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

by David Niall Wilson

  They made their way to the inner portal, which was closed, and Montrovant fussed with it until, with a soft cry, he rolled it aside. They slid through and into the lower levels of the keep in silence, rolling the stone back into place. Then they slid out into the hall and to the stairs beyond.

  Fleurette watched the two knights from the shadows beneath a huge old oak tree, eyes dark. The hunger was only a distant pulse, and she did not feel the urge to feed, but neither did it seem right to just stay there. Melting into the shadows, she circled the clearing, and finally made out the sounds of struggle once more.

  Hurrying her steps, she burst into the clearing and saw Noirceuil, seated on Abraham’s inert form, raising his arm high above him, a blade glittering brightly in his grip. There was no fight left in Abraham, but Fleurette knew he had not been destroyed. She wasn’t certain how, exactly, but she knew that the moment he ceased to exist on the Earth, she would know, and it would hurt, very deeply.

  With a soft snarl she leaped from the shadows and drew her small blade. It rode right where it had in life, strapped to her upper thigh, and the curved bone of the hilt felt good in her hand as she drew it for the first time since Abraham had come to her aid in that alley so far back in time, so many miles in the past.

  Noirceuil started, half turning, but it was too late to avoid her charge. The blade caught him flush in the throat and drove him over to the ground. She followed, rolling with the momentum of the plunge and dragged the dagger free as she returned to her feet. Her movements were quicker than she could have believed in life, her agility that of a large cat, but Noirceuil was older, faster, and he’d been fighting to the death for much longer.

  He snarled in rage, shifting his own blade to the other hand and rolling away and up. His hand slid to his throat, pressing to the wound, which oozed for a moment, the blood glistening in the soft moonlight filtering through the cover of the trees. Then he moved. He came at her directly, no sidestepping or feints. He was stronger, and he intended to make full use of that, to drive her back and down and finish her quickly.

  It angered her. She had faced down older brothers, warriors, drunks in the taverns. She did not back down as Noirceuil charged, but waited, letting herself go limp and feigning fright. His eyes glittered, and as he leaped, she shifted subtly, her boot kicking out quickly and her body shifting just enough to the side that he missed.

  His blade sliced through the air, but that was all it sliced, and he tumbled past her, her backhand stab plunging her blade deep into his shoulder and dragging it in a jagged line toward her. She cried out as it was ripped from her hand, and she danced back to the clearing. Noirceuil bellowed in frustration and pain.

  Spinning, he was back at her quickly, moving straight for her again, but watching more carefully. She knew the trick would not work a second time, and she had no more weapons. Her eyes shifted around, looking for something, anything she might use to defend herself, but the only thing she saw was Abraham’s limp form, sprawled in the grass.

  She stood her ground, and Noirceuil smiled then, moving in.

  “You are an evil, agile little thing,” he said sibilantly, “but it will do you no good with me, girl. I will send you to your dark master, you and your Damned maker. No more innocent blood will flow at your hand. No more of God’s chosen will fall to your hunger.”

  “You are a fool,” she said softly. “You are no different, no better. You will feed on those I leave behind, using their blood to fuel your own warped existence as you play God and judge to the Damned.”

  “Damned I may be,” Noirceuil replied, “But I do God’s work. Make no mistake of that. You are an abomination in His eyes, and I will wipe you from His Earth.”

  Fleurette noticed a slight shift in Abraham’s form, and she stood her ground. “You do no work but your own, or Satan’s, if there is such a creature,” she spat. “You know no more of God than I do, and I know no God who would allow his children to become such as we. Who are you to decide what is evil, and what is not?”

  Noirceuil hesitated. It was not often he could tell one he intended to kill why. Pride was his fondest sin.

  “I know God better than you would believe, girl. I knew his love, and his salvation. It has been torn from me, but I remember that pain. I will not allow you to continue, and thus rip it from the hearts of others. You must be laid to rest.”

