others droop with worry, that some are plump and jolly, and others gaunt and solemn; while others see nature as a picture, as an immovable facade that is meant only as a backdrop for human things; others, still, see nature as a tunnel through which they must pass before they can return to civilization, that ironic human fancy.
Willard was among the first and thus was not lonely during his exile in the forest, since he had millions of companions. Ivona was also of the observant group and so was as comfortable in her father’s castle as in the wilderness. Patrick, however, was of the second declension: the forest was not beautiful in itself, nor was the dress, but when Lydia was present both were lovely. De Garcia was also of the second, though his romance was war and adventure his mistress; a solemn duel in the streets of Bordeaux was invigorating, but in the backdrop of the magnificent forest it was truly a tale worth living. Leggitt was of the third declension, and when he saw the forest it was merely the means to an end; for him it was military precision and theory, and nature only a variable within the strategic paradigm. As for Lydia, she was the troublesome, ambiguous soul, sometimes of one declension and sometimes of another.
It was now late afternoon and the forest was growing dark and chill. Its heart had turned against them. They walked at a steady pace but the trees went with them, it seemed. Each tree became another in the distance. Those not of the forest became disheartened. But then, the trees came to an abrupt end. As they looked into the distance, the forest stopped to watch them pass and they were cast forward into the embrace of an open clearing. Yet the clearing was not the relief they sought, for it was but a vacuum for greater things: behind them the mighty trees and before them the centerpiece of the mountain range – a peak of stone that tapered upward until it became a jagged spire that pierced the very bowels of heaven.
The forest was itself on the mountain, but the ascent was masked and not until the plateau could the distant lowlands be seen. A hundred yards of meadow separated the forest on every side from the mountain in the center. It burst from the ground and blew into the heavens, showing its kingly silhouette against the sun. The sun struck its sides and was thrown aside, for the mountain was formed from obsidian. Its sides were perfectly smooth and mirror-like. It could not be climbed from the outside and no mark or blemish could be seen. Far above, its lofty peak was lost in the clouds.
“I no longer wonder that the Holy Graal remains untouched,” Leggitt said.
“Untouched, indeed,” de Garcia returned, “For even here there are no signs of Nicholas Montague’s passing. Yet we know he is before us nonetheless. Will we make camp in the clearing, before dark? It would be better to face the trials in the morning cheer, than the evening fear.”
“It will be the same darkness within,” Patrick said, his glance shifting from Lydia to the lonely mountain before them. “And though time is an ally at the moment, if we delay it will be our greatest enemy.” With a surge of passion, Patrick began marching across the plain.
The others followed, silent as they crossed the abyss. Night came quickly and it was dusk before they reached the mountain; then, in a mere instant, complete darkness engulfed them. The sun fell behind the forest and was extinguished as if it had fallen into the sea. A small cave opened onto the plain on the western side of the mountain – from which they approached – with a rectangular mouth that appeared as a door in the darkness.
“The lanterns?” Willard asked.
De Garcia and Leggitt each produced two from their packs, giving one to Willard and the other to Patrick. Leggitt also had a small tinderbox, and in a moment the four lanterns were lit. With that, they entered the cave. The lanterns cast out the cavern’s darkness, revealing an ornate hallway – with pillars hewn from the rock as by the hand of an ancient man. The floor was carved into triangular tiles, coming together into a pattern; yet the pattern was not uniform – though it was continuous – for there were variations within its framework. Murals were sculpted into the walls, a combination of bas-relief and sculpture, the forms of which came out from the walls and stood proudly as individual pieces. Yet they flowed together and did not repeat.
The party, however, did not look over them closely. Willard had taken the lead once more while the others walked in pairs behind, their swords drawn. De Garcia now bore his famed broad foil, having purchased one from a blacksmith in Bordeaux: it was round like a foil, but as thick as a broadsword. With it, his renown as a warrior was built; he could parry and block a blow from a stronger sword, but when an opening presented itself he could lunge forward with its single point. The cavern continued without turning, though it had a vertical incline. Still, they could not see beyond the light of their lanterns, nor hear beyond their own breathing.
