Heart thumping, Kidd regained his footing without taking his eye off the retreating beast. It was six feet long and pitch black, but was so terribly thin its sinewy muscles showed through its patchy fur. He retreated to the safety of his surviving torch, still burning strongly in the improvised sconce.
Kidd saw the cat shifting through the shadows, circling, seeking an opportunity to strike again. He squinted at the beast. It was limping, reluctant to put weight on its back leg. Kidd hoped this meant it would be unable to pounce again. With luck, it would retreat to lick its wounds.
Luck was not on his side. The cat was desperately hungry, and could doubtless smell the fresh blood on his chest. It watched his every move, hissing and snarling. This was a hunter that belonged in the wilderness, not in a cave filled with bats. How on earth had it come to be here? It paced back and forth, looking for a breech in the light through which to sneak and strike. The stand-off seemed to last an interminable length of time, and the cat had the advantage with every second that passed. Kidd grew anxious. Without escaping the cat, his life expectancy could now be only as long as the light of his torch lasted. He tore two strips of fabric from his tattered shirt, and removed the stopper from the snake poison. He dampened each piece of cloth with the syrupy venom, wrapped his knuckles, and advanced. The cat hesitated, confused by Kidd’s unexpected behaviour. It hissed and bared long yellow fangs.
Kidd came within several feet of the black hunter. He raised his fists, and spread his legs for balance. The cat stopped pacing, and squatted, flicking its tail back and forth. He caught the stink of burned fur and flesh. Fire had given them both a disability. Beasts however, lack sympathy. A paw shot out with claws extended. Kidd shifted his torso and barely avoided being raked again. The cat was quick, but too big to mask its attacks.
He watched the cat prepare to strike again and dodged its clubbing blow. He returned a jab, to bewilder his opponent, rather like teasing a household cat with a piece of string. Awkwardly the cat scrambled backward on its bad leg. A look of confusion crossed its face. Kidd stepped forward and threw another series of jabs with both hands. The cat retreated. Kidd increased the ferocity of his attack and struck the cat solidly on the jaw. The cat lashed out in frustration. On many occasions while sparring with Vllen, Kidd had learned the danger of overextending himself. He swayed to avoid the blow and struck the cat squarely on the nose.
The cat yelped and retreated several steps on wobbly paws. Kidd continued to jab, pressing his advantage. Blood flowed freely from one nostril, but the cat refused to give up the fight. It licked its bloody nose, a look of hunger in its eyes.
The torch flickered as if to remind Kidd he was living on borrowed time. He withdrew to the dwindling light, waiting for the snake’s venom to take effect. The cat reared in a last ditch effort to bring him down. Kidd was barrelled onto the damp stone. Claws raked his body, tearing his coat and flesh, and he felt its hot breath on his neck. He reached for the cat’s bloodied face, forcing his metal fingers into its maw, the steel his only defence from the yellow fangs that would tear out his throat.
The cat tried to pull free, but Kidd held on tight. He wrapped his free arm around the cat’s neck and wrenched it back. The cat squealed and he threw it to the ground, levering his body weight into the hold. Muscles aching with the strain, he held on for all his life was worth.
Just when he thought he couldn’t hold on any longer, the cat stopped moving altogether, limbs frozen, as if time itself had stopped. Kidd let go and stood wearily to inspect his fallen foe. The cat’s ribs were still, drawing no breath. A foam speckled mouth and swollen tongue marked the poison’s effect. No sparkle remained in its yellow eyes. Kidd could only imagine the cat was so malnourished the paralysing poison had stopped its heart altogether. He brushed the eyelids closed as gently as he could. “Wherever you go, hunt well,” he whispered. “This was the wrong day for us to meet.”
Overhead the bats chirped quietly, calmer now the excitement had come to an end. Kidd shivered. He felt like he had taken part in a wild gladiatorial duel complete with an audience. He unravelled the poisoned cloth from his fists and threw them to the shadows. The snake’s toxin was potent indeed. He collected his torch and moved deeper into the cavern. He soon stumbled upon the cat’s lair. The floor was littered with an enormous number of bones, many of which had once belonged to men. Doubtless, the cat had been planted in this place on purpose, to kill anyone who survived the pit. No wonder the cat had developed such a taste for human flesh.
