Eric Lustbader: The Testament

Then he had barreled into the Knight and the hackbut was spinning away. He used his fist, then drew his weapon. He and the Knight of St. Clement crossed swords.

Now that they were on equal footing he felt better, but almost immediately the other drove him backward beneath a series of vicious blows. Fra Leoni fought back in a peculiar way-he defended himself. In this way, he was able to gauge the ability of the Knight without giving the level of his own ability away. The Knight was larger and more powerful than he was-and was also skilled and confident. Fra Leoni, driven ever backward beneath the hail of blows, allowed the Knight's confidence to blossom. A penultimate two-handed blow sent him to his knees. The Knight, grinning in triumph, raised his sword for the killing blow. Fra Leoni, withdrawing a dagger, slashed the entire length of its blade through his assailant's Achilles tendon. At once, the Knight fell, his sword swinging wildly. Fra Leoni knocked it away. Then he was on top of the Knight, assured that he hadn't been hit, and drove his dagger through a gap in the other's armor.

Panting, he levered himself off the corpse, half-staggered to the Moroccan tile wall, pressed the mechanism, and before anyone else could appear, he vanished through the doorway, closing the hidden door behind him.

In absolute darkness, he made his way down a steep spiral staircase. Both he and Fra Prospero had made this journey numerous times, first with crackling reed torches when they had explored, and afterward, in pitch black, to immunize themselves against just such a situation.

He reached the bottom of the stairs without incident and thence made his way to the base of the eastern wall. From the corner he paced off fifteen feet, then he felt for the locking mechanism set flush with the wall. Here was another secret doorway leading to a steep iron staircase that wound down through the thick walls of Sumela-through the hewn stone itself-to emerge some half mile from the monastery grounds. At once, he hurried down the underground passageway, which reeked of mold and the sharp mineral odor of water seeping through stone. He made as little noise as possible, but under the circumstances it was impossible to be absolutely silent. Nevertheless, he was impelled to hurry, and at last, he reached the end of the tunnel. Like a blind man, he reached out, found the rope ladder that led up to the old well, which had never been a well at all but an escape portal should the monastery ever be breached.

He climbed, and kept climbing until he could smell all the myriad scents of the forest. There was another scent, however, overlaying the others, an acrid scent that was altogether familiar…

A powerful hand gripped his shoulder as he climbed out of the well.

"Keep still and absolutely silent," Fra Kent whispered in his ear.

"How did-?"

"This way," Fra Kent said urgently, overriding his question. "We've been betrayed. Our enemies are lying in wait for you."

And, indeed, he could see the bobbing flares of light that spoke of torch-lit search parties.

Fra Leoni followed his guide, who led him away from the lights, deeper into the forest, until the torch flares were no longer visible. A moon, huge and lambent, rose in the sky. By its monochromatic light, Fra Leoni saw the tall priest's visage, which was tense and terribly drawn. And yet, there was a flicker of elation, for they had eluded their enemies.

Fra Leoni turned to him, grasped his forearm in fervent thanks.

"Don't despair," Fra Leoni said. "We've found a way out, the Order will live another day."

For an instant, he thought the blue moonlight was playing tricks on him, for it seemed to him as if the look of elation on Fra Kent's face had turned it demonic. Then Fra Kent had driven the point of a dagger into the meat of his shoulder. As he lurched backward, pain like a fire inside him, Fra Kent came after him.

"What… what are you doing?"

Fra Kent grabbed him, shaking him like a leaf. The look of obsessive concentration on his face was terrifying. He had no interest in Fra Leoni's momentary confusion. In fact, he no longer had an interest in holding on to the dagger. He was clawing his way through Fra Leoni's robes, frantically trying to find the keys.

In that moment, Fra Leoni shook off his pain and shock. Against all odds, Fra Kent was the traitor. He understood, as well, that Fra Kent had betrayed everyone, even his new masters, the Knights of St. Clement. It was obvious by the look of naked greed on his face that he was determined to steal the cache of secrets for himself.

Fra Leoni twisted away from the fumbling hands and, with a cry of anguish, pulled the dagger from his flesh. Immediately, blood began to run from the wound and he grew dizzy. Fra Kent was on him in a flash, knocking the dagger away. Fra Leoni put his hands up an instant too late. Fra Kent's fist slammed into the point of his chin, knocking him off his feet.

Flashes of light filled his brain, and there was a gathering darkness pressing in on him that was altogether separate from the moonlit night. He could hear birds calling, and the hoot of an owl, far off, or was it the shouts of the enemy as they methodically ground through his brethren? With a major force of will, he shook off the cobwebs, got his arms inside those of Fra Kent, dug white knuckles into the other's windpipe. A stutter of horrible sounds emanated from Fra Kent as he reared back, his huge torso towering over Fra Leoni.

Fra Leoni threw him off, gained his knees, his hand scrabbling for the dagger. Moonlight gave him a glint, all he needed, and he grasped the hilt, made to stab at Fra Kent.

But the other, coughing still, gripped his shoulder, as he had done when Fra Leoni had first emerged from the wellhead. But this time the spatulate thumb plunged into the open wound. Fra Leoni howled in pain, and his palsied hand released its grip on the dagger.

A grin washed over Fra Kent's face. With an almost languid movement, he snatched the dagger, turned its point toward his foe. His grip tightened and he turned the blade just so, about to run it across Fra Leoni's throat, when a shadow appeared from out of the forest and fell over them both.

On an exceptionally hot and humid July fourth, Dexter Shaw turned a corner and all at once found himself back in the tense days and edgy nights of his youth. Perhaps it was the sight of the nubile young woman in her sleeveless halter top or the drugged-out young man sitting in the hot shade of a white-brick building, a somnolent dog at his side, a cardboard sign between his knobby, scabbed knees, scrawled with the message, "Please Help. Lost Everything."

On the other hand, perhaps it was something else altogether. Confronting the crowds milling through Union Square Park, he felt as if he were a swimmer, far from the teeming shore, guided and controlled by winds and currents seen only by him. He experienced this separation even more keenly as he edged his way into the human surf. Secrets had a way of making you feel alone even in the midst of a jostling throng. It was true. The deeper the secrets went, the more profound the isolation. The murmuring of lovers, the chatter of friends, the morse-code conversations of businessmen on cell phones, mundane all, and yet to him they seemed exotic, so far were they from his own life. Of course, this had been his reality for decades, but today his own anxiety had transformed these differences into knife blades whose edges he felt against his ruddy skin like an immediate threat.

He became aware of a tall, emaciated man with an unkempt beard hiding most of his face moving toward him.

"I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, amen; and have the keys of hell and of death!" the man shouted at Shaw, quoting Revelations. His hollowed-out eyes drilled into Shaw's, as if commanding his attention. "Write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter!"