To Dream of Dreamers Lost: Book 3 of The Grails Covenant Trilogy

by David Niall Wilson

  “I have not been this way either,” Montrovant replied. “I chose this as the shortest route. There are rumors of a monastery up the mountain, odd rumors, to be truthful. We will seek that as our shelter, and if that fails, we will just have to find something else. I want to be over these mountains tomorrow night and on the road to France.”

  Le Duc nodded. “I will send two of the men ahead to scout,” he said softly. He turned to the side then, slowing his mount and dropping back as Montrovant continued on, moving with steady speed, not pushing his mount, but not really caring about it either.

  The trappings of mortality sat well on Montrovant’s shoulders. He was a large, powerful, striking man…tall, slender and imposing, long dark hair sweeping out behind him like a cloak. He rode with the practiced ease of the warrior, but he did not need the horse to get where he was going…in fact, it slowed him. The others slowed him as well, but in a world growing increasingly dangerous for his kind, it was best to appear as “human” as possible.

  Two dark forms trotted by, and took off at a slow gallop up the trail. The scouts. He watched as they passed…felt the steady drumming of their hearts…familiar, comfortable. His men worked as a single unit, a precision that he demanded of them. Among men they were the safest from his hunger. He needed them more for their strength, obedience, and unwavering faith in his own judgment than he did for sustenance. There were meals enough walking the streets of each city, tilling the fields mindlessly.

  The trail wound up and between two towering peaks. It was not well-traveled, but there were some indications that others had passed that way recently. Deep ruts from passing tires, the cold ashes of campfires, and occasional animal remains appeared here and there. None of the signs were fresh.

  It was nearly an hour before the scouts returned to them, and the moon was beginning to descend from her throne. The two came at a faster gallop, less concerned for safety on a road once traveled. They reined in beside Montrovant.

  It was du Puy who spoke.

  “We have located the monastery. It is not on the main trail, but up a winding side-road that branches off about two miles ahead. We rode close enough to see the walls, and to note that there appear to be no guards.”

  Montrovant’s eyes gleamed. Two miles. Then there was time to arrive, and make arrangements, before the hour was too late and he was forced to be more…direct.

  Nodding to du Puy, he whistled for Le Duc to join him, repeating what the scout had said. “We will ride hard now until we reach the monastery, and we will seek shelter there. Remember that there are rumors of strange things from this place. You and I are no strangers to the odd, or eerie,” he grinned at this, “and it will be up to us to look out for the others.”

  Le Duc nodded. “Perhaps it is just their seclusion that brings the reputation?”

  “Perhaps,” Montrovant replied, “but we cannot afford to take that kind of a chance.”

  Le Duc dropped back once more in silence, passing the orders back along the line as Montrovant spurred his mount and sped up the trail, following du Puy and the other scout.

  It seemed only moments before the branch in the trail appeared, and du Puy turned down that way without hesitation. The trail they entered was wider, more of a road. Montrovant suspected that the brothers at the monastery would bring carts down that road to the trail below, meeting merchants and travelers there to do their trading, rather than trying to negotiate the narrower, more treacherous passage to the bottom of the pass.

  Briefly he wondered at the seclusion of the place. He hadn’t given Le Duc all the facts behind the rumors. There was talk of travelers not returning, emissaries of the Church that traveled this way and either were not seen again, or came back with tales that caused others to believe them mad. Something in the tales itched at Montrovant’s memory. Something familiar, and at the same time strange.

  In any case, there was little that he feared, and certainly not a group of secluded monks on a mountain. He would seek their shelter, feed, and be on his way. There was no time to lose if he was to find the trail of the Order still warm with their scent, and this time he intended once and for all to answer the question of exactly what treasures they kept and guarded. And he would taste their blood as well.

  The monastery rose from the base of the highest peak as they rounded a last curve in the road. It was not a tall building, but stretched wider than Montrovant would have expected, spanning an area at the base of the mountain that spoke of depth and size. Hardly what one would expect from a small monastic order.