Surprisingly, he found a rope ladder dangling against the wall reaching up to an alcove ten feet above. There was nothing for it. He abandoned his torchlight to free his hands, propping it upright in a pile of bones. The climb was arduous. His wounds weren’t deep, but the fall and the fight had sapped his strength. Hand over hand he pulled himself upwards till he reached the top, breathless and sore.
He ventured onwards into absolute darkness. It was painfully ironic. Most blind men at least had a sense of touch. He fumbled around with numb fingers until they struck stone. He inched through the darkness, listening to the sound of scraping metal as he ran his hands along the walls. Frustrated, exhausted, and defeated he collapsed against the wall only to feel something poke him in the back. He groped around until he found the object. The best conclusion he could come to was that it was a lever, so he pulled it hard. A section of the wall swung open, a doorway leading back into the great hall under the gaze of the spider.
Kidd groaned with relief as light spilled down the dark passage. He retraced his steps to the rope ladder and dragged it back to the pit, tying one end around the nearest pillar, and the other around his waist. He held the rope with one hand and pressed the scroll-case into the mechanism once more, bracing himself as the pit opened under his feet. He fell half way, and allowed the rope to slide through his fingers till he reached the bottom.
“Nice of you to drop in,” croaked Flint.
“On your feet, Tom Flint,” Kidd wheezed, “we’re getting out of here.”
Wounded and weak, the two men began a gruelling ascent from the pit.
~ Chapter 19 ~
THE MADNESS OF SAINT LAWRENCE
Kidd gripped Flint’s arm tight and pulled him up over the edge of the pit. Freed from the obstruction of their weight and the rope ladder, the trapdoor mechanism ground into action, metal cogs churning beneath the floor. Soon, the pit was invisible again amongst the lattice of grooves and channels.
Flint lay panting on the cold stone. His pale skin glistened with fine beads of sweat, and his eyes were sunken and dark. Still, a smile formed in the corner of his mouth. “What the blazes have you been up too, Will? You look terrible.”
“You don’t look so good yourself.” Kidd peeled away the blood-crusted bandages to inspect Flint’s wound. “The good news is the bleeding has slowed, but we’ll have to clean the puncture with salt water or rum to keep it from festering.” He rewrapped the dressing.
Flint sat up and loaded his pistol. “Don’t waste good rum on my leg. We’ve been in plenty of tight spots before. I’ll manage.”
Kidd ripped open the remains of his shirt and checked the raking cuts running across his stomach and chest. They weren’t deep and the bleeding had already stopped, but he would bear some impressive scars from his battle with the cat. He piled the rope ladder against a pillar and retrieved the scroll-case from the rivulet, taking care not to trigger the pitfall again. He stowed it away in his secret pocket.
No sooner had Flint found his feet than they heard the sound of the trapdoor opening to the world above, and heavy footsteps on the stairs. Kidd pressed his body against a column and balled his fists. Flint limped to another and raised his pistol with an unsteady hand.
A figure emerged at the foot of the stair. He was dressed in voluminous dusty robes, and wore the turban and kerchief common to Turks. In one hand he held a lantern, and in the other, a heavy basket. Preoccupied with his burden, he failed to notice the heap of rope ladder, or the
flickering shadows as Kidd and Flint descended on him.
Kidd charged the man with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. A haunch of meat wrapped in gauze spilled from the basket, food for the cat no doubt.
Flint levelled his pistol at the stranger’s forehead. “Move, and you’re dead!”
“What is the meaning of this?” The man’s English was excellent, although he had an unusual accent. It was not entirely Turkish and sounded as though he had been educated somewhere in Europe.
Kidd grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with both hands. “I might ask you the same question, as I assume you frequent this temple often.” He pulled the man to his feet, slammed him into the wall, and ripped the wrap from his face. He was a Turk, a nobleman of some kind as the shade of his skin was pale. The wealthy did not have to dirty their hands outdoors. “Who are you?” Kidd demanded.
“Please do not hurt me. I am only the caretaker of this temple. There is nothing of value to steal here.” His lip developed a threatening curl. “I must warn you, the temple is riddled with treacherous devices. You would be wise to leave. Men like you have come before. All have perished.”
