“Attack? Lupines, perhaps? Or maybe the thing that killed Klaus also killed the monks?”
Jürgen nodded. “Where are the bodies, then? Why is the structure undamaged?”
“Plague?”
“Maybe, but why didn’t we hear of it sooner? The snow hasn’t been harsh enough to preclude all travel; surely one of the brothers would have made it to Ezerelis. It isn’t that far away.”
“Then what?”
Jürgen shook his head, and drew his sword. The sound was unnoticeable, ordinarily. This night, when a breath seemed to carry for miles, it was loud enough to gain the knights’ attention. Even the fire seemed to die down as Jürgen approached.
“Ready yourselves. We attack immediately.” The knights looked at one another; perhaps they still had misgivings about attacking a monastery, or maybe their nerves were simply wilted by the cold and the quiet. Jürgen frowned; that wouldn’t do. He took a step towards the fire. The Beast whined loudly. “You have all seen the Black Cross, brothers. You know what lurks behind shadows, away from daylight. Surely you don’t think that all Cainites are as benevolent as I?”
The knights murmured to themselves—they knew very well that most Cainites were true monsters, and demons besides.
“Yes, the place seems empty, but I believe that something else is afoot. Perhaps those monks are dead and the monastery deserted; if so, then so be it. But if they are dead and whatever killed them, and perhaps your brother, too, waits for us there—or if they are dead and they still walk,” his men shuddered a bit more visibly, and one crossed himself, “then we have a duty to cleanse the place.” He bade them stand, and pointed towards the monastery. “We shall enter through the front. The place looks deserted, so we shall proceed as if it is. If we are attacked, then we shall respond in kind. If any living thing does inhabit that monastery, we shall meet it like men and soldiers of God.”
“What of the horses, my lord?” one of the knights asked.
“Bring them a bit closer to the monastery and then tie them. We can see what shelter the place might give them once we determine if it is safe.” He pointed at two of the knights. “You carry torches. We’ll need light, and we’ll need to be able to light the hearths if it’s safe.”
He left the men to their preparation and walked back towards the monastery. Václav was already standing in almost exactly the same spot that Jürgen had been only a few moments before. “Anything?”
Václav did not turn. “My lord, look at the ground.”
Jürgen looked. Even his acute vision took a moment to register what his knight meant, but once he saw it, his eyes widened. There were no tracks in the snow, and none behind him. “My God.”
“There’s something else. Listen.” Václav reached up and grasped a small branch on the tree above him. He broke it—but the branch made no sound at all. “This is sorcery like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Not for the first time, Jürgen wished he had asked Jervais to accompany him on this trip. He thought back to the conversations he’d had with the Tremere about his talents and those of the Telyavs he’d encountered, but Jervais was often maddeningly vague when speaking of magic. He did recall, however, the Jervais’s skills didn’t include controlling the weather. But Gotzon had spoken of this sort of blasphemy.
“Koldun.”
Václav turned to look at Jürgen. “Who?”
Jürgen shook his head, trying to remember what he’d seen while inside Geidas’s memories. The skies, the earth, the water—all had risen up to defend the Tzimisce. Were Gotzon’s fears justified? Could the fiends reshape the world along with the flesh? Jürgen’s Beast cried out that they should run, flee into the night and leave the knights to their fate, for surely whatever was blanketing this place in secrecy was powerful enough to kill them all.
“Should we change plans?”
“No,” said Jürgen, more to his Beast than to Václav. He raised his head and peered at the monastery. Not one stone had changed. “Consider, Václav, that secrecy and illusion are the tools of the base and low-blooded, those who have to hide rather than stand proudly against their foes. We attack. I think that this is a bluff, meant to ward off the cowardly.”
The two vampires walked towards the monastery, the rest of the knights not far behind. Jürgen noticed that he could hear the torches crackling until the two knights carrying them reached the spot where he and Václav had been standing, and then the noise ended. The horses, likewise, made no sound as the knights tied them.
