathered dipped as well. Silence dropped over them quickly and completely, and his words echoed off the distant walls of the keep, so powerfully did they carry. They were words of praise—promises of victory and assurances of divine strength. They were tightly fabricated lies and deceptions, wound into the fabric of belief that had once held the Templars themselves so tightly to their cause.

  TWENTY

  Kli Kodesh and Gustav conferred in the shadow of one of the larger tombs. They hadn’t counted on Philip being quite so prompt, and there were other things happening that were outside the range of their plans.

  Gustav did not like things to be outside the confines of closely regulated boundaries, and though he couldn’t exactly sense what it was that was wrong, he knew that his master was only too aware.

  “There is something—someone—with Philip,” Gustav said at last. “I cannot tell for certain who, but they are old—powerful.”

  “I know him,” Kli Kodesh answered impatiently. “He will not cause us problems. He is here as an emissary of the Church.”

  “The Church has never been our friend, and that would seem to give him license to act the same.”

  “I am telling you, Eugenio will not pose a threat. We must move our cargo out of here now—this very night. Montrovant might be distracted, but he is not stupid. And there is the bitch to consider. She has told him by now what we plan.”

  Gustav stared at his master for a long moment, trying to gauge what he saw in those ancient, gray-flecked eyes. He did not believe that Gwendolyn had escaped on her own. He didn’t believe, for that matter, that he himself could have done so. He didn’t answer. Not for the first time he was forced to try to weigh his own importance in the ancient’s eyes. Not for the first time he was less than happy with the result.

  “If Montrovant is aware of us,” Gustav said at last, “then moving the treasures would be playing right into his hands. If we leave them in place, we could make a run for it, distracting him.”

  “We will move them tonight,” Kli Kodesh replied without hesitation.

  “He will catch us.”

  “Do you fear him, then, Gustav? Have you so little faith in me that you think one so young can take something we do not wish taken?”

  “I fear nothing. If I did, I would not follow you and your endless…entertainments.”

  There was a tense moment of silence where things might have gone either way. Gustav waited, motionless, for Kli Kodesh to decide his fate. The time for dancing and foolishness was past. Those around them had ceased all movement at the first raising of Gustav’s voice.

  Kli Kodesh’s face cracked suddenly, breaking into a helpless gale of mirth. He fell to the ground, doubling his thin frame over and letting his snow-white hair dangle to the ground before him. His frame shook uncontrollably and he banged his head violently into the earth, as if trying to shake loose the humor of the moment and return himself to his senses.

  Gustav did not move. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that this was truly a vulnerable position for the ancient, nor was he ready to challenge such power with his life on the line. He stood, his followers gathered at his back, watching in silent fascination, until Kli Kodesh regained some measure of control and raised himself to his knees, looking about himself in bewilderment for just a second. The next his eyes were clear and bright again.

  “Pack everything up, Gustav. We leave within the hour.”

  There was no point in further argument. Turning away in silence, Gustav gestured for the others to begin moving the stone from the door of the tomb. Others were already moving closer with a small horse-drawn cart. On the cart sat several wooden crates, banded in steel. They lay open and empty, their interiors dark patches in the silvery moonlight. Kli Kodesh stood back and watched, still trembling from the fit of laughter that had claimed his senses only moments before. He watched, but his mind was far away—scanning—planning against possibilities only he could see.

  Eugenio should not have come. He should be tucked safely away in his monastery, where he was happy. He should be ignoring his progeny’s odd quest, leaving them all to their amusements, and yet here he was. There had to be more to it than a simple desire to help Montrovant. The call of blood to blood was a strong one, but the risk of exposure in Eugenio’s position was phenomenal. The Lasombra had far too much to lose for it to be a simple rescue of his progeny.

  What then? Brow furrowed, Kli Kodesh continued to concentrate, watching the darkness that surrounded them as the Nosferatu quickly packed the contents of the tomb onto the cart and prepared to take off. Damn Eugenio, anyway; what did he want?

  Jeanne pressed himself to keep up, and Gwendolyn moved easily at his side. Montrovant had launched himself through a lighter patch in the shadows ahead, and Jeanne saw an instant later that it was a doorway. The light he saw was that of the moon, and they’d come out just beyond the walls of the keep on the opposite side from Philip and his army. To their right was a sheer cliff, dropping away to a rocky beach. The crash of waves on those rocks was rhythmic and hypnotic, but Jeanne’s concentration was on Montrovant.

  The tall vampire had stopped short, turning his head first one way, then the other, as if confused. Jeanne let his own senses expand, searching for whatever was the cause of Montrovant’s confusion. He felt others out there, powerful presences. One was familiar enough: Kli Kodesh. There was another, though, achingly familiar and nearly as ancient. He couldn’t put a name to it, but as he came nearer, Montrovant did so for him.

  “Eugenio.”

  Jeanne hesitated, grabbing Gwendolyn again and holding her back. He had to be certain he’d heard what he thought he’d heard, and he had to be certain how Montrovant would react. Eugenio? Here? Why, after all this time, and what did it mean for them?

  “We must move quickly,” Montrovant said suddenly, turning to them. His eyes burned with intensity. “Eugenio has come—he is with Philip. I have no idea how this has come about, or why, but if he were here to aid us he would have made his presence known before now. If he were not my sire I would not have known him just now—his mind is powerfully shielded.”

  “Kli Kodesh is near as well,” Gwendolyn cut in. “I can feel him nearby—he is…disturbed by something.”

  Montrovant paused for an instant. If Kli Kodesh were distraught, then apparently there were others whose plans had been complicated by this new twist. Then the moment passed and he spun away, disappearing so quickly into the night that he was nearly out of sight before Jeanne was able to launch himself in pursuit, cursing.

  They moved along the edge of the cliff, heading on a straight line away from the keep itself. The fires on the other side shone around the edges of the stone structure, silhouetting
it in rose and magenta against the deep ebony of the sky. De Molay and the others could not hold out for long. The Templars’ days were numbered, it seemed. They would die, but the Dark One lingered.

  As they passed beyond the cleared area that surrounded the keep, a short, squat stone structure loomed on their left. A church. Jeanne wasn’t certain exactly how he knew this, but there was a feel to the old place that reached out to him. It left him cold, cold and empty as the church itself must have been for the last fifty or more years. Half the walls had given way to time, and the windows were wide open and overgrown with vines. The small tower that had once housed the bell lay toppled to one side, and the moon played off it in eerie, shadowed streaks. Beyond the church was a gate that was no longer attached to the fence decaying on either side of it, and it was through this that Montrovant sped. He paid his companions no more attention than he might have an annoying insect that flitted about his head, and for a moment Jeanne considered just stopping, pulling Gwendolyn to a halt beside him, and letting the fool get himself killed. It would solve a lot of problems, he knew, but there were other, worse dangers—and one of those might be waiting behind them. If Kli Kodesh was not interested in doing them in, Eugenio almost certainly had other than their best interests in mind. Even if neither of them were concerned with a couple so young to the Damned, the fallout from whatever they did have in mind was likely to require all the craft and strength they had between the three of them, just for survival.

  Montrovant was moving with a bit more stealth. Jeanne relaxed somewhat as he and Gwendolyn caught up. He didn’t slow his own progress until he was nearly abreast of his sire, not wanting the other to put on a burst of speed and leave them behind. Whatever was coming up next, they would all be a part of it, and he wanted to be close enough to follow Montrovant’s lead. Gwendolyn seemed content to let him lead the way, and he was grateful that she didn’t question him. She certainly had the right to, but it would have served no purpose at that moment but to slow them down.