  Abraham’s cry was loud, and chilling. He rose only to a crouch, and his one good arm shot back, grabbing the sword he’d dropped moments before and gripping the blade, ignoring the cuts in his hand as he raised it, whipping his arm forward with a massive, all-encompassing burst of anger, frustration, and rage.

  The blade whirled through the air like an over-sized dagger. Fleurette watched it, hypnotized by the glittering steel. Noirceuil was too slow. The blade spun, shifted, striking him sideways with impossible accuracy, and the steel slid easily into his neck, severing it and sending his head spinning off into the darkness with the snarl still in place and a dumfounded expression of outrage etched into his dark features.

  His body moved a step forward, arms outstretched, still reaching for Fleurette, who stood and watched its approach. Then it fell away, and she turned, moving to Abraham’s side quickly and wrapping him in her arms.

  “Quickly,” he gasped, trying to rise. She helped him to his feet, and they stumbled from the clearing together. “Where is Montrovant?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “He and the other left the clearing as soon as Noirceuil slipped out after you.”

  Cursing, Abraham turned toward the mountain’s face. “It may be too late to stop him, then,” he gasped. His arm was healing slowly, but he still couldn’t get any use of it, and the imbalance of it dragging at his side slowed his progress, but he forged ahead.

  “What is it?” Fleurette asked softly.

  “He didn’t fight,” Abraham cursed. “He went for the Grail. We have to be there to stop him.”

  Although she silently believed that Kli Kodesh was well aware of the possibilities, she supported him on her shoulder and the two of them hurried back to the cliff face and the tunnel. He had, for good or ill, saved her yet again. The least she could do was escort him to whatever the fates had in store. They slid into the tunnel and disappeared from sight.

  EIGHTEEN

  Gustav and Kli Kodesh stood on the wall of the keep, staring down the mountain. Neither had spoken since they exited to that walkway, but the tension in the air was thick.

  Finally Gustav could stand no more.

  “You led them here, all of them. You spent years building this place, hiding it, fortifying it through me. We have labored long and put more into this than I care to think of.”

  “Yes,” Kodesh nodded, not really paying attention, “you have done well.”

  Gustav stopped, spinning the ancient one against the stone wall, his eyes blazing. “Why have we done it? Why do you move us around this ridiculous chessboard as if you knew your opponent, then laugh and toss us away, sacrificed before the game truly begins?”

  Kodesh was taken aback for a moment. Blinking slowly, he glanced at Gustav, a slow smile sliding across his face. “You are not sacrificed, old friend. You are not even set up to lose. If you think about it, there are very few who might have found you out, who might have presented a danger, eventually, to what you have accomplished. I have brought them here all at once to be rid of them. That is all.”

  Gustav stared at the old one darkly. “That is insane,” he said softly. “I could have done away with any of them at any point in Rome, and you know it. I had more than enough knowledge and power to lure Montrovant in and trap him, and he would have come. The others would not have come at all with Montrovant out of the way.”

  Kodesh watched him for a moment before answering.

  “You have indeed learned a lot, Gustav, secrets guarded by Santos for so long that they might have crumbled to dust had we not wrested them from his grip. The books, the learning, the years, they have se
rved you well. I am very happy to have chosen you when I did, and you have done a remarkable job as guardian thus far.

  “Know this though, those secrets are guarded for good reasons. I have caused them to be locked away here, beyond even your reach, because I am not ready to be responsible for them being unleashed on the world.”

  “I was not planning on releasing anything to the world,” Gustav said, his anger boiling over again. “I would have used them to rid us of Montrovant, and that is all.”

  “You don’t understand the nature of such objects Gustav,” Kodesh replied, his eyes far away. “I truly believe you think that is what you would have done, and I truly believe you would have accomplished your goal. There are some very powerful objects in your control.

  “The power would have corrupted you. Not soon, perhaps, but what is time to us, Gustav? The sheer boredom of existence would have done you in. Then there would have been none left to stand before you. It is a losing battle, Gustav, with the years. Each passing decade, or century, a bit more of what you were slips away, and you grow a bit more frantic to replace it with something, anything. The problem is that nothing will do it. Nothing can fill the gaps left as you disintegrate into a monster.”