  He rode boldly to the front door of the keep, ignoring the danger of possible ambush, and dismounted, dropping his mount’s reins beside the walk. There was no sign that their approach had been noted. The walls were dark and silent, shadowed from even the moon’s soft rays by the side of the mountain itself. It was eerie that there were no guards…no sign of a watch. Even such a remote area as the mountain was not without its bandits, and the Church had its share of enemies as well.

  There was a huge, ornate iron knocker on the door, and he lifted it with a quick flip of his wrist, smacking it into the solid wood with a resounding thud. He waited impatiently, and moments later struck the door again. He had pulled the knocker back a third time and was about to let it drop when a loud scraping sound echoed from within and he hesitated. Moments later the door swung open wide.

  They had been prepared for trouble, but not for the sight that met their eyes. The man was short, perhaps four feet tall, and was cowled so that only his eyes caught the moonlight. One seemed abnormally large, but upon closer examination Montrovant realized the second eye was squinting, nearly closed. Given the uneven curve of his back, they appeared to be facing a gnome, rather than a man.

  “Greetings,” the short monk said, “I am Maison.” His voice was deep, rich, and resonant.

  Montrovant stepped forward without hesitation. “We are travelers on the road to France, in the service of the Church. I seek a place for myself, and my men, to rest. We are traveling by night to avoid detection.”

  Maison looked up at him with the one open eye, tilting his head almost comically to take in Montrovant’s tall, lean frame. Then he glanced at the others…head bobbing as he counted, before turning back with a smile.

  “We would be pleased to provide shelter, and food. It is not often enough we receive visitors, and even more seldom such distinguished travelers as yourselves…on such dark, mysterious errands…” The man smiled, the open eye twinkling strangely in the moonlight.

  “The others are at late devotion,” he continued, turning and gesturing for Montrovant to follow him inside.

  “In that case,” Montrovant replied, “my men will see to the horses before joining me.”

  Maison nodded. “I will send one of the brothers to fetch them in a bit. The stables are around beside the base of the mountain. They will find everything they need. We keep few animals ourselves, but have facilities available for just such an occasion as this.”

  Du Puy and another, St. Fond, headed around the side of the building with their mounts, and Montrovant led the others inside slowly. Their host had turned and scuttled off down a long, stonewalled passage that slipped away into shadowed darkness.

  Le Duc stayed close to Montrovant’s side, and Montrovant knew that his progeny sensed something, as did he. It was nothing he could name, or describe, more a sense of imminent danger. A prickling memory was dancing just beyond his reach. There was more to this place than a monastery, perhaps more to Maison than there appeared, as well, though the man was certainly not Damned.

  That had been Montrovant’s first thought upon hearing the rumors about the monastery. His own sire, Eugenio, had resided in a monastery for years, under the very noses of the Church. Such a location as this fairly screamed “safe.” The only problem would have been the lack of…food.

  The passage continued deep into the building, ending in a set of double doors nearly the size of those at the building’s front. Here Maison stopped
, turning to them with a grin. “You will have to make your own fire in the dining hall. We have long since finished our own meal, and things have been cleaned and prepared for tomorrow.”

  Montrovant nodded impatiently. The night was still young, but not endless, and he needed to be certain that whatever arrangements they made were secure, and private.

  Maison did not seem to present much of a threat, and if the others of the Order resembled him in any way, it would not prove to be a horribly difficult task to hide himself away, rise, feed, and be gone. The others were an unanswered question though. How many? How bright? Most important of all…what was that nagging, bothersome warning bell tolling in his head?

  Maison pushed the doors to the dining hall open and they all stepped through at once. It was a large room, the ceiling a bit higher than that in the hall, but not a lot. It was criss-crossed by heavy beams, and these were supported by wide stone columns that lined the center of the room.

