《The Crows and the Plague》


 Season 1 Pilot: The Fall of Isselhan

    The sweet scent of tulips, mint, and cinnamon, stuffed into Giradin''s mask, was a feeble shield against the miasma that seeped through the creaking gates of Isselhan. A wind, heavy with the stench of decay, whipped through the city, carrying the plague doctors'' fears ever closer to despair. Even his mask couldn''t fully block the rancid odor, a constant reminder of the horror that lurked within the fallen metropolis.


    Bodies, twisted and contorted, lay strewn across the cobblestone, their vacant eyes fixed on the charcoal sky, as if pleading for a mercy that had long since abandoned them. A weak, desperate cry echoed from within the city.


    As his comrades readied their crossbows, a chill ran down Giradin''s spine. He turned to face the source of the sound, his heart pounding in his chest.


    What had once appeared to be lifeless husks, covered in the black blotches and festering sores of the plague, now crawled towards him, their eyes filled with a haunting desperation.


    The plague doctors formed a line, their faces grim, their weapons raised.


    "The plague must not spread!" the Master''s voice boomed, echoing through the city. "Stop them! Whatever it takes!"


    One of the infected lurched to its feet, its movements jerky and unnatural. With a guttural scream, it sprinted towards the open gate, its black-spotted skin glistening in the dim light. Soon, others followed, their movements a grotesque parody of human locomotion.


    Giradin''s hands trembled as he raised his weapon, his aim wavering. A cold dread settled over him as he inched his finger toward the trigger.


    A snap and a whistle, followed by a sickening thud as the projectile connected with its target. But instead of falling, the infected creature merely staggered, its eyes wild with a feral rage. Before Giradin could react, it lunged at him, its fingers outstretched like talons, its breath hot and fetid.


    Another bolt flew past Giradin, piercing the infected''s forehead. With a guttural growl, the poor soul crumpled to the ground.


    Seeing their fellow citizen fall only angered the remaining survivors, who now clenched their fists as they ran.


    More bolts zipped through the air, finding their way into the plague victims'' flesh. The infected cried out from pain and betrayal as they fell.


    Giradin fumbled with his crossbow, his hands trembling. The gauntlets he wore, designed to protect him from the plague, made handling his weapon even more difficult. His heart pounded in his chest as more and more infected creatures closed in.


    One, a woman, shrieked as she lunged towards him. Startled, Giradin dropped his bolt.


    She was a mere few strides away, a grotesque parody of humanity. Her body was covered in black sores, her skin a sickly pallor. Her eyes, once filled with life, now burned with a feverish madness.


    Just as she was about to reach him, a spear thrust past Giradin, impaling her through the chest. Her body slumped lifelessly onto the shaft.


    Giradin glanced back at Fulk, his rescuer, breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately produced a new bolt from his quiver to reload his crossbow.


    The carnage was over in a heartbeat, yet it felt as if years had passed. Giradin was certain he''d grown old in those few terrifying moments.


    As the fire coursed through his veins began to subside, Giradin forced himself to look upon the fallen. They lay in pools of their own blood, their hands outstretched in a silent plea. All they had wanted was escape, a chance to survive the horrors that had consumed their city. But Giradin and the other doctors could offer them nothing but a swift, merciful end.


    Contain the plague.


    That was the order given to them.


    We save more lives than we take.


    That was the justification every doctor gave when they went to purge an infected city. Yet Giradin rarely saw the lives they''d saved, only the countless ones they''d ended.


    He looked down at the face of the infected girl who had nearly attacked him. She couldn''t have been much older than fourteen, the signs of womanhood barely evident. The absence of a hemp ring on her finger indicated she was unmarried. Giradin imagined her returning from the well, a bucket of water slung over her shoulder, when she noticed a strange bump on her arm.


    She must have covered it up, terrified of what it meant. If she had spoken a word, she would have been cast out, left to starve or be devoured by beasts. The letter from Death had arrived, and she had kept it a secret, a silent companion in her final days.


    "Is anyone in Isselhan still alive?" shouted the Master. "We are going to burn the city! If you wish for a painless death, come and find us!"


    Giradin sighed and looked away from the dead girl, turning his attention instead to the task at hand.


    Giradin and the other thirty or so doctors, each clad in steel crow masks and chain-mail armor under black coats, turned to their Master to await his next orders.


