Nightbringer (10 page)

For the entire day she had loaded and reloaded weapons. She had talked soothingly to the children, encouraging and supporting, but without making the mistake of minimizing the danger. She knew their instincts confirmed they were in danger and they could read her every word, gaze, and action. They were far too smart to be deceived.

Yes, the best course was honesty—as honest as she could be, anyway—and it had worked out better than she expected. They didn't cry or panic. They didn't huddle close to her with every step. In fact, Gina concluded, they were taking it a lot better than she was. They continued to eat and drink and talk with Rebecca and sometimes Miguel and Mr. Trevanian. Professor Haider even lent a hand by telling tall tales from long ago— stories without any mythically terrifying beasts, Gina noted.

Once again, she found herself standing over the monsignor who continued to work minutely upon the remnants of wire and circuit board at one of the smaller tables in the Hall. Shutting down concern, she recalled when he remarked that it would be much easier to repair if it had not been damaged so "precisely."

"Precisely" is not exactly how Gina thought a madman would disable a radio but then there was only a single step between genius and madness. Still, she wondered why the rest of it had been so heavily damaged. It was as if it had been two creatures— or a single creature of two minds. Or, as she began to suspect, the greater damage had been done simply to hide the ‘preciseness’ of it. But she couldn't conceive of any reason for that.

The monsignor's face was strained with fatigue. Rather easily, he read her thoughts. "Worrying will not change what God has decided," he said quietly. "Try to get some rest."

"Huh," Gina grunted. "What a joke."

"It is better than wearing yourself out with
anxiety. I believe I can construct a functional radio, but not before tomorrow."

Michael's words returned to Gina
; "
An hour can be a long time when you need help
...”

She glanced at her watch—ten minutes later than last time. She wandered back toward the long table to load more ammunition—

A cry...

Gina stopped and bent her head a quarter turn.

Yes...distant cries, but she couldn't determine the nature— terror or joy. She made a quick motion to the kids to stay on the dais as she ran to the exit of a corridor that echoed most heavily.

Darkening the distant bend, six men rushed forward. Two were carrying another between them and Gina needed no more. Yes, they had found it. Or it had found them.
She searched desperately but didn't see Michael. Then Melanchthon's huge body came into the lamplight, and Father Stephen. They were carrying Jaqual between them.

He was alive but bleeding badly.

Gina saw that the monk had been hit in the chest—a massive wound, but mostly muscle. He was moaning.

Good—if he was moaning, he was in pain. If he was in pain, he was closer to living than dying. Everything beyond that was technique and Gina quickly stripped the slashed robe from the monk's chest, applying pressure with bandages. She heard Melanchthon gasp and turned her face as the big monk collapsed to his knees.

His sweating face was pale. His hands shook violently. His first word was an eruption of anger, hate—shock.

"
BEAST
!"

The others collapsed at the word as if struck, sprawling across the floor, not even trying to reach a chair. Weapons clanged sharply against stone and Gina saw that they were
all
injured.

Melanchthon lifted his torso, arms stretched wide, and inhaled deeply. His grimace was a portrait of a prophet whose prophecy assured his own destruction. But the prophet was not yet destroyed. The prophet would yet have words with the Almighty!

"Will You only watch as we are destroyed? Then destroy us! Destroy us quickly and be merciful!"

Gina recoiled at the pa
in of betrayal—of the most cherished, most terrible betrayal that emerged from the priest. His eyes were maddened and searching. Then he lifted a spear and began to rise.

"I would not be so merciless!" he whispered through clenched teeth. "If You will not fight, then
I will fight! If You will not destroy it, then I will destroy it!"

He stumbled toward the corridor.

Gina tackled him behind the knees and Melanchthon fell forward. She didn't have time to worry about which of them would be killed by the spear, and then it clattered harmlessly across the distant floor.

Like a she-wolf she pounced on top of him. "Nobody's going anywhere until I get some answers!" Gina waited for a challenge, but the old priest was far too exhausted.

He had spoken in rage and pain and horror, but he could speak no more, nor could he rise. She waited until Melanchthon drew heavier, slower breaths. She spoke slowly and distinctly.

"Where
... is ... Michael?"

Melanchthon lifted a hand, as if to point. "They were on the ledge," he gasped. "They were on the ledge
... Michael had been wounded. He told us to run, and then he did something ... I don't know."

"What! What did Michael do?"

"I don't know." Melanchthon shook his head. "He fired one of the weapons into the cliff. Then the mountain fell on us ...
On them
! And then … I saw no more."

"Is Michael alive?" Gina shook him. "Melanchthon! Priest! You're not passing out on me! Is Michael alive?"

Melanchthon was gone.

He would awake when shock faded, but he could say nothing more now. Gina groaned as she stood, holding the SIG tight. She stared over the rest of them. They were covered in dust and were in various states of consciousness.

Monsignor DeMarco retained his senses, having watched the whole affair from his chair at the small table. And as Gina glanced at him, the oldest priest slowly stood. He stared over all of them and shook his head, and Gina thought she detected... guilt in his eyes. But she didn't understand, nor did she understand the quiet words he spoke in such a terrible tone.

"
Habebor... exstinctor terra
...."

With a trembling hand the monsignor wiped his brow and turned away. And for the first time, his shoulders fell. His bearing was only the bearing of an old man, not a man of faith.

No, Gina did not understand his words, but she under-stood his tone of horrible, deep regret—the tone of someone who could not be forgiven, or could not forgive himself.

It was the tone of Judas, who killed himself when he realized what he had done.

***

The Hall glowed brightly with every lamp-wick stretched to full extension.