Cowardice, thought Jürgen, or a trap? A Cainite old enough to produce such terrifying effects might use such an area as a battleground, or a place to capture prey. After all, a scout or traveler could scream all they liked, but never be heard outside the silent zone.
And yet, Klaus had apparently died in a place where sound carried, because Dieter had seen and heard it happen. He wished he had been able to save his ghoul’s mind and life; a guide would have been quite useful here. But Dieter had died of a fever days after his return to Kybartai, ranting all the while about the man with robes of blood.
Why did the man not kill Dieter, then?
They left the trees and entered a large clearing before the monastery’s door. Halfway across the clearing, Jürgen stopped. Václav held up a hand to halt the knights, and then looked to his sire. “What is it?”
Jürgen didn’t answer, but held up a finger to shush Václav. He was hearing chants.
The monastery was still inhabited. As he concentrated, Jürgen saw lights in the monastery, faint, but certainly present. The feeling of unnatural stillness faded away, and Jürgen could hear incidental noises in addition to the chants—footsteps, whispers, rustling, noises of life. He started walking again, this time more briskly.
When they reached the door, Jürgen whispered to Václav to prepare the men for battle, and then touched the door and commanded it to give up its secrets.
While it wasn’t as uncomfortable as peering into a living or unliving mind, Jürgen didn’t enjoy looking at the memories of objects, either. He feared that the same memories might betray him some night, and hoped that by avoiding the use of this particular gift, it would not be used against him. Tonight, however, he wanted to know who else had entered this place. He looked into the past and saw shadows, saw men opening and closing the door by daylight and by night, but saw only gray reflections of those men. The more passionate the man who touched the door, the more colorful his wraith became, but Jürgen could see little passion in these monks.
Where is their passion for God? he thought. He felt his heart lift. While he would have taken the monastery in any case, he would not have wished to slaughter monks who were truly doing the Lord’s work. Gotzon, apparently, had been right—the Obertus were servants of the Clan of Dragons, not the Lord Almighty. Now he could continue without guilt.
The memory of a man opened the door, and Jürgen noted that his colors were vibrant and full, but much subtler than a living man’s would have been. A Cainite, then. Jürgen peered at him, but looking through the shadows of memory attached to this paltry piece of wood was like trying to find his reflection in seawater. The Cainite walked outside and left the door open, and looked around the clearing at the trees. He raised a hand, and an owl fluttered down to him.
The Cainite whispered to the owl, but Jürgen could not understand his words. The owl took flight, and the Cainite watched it go without expression.
The murk cleared somewhat, and Jürgen looked carefully at the Cainite’s face. He was clean, tall and slender. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his face was almost angelically beautiful. The man’s hand was still extended, as though feeling the air the way a chef might test the temperature of soup. A small gold ring glistened on that finger.
Jürgen looked as closely as his limited perspective would allow. Something was familiar about the man’s face, and yet he didn’t think he’d actually seen it before. He concentrated hard, coaxing the wood of the door and the very ground to paint him a clearer pic
ture.
When they did, Jürgen saw the man’s face, and then suddenly realized where he’d seen it before. He had never seen it in person, but had seen a drawing—a very good one, too. What he didn’t understand was how that man could be here, among Obertus monks.
The man was Nikita of Sredetz, the Archbishop of Nod, leader of the Cainite Heresy.
Jürgen released his grip on the door and allowed the scene to fade. He almost staggered, but managed to retain his footing. His mind reeled, and he tried to remember what he knew of the Heresy and of its leader. He knew that Narses, the Lasombra who had preceded Nikita as archbishop, had been slain and his soul and blood consumed by his own childe, Guilelmo Aliprando, now Prince of Venice. He had heard that Nikita had traveled recently to Paris. But as far as Jürgen knew, the Obertus order and its annoying patron Vykos had no love for the Heresy—he expected they might even be at odds enough to consider each other blasphemers.
So what in God’s name was Nikita doing here, the obvious master of an Obertus monastery?
Václav noted his expression and whispered, “My lord?”
