Eric Lustbader: The Testament

Quite soon he came to an area that had eroded in the last rainstorm. A large tree had been uprooted and others partially so, leaving great clots of red earth exposed like wounds. This afforded him a hitherto impossible view into the deep ravine, the only way to and from Sumela.

The sight below turned his blood cold. Lines of the Knights of St. Clement marched in concert, heading toward the monastery, the last bastion of his Order. He had made a fatal mistake. The Knight who had attacked him and his compatriots had not been alone but was an advance raider sent to destroy the Order's sentinels. He had to assume that other such assassins had been dispatched to deal with the other Guardians on patrol. There could be no doubt, the Knights had launched a full-scale attack.

As he turned, on his way back to the monastery, a crossbow bolt sliced through the flesh of his arm. He staggered sideways, his booted right foot sliding on the bare earth, and he went over the edge.

He slammed into a tangle of tree roots jutting out from the side of the earthfall and almost had his breath taken away. Still, he had the presence of mind to reach out and grab on. Panting, he swung in midair, dizzy and nauseated, a thousand-meter drop yawning at his feet. Far below him, the line of Knights continued their march. Blood leaked from his wound, and pain lanced through his arm all the way up into his shoulder. He tried to pull himself up, succeeded only in tearing open the wound. It was only a matter of time before his blood, running more freely now, would drip down, giving him away to the enemy below.

He began to pray, gathering himself into the essential core of his being. But though his soul spoke to God, at some point he could not help but notice that the huge uprooted tree above him rolled as if of its own accord, slowly at first, then more quickly, until it shot out and down, amid cries of dismay and pain, onto the marching enemy.

Dumbfounded, he swallowed thickly as he watched the chaos spreading through the ranks of Knights.

"It's a divine intervention," he whispered.

"In a way."

He looked up, sweat and the red silt of Sumela in his eyes, for the source of the voice. He was at first certain that St. Francis himself had come to his aid. Then the striking face resolved itself.

"Fra Leoni," Fra Martin whispered. "Thank God."

Fra Leoni was well named, for he had a leonine face atop a mass of curling hair black as pitch. From this unruly surround the startling blue of his eyes broke like sun through storm clouds. "Hurry, while they are still in disarray. There's no time to lose." Fra Leoni's powerful hand, covered in flakes of moss and tree bark, grasped him, tugging him up.

Sumela Monastery appeared to be carved out of the bedrock on which it sat, a jagged tooth in the Karadaglar, the Black Mountains that lay between Trebizond and Armenia.

"The Venetian fleet has been turned back by Sultan Murat II and his Ottoman navy," Fra Prospero said as he addressed the somber-faced priests ranged around the dark wooden trestle table in the refectory of the monastery. "Any day now Trebizond will come under attack. No matter how well situated, this time the Golden City will fall, and afterward, the Ottoman filth will be breaking down Sumela's door."

"We have a more immediate disaster staring us in the face."

The priests of the Order of Gnostic Observatines turned as one to face the bloody-robed figure who filled the doorway. Above their tonsured heads, the vaulted ceiling arched like the heavily muscled shoulders of a giant warrior.

Fra Prospero, Magister Regens of the Order, lifted a hand, palm up, in the traditional gesture of welcome, but his large black eyes held a different message. He did not like being interrupted, let alone being contradicted. "Enter, Fra Leoni, and pray enlighten us." The Magister Regens bared his teeth. "What could be more of a disaster than the heathen Turk overrunning our toehold island, the bastion of Christ on the shore of the Levant?"

Fra Leoni reached into the darkness of the hallway, bringing in the wounded Fra Martin. Two of the priests rose and rushed over to take him to the infirmary.

"What is this?" Fra Prospero said. "What has happened?"

"We are under attack," Fra Leoni told them. "The Knights of St. Clement have found us. They landed in secret at Sinope five nights ago. Their main force is but an hour away."

At this remark, a meaningful glance passed between Fra Leoni and the Magister Regens, but neither of them said what was on their minds.

Instead, Fra Prospero sighed. "Indeed, our worst fears have been realized. This Pope's thirst for temporal power led him to create the Knights of St. Clement-his own private army, used to crush those who went against the will of the Holy See. Three weeks ago, the Knights received by courier a communique' from the Pope, charging them to destroy our Order." He was a massive man, with a round, florid face like a sunflower and the clever black eyes of an inquisitor. He was possessed of a deep, rich baritone that reached with uncommon ease to the farthest corner of the refectory. "Our teachings have already put us at odds with the Pope. But now a Vatican council has judged what we preach as heretical blasphemy and has condemned us as dangerous to the rule of the Pope. We have been marked for eradication-and who better to perform this task than the Pope's so-called soldiers of Christ, the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood?"

The priests looked at each other with fear and consternation plainly visible on their faces.

Fra Sento's narrow brow furrowed. "Why weren't we informed sooner of this despicable edict?"

"What good would it have done," the Magister Regens said, "save sow the seeds of panic?"

Fra Sento stood, leaning forward, body tense, clenched fists on the table. "We could release the Testament to the world," he said, "and so reveal the falseness of this power-mad Pope."

At the mention of the Testament an awful blanket of silence swept down upon them. Deepening shadows crawling through the west-facing windows slowly smothered the fire of the sunset.

Sizing up the situation in an instant, Fra Leoni took a step into the room and before Fra Sento's contagion had a chance to spread, said, "Haven't we put this question to its death yet? Who but Church and clergy and a handful of scholars can even read? The Church's power and influence is far too vast for our discovery to be readily believed, let alone accepted as gospel. No, we'd be reviled, cast out, stoned to death by the faithful, like as not-and the Testament itself would fall into the hands of our enemies within the Church, who would destroy it rather than know its truth. Besides, it is neither our duty nor our desire to topple the very institution to which we have pledged our minds, bodies and souls."

Fra Sento, scowling still, crossed his arms over his chest. He knew Fra Leoni was right, but he couldn't see past his burgeoning fear to acknowledge it.

The Magister Regens now rose. "Well said, Fra Leoni, thank you. The enemy is almost upon us. We must now turn to the practical matter of our defense. The fact is, we have been practicing for this every day since our arrival at Sumela. Do you believe that we could be better prepared for the inevitable?" His piercing gaze on Fra Sento, he said, "Would anyone here gainsay my decision?"

Fra Sento looked down at his lap and, slowly, his arms unwound. With another covert glance at Fra Prospero, Fra Leoni respectfully took his place at the table.

"We all suspected the Pope would find a way to rule against us," Fra Kent said. He was a jowly priest, tallest of them all, with a quick wit and a helping hand for others. "Now, the hour of our greatest trial is upon us, and it is more imperative than ever that we act as one mind, one strong heart."