    "Spread out." The Master gestured to the city streets with the spear in his hand. "And prepare this city for the pyre. If any infected citizens seek you out give them the quick death they desire. If you see any rats or any Vermin," he spat the word with utter hatred for the monsters, "you are to call for help immediately, don''t try to fight them all yourself, for where there is one Vermin there are surely many."


    Why would the Vermin linger here? Giradin thought. Those beasts have already destroyed this city, what more could they hope to gain?


    But he kept his questions to himself. What insight did anyone, even the Master, have into the minds of those wicked monsters? And the Master always hated to look like a fool, so it was best not to ask him questions he couldn''t answer.


    The Master continued, "Anyone still in that city is surely infected by now. Show no quarter."


    Some invisible force tugged downward on Giradin''s Adam''s apple.


    With a groan of rusty wheels, a wagon rolled through the city gates. Another doctor, masked in a raven''s visage, sat at the reins, while the oxen pulling the wagon were similarly muzzled. The doctors hurried to the back of the wagon, each taking a small barrel marked "Dragon''s Bile."


    Giradin secured his barrel on his back, the straps digging into his shoulders. The explosive nature of the substance always made him nervous, but knowing the Vermin feared fire as much as he did provided a modicum of comfort.


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    The city streets were eerily quiet. Giradin walked alone, spraying Dragon''s Bile onto the houses. Gothic spires loomed overhead, once homes to families now reduced to ashes. On a street corner, he spotted a blacksmith''s shop, the anvil and smelter still in place. He imagined the blacksmith, his hands calloused and blistered, working on horseshoes. Across the street, a cobbler''s shop stood abandoned, the sign with a painted shoe a stark contrast to the lifelessness within. For a fleeting moment, Giradin wished he had remained a cobbler''s apprentice. But then he saw the bodies of the cobbler and his young assistant, lying in the doorway, their eyes glazed over with the vacant stare of the dead.


    In one hand, Giradin held the hose attached to the barrel on his back; in the other, he gripped his seax. He stepped over the bodies of the dead, forcing himself to avert his gaze. If there was a Hell, it had descended upon Isselhan, and the plague doctors were its unwilling purgers.


    "Doctor..." a small voice called out from a pile of filth.


    Giradin paused, the hose still in his hand. "Yes, child?" he replied, lowering himself to his knees. "I''m here to help. Come out."


    The pile of blankets and clothes parted, revealing a girl of about ten. Her face was covered in black sores, her eyes filled with a haunting despair. Giradin''s heart ached.


    "Help me, please!" the girl begged. "There''s still hope, isn''t there?"


    Giradin fought to hold back tears. The answer was simple, cruel: no. There was no hope for her. The plague was a merciless killer, and this girl was beyond any cure. Leeches could not drain the infected blood from her veins. As new as Giradin was to his job, he knew this.


    He knew the only solution he could offer, and the thought made his stomach churn.


    "There is one thing we might try," said Giradin, swallowing the lump in his throat. He reached into his black coat and produced a small vial filled with a green liquid. "Take this. It will strengthen your body, help you fight off the disease."


    The girl took the vial, examining it before looking up at Giradin with sorrow. "This is poison, isn''t it? Meant to kill me quickly so I don''t suffer any longer?"


    Giradin hesitated, his heart heavy. "No, it''s not poison," he lied, his voice barely a whisper. "It''s a... a new treatment. It might help."


    For a moment, Giradin was tempted to keep lying to the child. It was bad enough someone so young had to die like this, at least he didn''t want the child to die without hope. But Giradin was never good at lying, and as he looked into the girl''s eyes, he found he couldn''t bring himself to speak any more falsehoods to this child.


    Giradin sighed and nodded. "Yes. Yes it is poison. I''m sorry I lied to you."


    Again, the girl looked at the vial. Tears welled up in her eyes, she sniffled, and her lips pulled downward into a grimace of anguish.


    "There''s no reason to be afraid." Giradin tilted his head to one side in an attempt to make his masked face look slightly less terrifying. "The place God made for us is a realm where there is no more pain, no more sickness, and no more hunger. A paradise where we will all live in peace forever. A place so much better than any of this."


    "Is that a lie too?" the girl looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Grown-ups lie all the time..."


    Giradin stammered for a moment, then said, "It''s what the Scriptures say, child."


    "But do you think it''s true, doctor?" pleaded the girl. "Please, tell me. They say doctors know everything. Are the Scriptures lying?"