Jürgen raised a hand and signaled the men to be ready. He stood back and looked at the door—it was solid and well maintained. The Sword-Bearer looked at his childe and shook his head. “We must attack, now. The lord of this domain already knows we are here, and I seriously doubt he would accept any attempt to parley.”
“Why, my lord? Did you recognize him?”
Jürgen shook his head. “Explanations later, Václav. We must take this place before daybreak.”
Václav’s expression was still confused, but he obeyed. Jürgen stood back and waited as the knights moved into position.
From inside, he heard movement stop, and then the sounds of running feet.
Jürgen raised his sword and shouted a battle cry. As the knights surged forward to smash in the door, the Sword-Bearer dearly wished that Rosamund could see him now, in battle and glory, and feel what he felt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The door withstood the knights’ onslaught for several minutes, and Jürgen fought with all his will not to look to the eastern sky. If the sun rose while he, Václav and the knights were still exposed, he would have nowhere to run.
In the end, though, the door splintered inwards. Jürgen’s wolf-sharp ears caught the sounds of metal and gasps of fear—the monks were arming themselves. He told his knights this, and saw their expressions grow confused. Members of clerical orders were forbidden to spill blood.
But these are not the Dominicans and Franciscans of your homelands, brothers, thought Jürgen. These are monks tainted by Tzimisce blood and Eastern heresy.
Jürgen stepped through the ruined door into the monastery. As he did so, the remaining jagged chunks of the door fell from the frame. He leapt forward, out of the way, and nearly impaled himself on a sword.
The monk holding the sword was clearly a ghoul—his face was flushed, the vein in his neck throbbing. He had appeared as if from nowhere, the shadows hiding him in the same way that they hid rabble Cainites like Albin. Jürgen deflected his sword, snatched it from his hand, and tossed it casually behind him. The monk turned and tried to run; Jürgen caught the back of his robe, jerked him backwards, and sank his fangs into the back of the man’s skull.
The blood was tepid, thick, as though this man was already half dead. Jürgen had never tasted such blood before—midway between that of a Cainite and that of a mortal. Even ghoul’s blood wasn’t normally this rich.
The blood had some of the tang that the Tzimisce woman—Masha’s—did, but it didn’t burn his mouth. Instead it filled him, woke him to the dwindling night. Time stopped, the knights behind him moved as though through mud, the sounds of the monastery slowed and deepened until he could hear nothing but a series of smooth, bass notes.
He released the now-dead ghoul, and time reasserted itself. Jürgen peered into the dark of the monastery and licked his lips. His Beast growled, and Jürgen allowed it—there would be blood enough to sate the Beast here.
“Beware, my brothers,” Jürgen said in German. “These monks are dangerous. Watch the shadows and watch each other.” He hazarded a glance back at them, and when they saw his face, lips stained with blood and eyes blazing with the fervor of conquest, they shared in that glory. They straightened themselves, shook fear from their hearts, and stepped into the hall ready for battle. This is why I chose Hardestadt over Gotzon, thought Jürgen. Battle for God’s sake is noble, but battle for battle’s sake is pure. “Those taken in battle, alive or dead, I own, and will claim my tribute,” he said, and the knights let out a cheer at hearing his familiar mantra. Jürgen charged forward, the knights behind, Václav only a few steps to his right.
Jürgen scanned the halls of the monastery carefully. All ghouls boasted enhanced strength, but he had never seen one appear from nowhere before. He knew that certain Cainites—Albin the Ghost, for one—could do such a thing, but he had always reckoned this power beyond the scope of a ghoul. He saw three monks together in a corner, waiting to ambush. Václav saw them as well, and leapt at them. One of the monks was dead before he realized he was being attacked. The other two stepped from the shadows and raised their swords, eliciting gasps from the mortal Knights of the Black Cross, who hadn’t seen them hiding. One of the knights moved forward; Jürgen stopped him. Václav could handle himself. And if he can’t, Jürgen thought ruefully, it only shows I wasted the gift of the Embrace.