After twenty minutes of walking, Willard stopped, turning to the others. “Something rests in the path ahead, but though it has the shape of a man it does not seem to move. Beware of an ambush.”
The others raised their weapons and said nothing.
Willard took one step, then another, and with each the light drew nearer to the shadow. Then, on the third step, the light struck the figure and opened it to their eyes. Willard jerked his sword forward involuntarily, falling back a quarter step before recovering himself. The others did likewise, with the exception of the hardened de Garcia: only his eyes jerked back in terror.
There – stretched across the path in front of them – was the lifeless and mutilated body of a man: his face and limbs torn off savagely, his skin drowned in blood, his eyes plucked from his head. He did not seem human. His mother’s womb would not have known him. Yet beside the body lay a telling piece of evidence: a helmet of the Elite Guards.
“So it is,” de Garcia whispered, “Nicholas is before us, as is the devil himself!”
Chapter 66
“Rouse yourselves, men, for we must be on,” Nicholas Montague scowled at his men. He stood in front of them as they lounged on the outskirts of the forest and was staring down the solitary peak before him. His dark hair, combed backward perfectly, shone in the afternoon sun.
“My lord,” one said, “Could we not wait for the others to come, and let them be the first to meet the demons and undead which the legends say dwell within?”
“Do you fear them?”
“No, my lord,” he said, and it was clear he did not.
“Then be silent, for I will not be advised by my inferiors. Come, follow me.”
The half dozen men stood, replacing their helmets and fastening their swords to their waist. They were the Elite Guards, the best of Gylain’s army: strong and agile, inured to hardship and emotion. They neither felt nor thought, for they were beasts before men and soldiers before beasts; any remnant of manhood had been trained out of their souls. To some, the animal nature is an evil force, a passion that destroys – and so to be subdued; but to the Elite Guard it was to be trained and cultivated, and in the end used to follow the wishes of their masters. It was their duty to kill, perhaps, but a man must first chose his allegiance before his duty is given.
Montague did not wait for them, but set off across the plain at a rabid pace. When they came to the cave, he led them in without a moment’s hesitation, for their lanterns were already lit and in their hands. In truth, the cave was the hallway of an ancient temple: its sides sculpted and lined with pillars, its floor tiled with the mountain’s own rock. It went straight, but climbing upward at a ten degree incline.
After a little more than twenty minutes, Montague stopped in front of a magnificent door, into which the tunnel ended. It spanned the width of the cavern, with a pillar on either side and a statue of a growling lion’s head jutting out from the wall above it. The lion’s face was three feet wide and stood between a type of man-dog on the right and a man-alligator on the left – both standing upright and looking strangely down upon the door. Two fine cracks ran along the frame of the door, without which it would seem nothing more than a continuation of the wall. The figure of a white eagle was etched onto the face of the door, with its claws extended as if grasping something on the floor. The party of soldiers – with Montague and his own stone-chiseled face in the lead – came to a stop before it.
“I doubt the wisdom of continuing further,” said the same soldier who had doubted on the plain. “This door bids us depart, before we are destroyed by what lies within.”
“The legends of this place affect even you, an Elite Guard?” Montague asked with a smile. “Then what must it do to the untrained rebels? Perhaps they fear the eternal darkness, and so we must increase their fears by realizing them.”
“But, my lord,” the soldier asked, “How can we, when we ourselves are not demons?”
“Are we not?” Montague asked. He paused. “If not now, then we will be in a moment,” and he drew his sword, pressing it against the man’s chest.
“Will we begin?” he asked, and began driving it slowly and firmly through the soldier’s armor and into his flesh. The soldier’s face was a nightmare, but Montague only derided his death and sent his sword to the man’s