  Between the columns rested long tables and row upon row of chairs, and beyond these tables, near the door that exited on the far side of the room, was a huge fireplace. A kettle hung over the fire pit, and metal frames held a spit and other utensils, as well as a large flat bit of metal that might once have been a shield, now obviously a surface for heating water, or keeping a meal warm.

  The hall was crude, but serviceable, and nothing in the layout or furnishings provided a clue to Montrovant’s sense of impending danger. Everything was just as it should be in a house of God…simple and orderly.

  Le Duc began to wander about the room immediately, and two of the others made their way to the hearth, grabbing wood from the pile just inside the door and stacking it carefully in the fireplace. Maison watched their activity with mild interest, his one open eye shifting about the room curiously, then he turned at last to Montrovant and spoke:

  “All that we have is yours, sir. I must return to my brethren for the moment, but when prayers have been offered for the safety and success of your journey, and your time with us, we will return.”

  Montrovant nodded. “We can find what we need, and if you will see to guiding my men in from the stables, we will be comfortable enough.”

  Maison nodded. “Of course. I will have them brought directly here, and once you have made a meal for yourselves, I will personally show you to your quarters. I know if as you say you are traveling by night, you will not want to wait long to rest.”

  “Thank you,” Montrovant answered. His eyes narrowed a bit, and he watched the little man closely. The ready familiarity with moving about by night itched at his mind. Then his gaze focused on the door opposite the one they’d entered through. Most of the squat structure lay beyond that wooden portal. The answers to his questions were there as well.

  Maison scooted past him and headed for that door, and Montrovant watched the short man pull the portal wide, slide through, and close it again behind him. Beyond the doorway, for just a moment, the dark one thought he saw a flicker of candle flame, and for that same instant he thought he heard the sound of voices chanting…but then the door was closed once more and he was alone with his men, and his thoughts.

  The fire was going, flames crackling and popping briskly, and the others were moving about the small kitchen, locating a pantry and digging through their own bags to scrape together a meal. What they found were surprisingly meager rations for such a remote site.

  Again the nagging warning. Montrovant moved over to where Le Duc was walking along a blank wall, nervously glancing toward the ceiling, then the floor, then pacing the length of the wall and starting again. He reached out to touch Jeanne’s shoulder, but before he could make contact the door opened again, and he turned.

  They all stood, shocked to silence, as a woman entered. She was young of face and dark of hair, but somehow this seemed wrong. The deep glitter of her eyes and the quick, sure-footed stride spoke of age, power, and wisdom. She was robed, as Maison had been, though hers were more well-tailored, and shimmered with hints of many colored thread, woven deeply into the material. She was taller than Maison, but only a little. Her slender legs and soft breasts pressed curves to the robes that were blasphemously out of place in a monastery.

  Montrovant stepped forward—began to speak— and stopped.

  Eyes dancing, she broke the silence for him.

  “Greetings,” she said with a soft, lilting voice. “I am Rachel. I believe you have met my brother?”

  Montrovant and Le Duc exchanged a startled glance, then turned back to her as if their heads were joined on a rope as the door opened once again. Figure after cowled figure filed into the room, forming ranks beside and behind the woman’s slight form. Maison appeared at her side, grinning widely, but none of the others raised their heads to allow sight of their eyes.

  The sensation he’d felt earlier had intensified the second the woman’s voice broke the silence, but still it was not exactly clear…not what he remembered.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly.

  Her eyebrow cocked, and her smile broadened. “I am your hostess, it would seem. Is that so odd? My brother has served in the monastery for years. I am visiting.”

  Montrovant watched the monks forming tight ranks. His eyes shifted back to hers. “You will forgive me if I do not believe that is the extent of it? It has been a long ride, and perhaps my senses are dulled, but I have weathered many nights in the houses of the brothers of God…and you are the first woman I have encountered in all those years.”