Václav parried a strike from one of the monks and drove his sword through the Obertus’s chest, then turned and shoved the last monk towards Jürgen. The Sword-Bearer caught the hapless brother by the arm and twisted, wrenching the shoulder and sending him to his knees in pain. “Bind him,” said Jürgen over his shoulder. He had many questions, but they could wait.
The knights began to spread through the monastery, and Jürgen could hear the sounds of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded, the splatter of blood on stone. He heard a few shrieks in German, and lamented—with his senses, he knew even from the tone of a cry of pain who had been wounded, and how badly. He shook off the thoughts and charged ahead—he needed to know this monastery before daybreak, to know where its Cainite patron was. He was quite sure that he could slay Nikita in battle, but he was not quite as confident about his knights’ chances against the Archbishop of Nod.
He and Václav pushed on, deeper into the stone halls, looking for stairways down. They entered a large room with a dozen writing desks, but no paper or ink in evidence. “They must keep their books locked away,” muttered Václav. Jürgen nodded. He didn’t smell ink in the air, and the room had no lit torches or fire. He motioned to Václav to fetch light and waited just inside the door—he had no intention of being trapped in a pitch-dark room fighting an unknown opponent.
Václav snatched a torch from the wall outside the room and handed it gingerly to Jürgen. Jürgen walked carefully into the room and looked to the corners, but didn’t see anyone lurking. He crossed to the fireplace and quickly built a fire; it was a skill that many Cainites allowed themselves to forget. He hung the torch above the hearth and looked back at Václav. His childe shrugged. “Empty, then,” said Jürgen. “Very well.” This room would serve nicely—it had only one door and was deep enough in the monastery to be a superb barracks.
A scuffle of movement to Jürgen’s left caught his attention. A monk stepped from the shadows, but was not carrying a sword. He was murmuring something, perhaps a prayer, although the language wasn’t Latin. Jürgen looked back to Václav. “Do you understand him?” Václav wasn’t Livonian, Jürgen knew, but it was worth asking.
Václav cocked his head to listen to the monk. “No.” Jürgen drew his sword and stepped forward, but Václav stopped him. “Wait! It’s changed.”
Jürgen listened, and nodded. The monk was still muttering, but had changed from the local tongue to one that both Cainites understood—Greek.
“He has touched me, and thus I change,” stammered the Obertus.
Jürgen took a step back and glanced at Václav.
“I don’t understand this, either,” he said.
“He has touched me, and given unto me the means to—” the monk stopped in mid-sentence with a choked gasp, and fell forward. Jürgen smelled blood and bile coming from the man’s clothes, and raised his sword, but then stopped. The man lay on the ground shuddering, blood seeping from his ears. He looked as though he was already dying.
A thick gurgling sound caught Jürgen’s attention. He looked past the man at the wall. A puddle of red-brown liquid sat at the base of the wall, but was receding into a crack in the stone. Jürgen watched, fascinated, as it disappeared, leaving not even a stain behind it.
“Václav, did you see—”
“My lord, look out!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The monk sprang from the ground, his robes tearing themselves free of his body. He had swollen to over seven feet in height, but remained hunched over. His arms had elongated until they nearly touched the floor, and his mouth was distended enough to bite off a man’s head.
“Changed!” the beast roared, and lunged at Jürgen. It swung its hand—now ending in claws the size of spearheads—at him. Jürgen managed to raise his sword in time to parry the blow, but the creature struck with enough force to knock him off his feet. It stepped forward and drew back its claws, and then screamed in pain as Václav stabbed it from behind. Jürgen lashed out with his own blade, expecting to disembowel the creature, but only left an angry red streak across its stomach.
The creature swung its arm backwards and Jürgen noticed that its arc of motion didn’t stop—its shoulder joint simply popped and allowed its arm to fold fully behind its massive back. Václav, who had been standing safely out of reach, or so he had thought, grunted as the beast’s immense fist slammed into him, sending him flying against the wall above the fireplace. He fell to the ground, and Jürgen shouted a warning—the torch he had placed there was about to fall.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 18