  The anger had not burned out of Gustav’s gaze at this outburst, but he had calmed. Shaking his head and turning away, he spat his answer.

  “You have made me nothing, then, but a feeble, failed attempt to fill gaps in your own decay. You have brought them here and given them half a chance at success, leaving it to me to entertain you by repelling their advance. Your words about power might be true, my friend, but if they are, you are the prime example of all history. My only sorrow is that once I was proud to be part of this.”

  Striding away quickly, Gustav slipped through one of the stone arches and down the stairs into the huge keep. He did not look back, and Kodesh made no move to follow, or to speak further. His eyes darkened for just a moment, then the glitter returned, and an odd half-smile, half-sneer rippled across his lips. Moving slowly he made his way along the wall, reached the corner, and slipped up onto the stone edge, peering down into the shadows below.

  Without a sound he slid over that edge and was gone, crawling down the sheer wall as if it there were steps carved in the stone. Below the only sounds were those of the two knights, beating through the brush, looking for evidence of where their companions had gone, or if they lived.

  A hoarse shout indicated that St. Fond had come across the withered corpse that had been Noirceuil. Kodesh slid through the trees quickly, making his way to the edge of the clearing where the battle had taken place. It was a surprise. He’d thought the hunter would finish Abraham. In fact, he’d been right. It was the girl he’d underestimated, and he chuckled.

  He’d hoped he might get a good skirmish between Noirceuil and Montrovant, but that would not have been so interesting, in the end. The dark one was much older, and he was very focused just now. Noirceuil would have fallen quickly and easily. This way he got to go with a fight.

  The two knights who’d followed Montrovant were sitting quietly side by side on their horses, looking about the clearing in confusion. There was no sign of any of the others, no good indication of where they’d gone.

  Du Puy rode slowly around the clearing, passing near where Kodesh watched from the shadows. His horse shied, then calmed and he called out softly.

  “Here. Someone has gone this way, toward the mountain.” The knight spurred his mount forward, and St. Fond was quick to follow. Kodesh watched them go, and once they were out of sight, he moved into the clearing to stand over Noirceuil’s remains, staring down. He leaned in close, gripping a gold chain that hung about the hunter’s neck and yanking it free with a jerk. The cross dangled before his eyes, and he smiled. It was made of bone, very old, and the old one knew its story.

  It was carved from the finger bone of the last victim of the first vampire Noirceuil had killed, a very long while back, and while the hunter had not understood its significance, Kodesh did. That vampire should have been much harder to kill; had been, in fact, ancient.

  Kodesh pocketed the amulet, knowing it would eventually need to end up with the rest. He then took up Noirceuil’s blade. It should be returned to the Church, he thought, grinning at the notion of the faces of those who’d sent the hunter in the first place.

  Turning, he moved to the base of the cliff. The two knights had dismounted. They stood by the entrance, staring at it dubiously. They would not enter. It was too much to expect of them.

  Slipping from the shadows, Kodesh spoke softly, standing just beyond the line of trees lining the wooded slope.

  “They will be back, or they will not, but there is nothing you can do,” he said. His voice was quiet, but the words passed his lips with such force, such presence, that neither St. Fond nor du Puy could react immediately. Kodesh took a few steps forward, presenting Noirceuil’s blade.

  “I believe you might want to keep this,” he said. “Rome will be interested to know the fate of their hunter, no matter how this turns out.”

  “Who are you?” du Puy grated, reaching for his blade with a sudden lurch. “Who are you and how do you know so much about this? If you are Montrovant’s friend, why do you not help him…and if you are his enemy, why have you not tried to kill us instead of talking?”

  Kodesh laughed. “Both good questions,” he said, chuckling harder. “I am not Montrovant’s friend, nor am I his enemy. I am one who watches, and waits, and I have known him a long time. He will fail, or succeed without me, and I’m afraid, without you this once. If I were you I’d settle in, watch that exit very carefully, and wait. It is really your only option.”