  “You may find a great number of things about me that will differ from your experience, sir,” she replied softly. “I assure you I am as safe here as I would be in the home of my parents.”

  Le Duc moved as if to step toward the woman…then stopped, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

  “Jeanne,” Montrovant said softly, “what is it?”

  “Santos.” Le Duc backed warily toward his sire, eyes locked on the woman, Rachel. “I sense Santos.”

  Montrovant’s mind whirled and in that instant he knew it was both true, and not at all true. Santos, and not—so, what?

  Turning to the woman once more, he asked again, “Who are you…or what?”

  As the monks began to move forward slowly and steadily, eyes still aimed at the ground, Le Duc moved closer to Montrovant, and the other knights slid quickly around from the hearth and the servery, eyes wary.

  The woman did not answer, but her laughter rang out loud, long, and devoid of emotion. Then du Puy and the others burst in from behind the monks, and chaos claimed the room.

  FIVE

  Several things happened at once as du Puy and St. Fond arrived in the dining hall. They burst through the rear ranks of monks, bellowing loudly and cursing. Montrovant did not wait for their would-be captors to react, preferring as always direct action. He leaped into the first rank of monks, scattering them like so many leaves in the wind. Only the woman, Rachel, stood her ground…eyes dancing with angry light, but not with fear. The alarm bells were tolling louder, but there was nothing to be done. He had no intention of just sitting back and allowing anyone to assume control of him or his men.

  He did not hesitate to kill. The first two unlucky assailants who met his assault fell instantly with broken necks, the third was sent flying into a stone wall, his head crushed instantly by the impact. It was not until he was face to face with the fourth, reaching for the man’s throat, when he sensed the truth. The front rank was a decoy. The second were Damned, and they were not young. The cloaks were tossed back, and dark, twisted features, long, sharp, talon-like nails, and sharp, glittering fangs were revealed.

  With a sharp cry, Montrovant called a warning to the others—“Nosferatu!”

  The shock of his discovery was nearly his last emotion as the “monk” directly in front of him lashed out, impossibly long nails raking scant inches from Montrovant’s throat. Rolling away, barely avoiding the blow, he spun low and brought his leg around in a long sweep, sending his assailant crashing hard to the ground. Mont
rovant dropped to the hissing thing’s neck, knee making hard contact, crushing through bone…and then he was up again, spinning away, moving unerringly toward where Le Duc was engaged with two others.

  Jeanne had managed to get his blade free in time to put it to use, and there was no hint of uncertainty in that strong arm. Montrovant moved to his progeny’s side quickly, calling out to the others to do so as well. They were outnumbered, and now that it was less certain just what they faced, or how much danger they were in, he wanted his forces marshaled and focused.

  They ended up backed near to the door through which they’d entered, and though one of his knights, a younger man named Louis, fell to the second wave of Cainites, the others held their own well. They had traveled long, dark roads at his side, and the notion they might be killing an enemy for the second time was not new or frightening to them.

  They formed a rough semicircle, all with blades drawn now, except Montrovant, whose eyes sparkled with a dark light. He spun to meet the gaze of the woman, asking for a third time.

  “Who are you?”

  There was no laughter this time. Rachel met his gaze with her own, emotionless glare. Then she spun on Maison and slapped the little man hard, nearly knocking him across the room. The show of strength caught Montrovant off guard. He knew she was not Damned, and yet such a blow was impossible from such a slight woman. Her voice crackled out loudly, and all motion in the room stopped.

  “You fool!” she cried, anger rippling across her features, ringing loudly in the tones of her voice, so much softer moments before. “You said they were traveling knights. Nothing more, nothing less. You said ‘mortal.’” She was quivering with rage.

  Maison rose slowly from where he’d slammed into the wall, shaking his head groggily. He couldn’t answer, but she wasn’t really expecting a reply. Turning back to face Montrovant, she calmed suddenly.

  “I might ask you the same question, it seems. There appears to have been somewhat of a misunderstanding.”