“Not men like me,” Kidd growled from the back of his throat. “And you needn’t bring meat for the cat again.”
The Caretaker turned white. “What do you want of me?”
Kidd spun The Caretaker about and marched him to the unmarked door. “I want this opened and I want to know what happened to Lawrence.”
“I know nothing about these things you speak of.” The words caught in The Caretaker’s throat.
“Lying is pointless,” said Flint, “we aren’t your typical brainless thugs.”
The Caretaker mopped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his sleeve. “I cannot open this door, and that’s the truth. Hundreds of men have tried, even the disciples of Lawrence himself. None have succeeded. It requires a key of unusual design. Without that key, it must remain closed, forever.”
“And what of Lawrence?” said Kidd. “Where is he now?”
The Caretaker laughed.
Flint primed his pistol. “It’s a serious question.”
The Caretaker swallowed. “Surely you know that Lawrence vanished three hundred years ago, on the very day the door to his church was sealed.”
Kidd did the arithmetic quickly in his head. Like Jabez, The Tears had blessed Lawrence with unnatural longevity. He would have been almost thirteen hundred years old at the time of his death, providing The Caretaker was telling the truth. “It seems we’ll have to trust you. We have the key, but don’t know how it works.”
A look of disbelief crossed The Caretaker’s face. His eyes widened as the possibility they were telling the truth dawned on him. “Show me,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Kidd pulled the bronze scroll-case from his coat and held it close enough for The Caretaker to read the markings in the metal. He fell to his knees and grovelled at Kidd’s feet. “Ah, mighty Guerreros del Dios! Forgive me! You do not wear the sacred robes or reveal your tattoos. I mistook you for thieves.”
Flint shot Kidd a look and returned his pistol to his belt.
Kidd urged The Caretaker back to his feet and dusted him down. “Ah, yes... we had to be sure you were the true master of this facility. There are forces that oppose us, but now we understand each other, show us how to open the door.”
The Caretaker led them across the hall to the site of the pit. “Yes, yes, I know it well. The true keyhole is only revealed by the marker light in midsummer, when the sun is highest in the sky.” He brushed his hand across the floor to clear the dirt and dust. “We have spent a great deal of time observing the phenomenon. As you know, the consequence of choosing incorrectly is deadly.” An eager smile broke across his face and suddenly he was all teeth. “Come, give me the key,” he said with an outstretched hand.
Kidd hesitated. Every clue lay in the scroll-case. It felt heavy in his hand as he parted with it. The Caretaker took the bronze tube like he had prepared for this moment all his life. He removed the cap and watched the two halves spring apart. “Yes, yes, not only must you have the key, it must also be inserted correctly.” He set the scrolls to one side, held the case closed, and gently inserted it head first into the keyhole. Kidd and Flint retreated half a dozen paces.
The Caretaker looked up with a reassuring smile. “There is nothing to fear. This will be glorious.” He twisted delicately with his fingertips until the two halves of the scroll-case sprang apart, finding the tumblers of the lock. He turned the scroll-key further until the mechanism engaged. A cavernous rumble followed, as stone ground against stone. The door to Lawrence’s secret church was opening.
Centuries-stale air, as thick as the dust on the threshold, rejoined the world once more. The Caretaker nursed his lantern flame brighter, breaking the long vigil of darkness in the chamber beyond.
The Caretaker grinned from ear to ear. “This is Lawrence’s true temple. I never thought I would be the first one to see it after all this time. I shall be so proud to see it restored.” His smile flickered and died. “Duty first. We must bring this wonderful news to the disciples, so we may honour Lawrence as our ancestors did so long ago.”
Flint took the lantern. “An excellent idea. We’ll stand guard over the temple and await your return.”
The Caretaker clasped his hands together and bowed with reverence. “I’ll return soon, my lords. Then, we shall rejoice!” Without another word he crossed the hall and disappeared up the narrow stair.
“I’m not sure that was such a good idea,” said Kidd. “I’d rather have kept him under scrutiny.”
Flint grinned. “If The Tears are here, I don’t want him snooping over our shoulders. We’ll search this place, close the door and destroy the scroll-key. Whatever we gain will remain ours. We’ll be long gone before they realise the door can never be reopened.”