After he recovered Father Stephen had commanded that even more lamps be brought into the cathedral-size room, as if light alone would protect them from this thing that preferred the darkness. But Gina knew that was fanciful. This creature didn't fear the light.

It feared nothing.

Remarkably, Melanchthon had recovered twice as fast as those half his age. After rising, he drank from a bottle of wine sheathed in straw. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, his black eyes focused bitterly on Gina.

"Yes," he muttered at last, "it was Michael
who held it so that we might escape." He nodded long and sighed. "We tracked it for a long time—deeper and deeper into the mountain—deeper than I had ever gone. It was not a place for man, but Michael hunted it as if he never known fear. Often enough he bid us halt, and then proceeded ahead for a space. Then he would return again and say the road was clear."

He slaked his thirst with another sip of wine.

"Such thirst..." He wiped his beard on his sleeve. "We followed it to where strange things glowed—things I have never seen. To where the walls seemed crushed by the tons of earth upon them. I thought we would descend into hell itself. It was hot—fiercely hot. But Michael gave no sign of weariness. Then he stopped and I thought he meant to rest. But he did not move, did not speak."

Slowly, Melanchthon lifted a hand. "He stood without a breath, staring into a dark pit before him. It seemed to descend straight down into the earth, like the path of some huge worm that fed on the deepest parts of the world.

"Long he waited—until I almost spoke. Then he took a single step—a single step—away from the pit ... and it happened."

His hand fell and Melanchthon's head rolled back before he shook it angrily. "It erupted from the pit
, and though Michael braced to meet it, it blasted him back. Then I lost sight of Michael. He disappeared into the blackness. We rushed forward as one man, shouting, prepared to die. But when it turned upon us, it strewed us like dogs!"

He groaned. "Against that hellish strength we were like nothing—less than nothing! It crushed and struck us down and lifted men above its head, tearing them in half and flinging them aside, showering us with blood! It slaughtered priests you did not have the honor of knowing! Jacobi! Durnam! Reuben!

"Insane with fear, I lifted my spear and stabbed deep into its back! And it turned into me with...with eyes that opened into hell." He collapsed forward, releasing a deep gasp. "I fell back ... I didn't have the strength to stand. We were doomed— all of us. But then Michael reached his feet once more."

Inspired, Melanchthon lifted his head, his hand clenched tight in a bloodless fist. "He caught it by the mane as a man would catch a lion! It twisted to escape, but Michael held it fast! Its fury was wild! It roared and struck and struck again and again! But
, as horrible as it was—as strong—Michael was not less!"

Suddenly, the monk's voic
e softened, as if he were remembering something glorious, not horrible. "Never have men been so blessed by God to witness such a battle. It was like a battle between gods—of man as God meant him to be against the beast. I can speak of it now, though at the time I could not move. I could not speak."

His voice became softer.

"Long was the battle, and savage. Then Michael reached a weapon—some weapon he had not lost—and I was blinded by the light ... the noise. I heard stalagmites shattering. I saw titanic shadows struggling against the other cascading along the walls. I heard roars but I did not know if it was Michael or the beast...or both."

It took the weary monk a moment to catch his breath, for the telling took as much as the living.
"Then there was a crashing sound, and then silence. And I have never watched the darkness as closely as I watched it in that moment. I could see a thousand shades of blue, black, silver, and white. I could see circles and pits as if the darkness itself were alive. I shouted as Michael emerged out of the night. Then I saw he was hurt ... badly hurt, and bleeding. He shouted at me to get up but I had no time before he lifted me from the floor."

Gently, Melanchthon grasped his upper right arm. "We fled—fle
d until we reached the ledge. And there we heard the roar of ... the greatest beast. It was coming; we were doomed. But Michael only pushed us across the ledge. He lifted poor Jaqual and flung him into my arms. 'Take care of the boy!' he shouted.

"I turned back when we reached the crest of the stairs and saw Michael standing at the narrowest section of ledge. The beast crouched before him."

Gasping again, Melanchthon rubbed a bruise on his temple. "The rest ... is unclear."

Gina leaned forward. "Melanchthon! Michael might still be alive! Try to remember!"

"I will try." He focused, then blew out a long breath. "Yes, it seemed to come forward and Michael stepped toward it. He was not retreating. He was going to hold it there. Then he fired some kind of weapon—I know not of these things— into the cliff, and we were thrown back together. We could not enter the cavern because huge stones choked the entrance, so we made our way here." He paused and gazed steadily upon Jaqual. "Will the boy live?"

"Yes, he's
hurt but he’ll live," Gina said tiredly and, with an effort, stood. Her weariness, she realized despondently, was meaningful. And it scared her. Because it meant she was beginning to care for something more than surviving—for something far more.

Without fear, she stared into the darkest corridor.

"This thing won't beat us," she whispered.

***

The monsignor was patiently bandaging injuries, administering comfort, both physical and spiritual, to the wounded. He gave no sign of shock when Gina appeared beside him.

She gave no indication of leaving.

When the monsignor lifted his eyes, he saw her expression and lowered his face again. He nodded. Then he rose to his full height like a man accepting a death sentence with dignity.

"I am sorry," he began simply, "for all of this." He lifted a hand to silence Gina's question.

"No," he continued, and it sounded like a verdict rendered from a far higher power, "I can say nothing. The secret things belong to God, and should, and I will not further risk my soul in stupid human attempts to force the hand of the Almighty. I have seen enough. It is my sin—all of it. For had I not bowed to authority—mere Earthly authority that dies when men die—none of you would be in peril. But it is too late. We are here. And now the only good thing I can do is give my life to save you and your children."