  Then he was gone. He moved so swiftly that, blinking, du Puy saw the old one standing against a backdrop of trees one moment, and the next only a sword, blade tip imbedded in the rocky soil, shivering from the impact of being thrust there. No sign remained that they had been anything but alone.

  St. Fond cursed softly, letting his sword arm drop to his side. He turned and started to speak, then fell silent. Turning to his mount, he grabbed his bags and lifted them free, moving to the side and finding the same stone outcropping that had shielded Lacroix the night before.

  Du Puy stared off among the trees without moving for a long time. There was nothing to see, and as the night continued to slip slowly past them, he settled back beside the cavern’s opening with a heavy sigh of frustration, his sword across his knees. Noirceuil’s blade stood where it had been left, like a gravestone, or a thin cross, its moon-shadow lengthening as the hours slipped by with interminable slowness.

  Montrovant reached the first landing of the stairs and glanced up and down the corridor, eyes narrowed. What he sought was not those who inhabited this place, but the treasures they protected. Logic led him down and in, and since they were already at the lowest levels, he needed to move toward the mountain’s heart. He glanced for a long moment at the stairs leading up, then shook his head, turning to the right.

  Jeanne was at his heels, moving quickly, but pressed tightly to the wall. Each knew that stealth was likely pointless. If they were correct, and they were not expected this way, this soon, they had a chance. If they were discovered, the only way in would be through Gustav and his brood…possibly Kli Kodesh in the bargain. The outcome of such a battle was not in doubt.

  They rounded the first corner and found that the passage ahead widened. “It is headed inward,” Montrovant said softly. “The vaults will be at the deepest, most secure point.”

  Jeanne nodded. They moved down the hall, letting their eyes wander over the walls and down each side passage. There was little sign of the keep’s inhabitants at this level, though there were dusty footprints leading inward. Montrovant followed these, not knowing exactly why. The footprints led them in a winding path toward the mountain’s center, and suddenly, Montrovant stopped, pressing Jeanne to the wall quickly.

  Ahead the hall shifted again, continuing straight and turning again to the
right. Around that corner, where the footprints led, Montrovant sensed others.

  “Guards,” he hissed softly.

  Jeanne nodded, eyes bright. If there were guards, then this was the place they sought. But how to get past the guards? They would be members of the Order, strong, not too old; in fact, not much older than Jeanne himself, but they would not be easy targets. The sounds of the scuffle might alert the rest of the keep.

  “Wait,” Montrovant said. The dark one’s eyes were glittering, but he was smiling, and Jeanne watched in wonder as his sire stepped quickly around the corner, walking straight for the doors as though he had every right in the world to be there.

  There was a startled gasp, but no cry. The two guards stood, watching Montrovant approach, for a long moment.

  “So,” Montrovant said jovially, “this is it. This is what Gustav has been ranting about all these years.”

  The guards were confused for only a moment, but it was enough. As they moved to the sides, crouching at his approach, Montrovant sprang.

  He was a dark blur, and the guard to the left of the door was in his grasp before Jeanne registered the motion. Leaping around the corner, Le Duc distracted the second, and that was all it took. A head rolled past Jeanne’s feet as he moved, and he dodged it, springing at the second guard. He was too late. Montrovant was there already, the vampire hoisted high over his head, and then drawn down.

  With a single rippling jerk of strong shoulders, the dark one lashed out with his hand, nails curled to claws, and ripped the throat from the second guard, flinging the remains against the wall with a sickening crunch and following through, boot placed on the guard’s ruined throat, hands gripping long hair, He yanked hard, wrenching the head from the body with a single motion and flinging it back toward the passage beyond.

  The entire battle had taken only seconds, and Jeanne stood, the rage seeping back out of his mind before it had fully bloomed. He stared at Montrovant in wonder. He’d never seen his sire move with such single-minded purpose, nor had he seen him display that sort of viciousness toward another of the Damned.