Kidd nodded. “Let’s get busy.”
Lawrence’s secret church was plain compared to the elaborately decorated spider temple. It reminded Kidd of a small town church in England, with a practical nave and three small antechambers beyond the altar.
Flint held the lantern high to drive out the shadows. Dilapidated furniture bound together by cobwebs, lay around the room. They ventured in cautiously, as if disturbing the site would bring the roof crashing down. Near the altar lay a twisted skeleton, locked in the shape it had taken in the moment of death. The assassin’s sword was still embedded in the ribcage up to the hilt. The bones were yellow with age, and loosely covered by the remnants of some cloth. It was a good place for spiders to build their webs, as many scuttled away when Kidd nudged the bones with his boot. Nearby lay a second scroll-key, identical to the one they carried, although it had been crushed.
They started to rummage through the debris, sneezing as they disturbed the dust. Kidd wiped his irritated nose on his sleeve. “There’s nothing here.” The altar was bare, pews were little more than crumbling wood filled with dry rot, and the skeleton was no more than the framework of someone long dead.
Flint wiped the dust from a small chest with his sleeve. The bronze bindings were tarnished, but otherwise it was in good condition. He picked the simple lock, lifted the lid, and peered inside. “Look here, a writing box.” He emptied the contents carefully. It contained feather quills, clay pots filled with ink, and numerous papers both loose and stitched together into books. “Sorry, no Tears.”
Kidd paced the length of each chamber and examined every recess and alcove. “Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing here.”
Flint picked through the papers. “At least Lawrence was decent enough to keep a diary, even though it sounds like nonsense.”
“What does it say?” Kidd examined the altar again. It was the plainest he’d ever seen in his life, no compartments; no secrets to reveal.
“I don’t think Lawrence was right in the head. There’s not a lot of structure to his ramblings. Listen to this.”
“What should I do with it
? The greatest gift of the Lord is mine, and yet it thwarts me. I am a hypocrite. All these long years I have wrestled with this question, and still I have no answer. How can I ask my disciples to believe in The Lord and yet offer no proof when it is mine to give? The hearts of men are vulnerable. They would take The Tears from me, and persecute me, just as they did Christ. Woe! News comes to me from time to time, of terrible and bloody wars which pit Christian against Muslim in the name of Truth. Woe! It would seem the teachings of Christ have fallen on deaf ears. Oh, such woe! I must wait longer, and fortify this last true church against those that seek to abuse the power of The Tears. We will never again suffer as we did at the hands of the Romans. The faithful will come to my rescue. I must wait.”
Kidd knelt next to the skeleton and carefully pulled the legs straight. It was a more dignified pose than the contorted shape it had held for countless years. “I suppose it must have been a burden for him to carry, a proof of divinity that he was forced to keep secret.”
Flint eyed him suspiciously. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”
“Forget I spoke.” Kidd knew in his heart the skeleton was the remains of Lawrence, brutally murdered and sealed in this tomb. The Tears had been taken long ago. He began to straighten the arms, resting them on the chest below the sword. There was a medallion on a broken chain clasped in Lawrence’s left hand, obscured from sight by the way he’d fallen. Kidd prised the dead fingers open and lifted it to the light. It was made from two hand-beaten gold discs joined together by a thick rod. There was writing etched on each side, but Kidd didn’t recognise the language. He tucked it in his coat pocket to examine later. Next, he pulled the sword from Lawrence’s ribcage. The blade grated against bone as if they had become so accustomed to each other they didn’t wish to part. He whispered a silent apology as he undid the union. Once the sword was free, Kidd wiped the blade on his sleeve, and caught the glint of steel beneath the rust. Intrigued, he strode back to the rope ladder and used the coarse fibre to buff the blade clean. It was a remarkable and beautiful weapon. Kidd had lost his ability to wield a sword effectively, but he still had an eye for quality. The mottled patterns in the metal declared the origin of the blade. It had been forged by the master sword-smiths of Damascus. Persian letters were embossed in the centre of the blade, and at the tip, two interlocking triangles formed a six-pointed star, the seal of Solomon.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 13