    "Doctors don''t know everything," said Giradin with a sigh. "I really wish we did. I don''t know if the Scriptures are true or not, but I believe."


    "Why?" asked the girl.


    "Because... because I have to," said Giradin. "Look around you..." He gestured with both hands at their macabre surroundings. "All this suffering... Don''t you think that if there''s a place which can get this bad, there must also be a place which can be just as good?"


    The girl peered around at the bodies littering the street, nodded, then popped the cork on the vial and drank the green liquid inside. She gulped it down, forcing every drop into her skinny body. Moments later, her eyelids drooped, and she sat down on the ground. She mumbled something under her breath, then laid down on the street as if asleep.


    Giradin''s instinct was to grab a blanket, to tuck her in, but he''d been warned not to touch anything infected. With a heavy sigh and a sinking heart, Giradin stood, leaving the girl''s body there. He took comfort in the thought that such an innocent soul was surely in a better place.


    He continued down the streets, spreading the Dragon''s Bile over piles of bodies to ensure they''d burn with the city. Every now and then, he stopped to check the shadows on the ground, knowing that if he was gone too long his fellows would burn the city down with or without his return.


    The broken windows on the ground floors of every house and shop spoke to the looting which had taken place here when the people realized the city had been overrun with plague. Fools. Rather than fleeing death as quickly as they could, had stopped to try to make a profit on their way out.


    How stupid they must have felt when the count''s men had sealed the gates shut to contain the infected until the plague doctors could arrive.


    Giradin tensed when he heard the sound of teeth gnawing on a bone, and he tightened his grip on his seax. Please, God, let that be a dog. Please let that be a dog.


    When he peered around a corner, his eyes beheld a creature the size and shape of a man, but covered in brown fur. The beast had a long, wormlike tail, round ears, and a long snout that was gnawing on a femur stripped of all meat.


    The Vermin snapped its head back, its black eyes fixed on Giradin. Its lips curled into a snarl, and it leaped to its feet, an axe clutched in its spindly fingers.


    Giradin sheathed the hose and extended his seax, the blade glinting in the dim light. The Vermin hissed, its teeth a jagged saw. Giradin''s hands trembled.


    But Giradin recalled the girl he''d just poisoned moments ago, and his fear turned to a burning rage in his heart. These monsters spread the plague intentionally, for little other reason, it seemed, than to kill people.


    The beast lunged.


    The axe chopped the air over Giradin''s head as he ducked.


    The doctor roared and drove his blade through the Vermin''s chest. The creature recoiled, clutching its bleeding wound. Giradin raised his weapon over his head and brought it down on the monster''s neck with all the force he could muster. He felt the bones separate, making way for his weapon, and heard the flesh tear. The axe hit the ground.


    With a mighty pull, Giradin wrenched his blade free and brought it down again, hacking at the Vermin''s neck. Each gruesome chop elicited a blood-curdling scream, a twisted symphony of pain. A vengeful smile crept across Giradin''s face as his lenses fogged up.


    As the monster fell to the ground, dead, Giradin''s blood cooled. The Master''s words echoed in his mind: Where there is one Vermin, surely there are many.


    A chorus of high-pitched squeaks and scratching noises caught his attention. He looked up, his heart pounding. Dark lumps of fur were pouring out of windows, gutters, and every hole in the wall. Swarms of rats scurried about, and Giradin knew the larger Vermin were close behind.


    Giradin scurried away. From his pocket he produced a handkerchief and wiped off his blade, leaving the red-soaked cut of cloth in the streets.


    Rounding a corner on his way to the exit, he heard the cries of one of his fellow Crows. Another plague doctor stood amidst a horde of ordinary rats, stamping his foot down to crush their little bodies. Each stomp splattered blood and viscera around his ankles.


    Giradin was about to open his mouth to tell the fool to run, but before the words could escape his throat, a Vermin charged in and embedded his axe in the Crow''s sternum. All Giradin could do was flee.


    When he regrouped with his fellow doctors, they marched out of the city, forcing the gates shut and barricading them with stones, logs, and anything they could find.


    A line of archers stood outside the city, flaming arrows at the ready.


    "Take aim!" the Master shouted, his voice echoing through the city. The archers aimed their bows high.


    "Draw!" the Master yelled, and each archer drew back their bowstring as far as they could.


    The doctors knew what was coming. They knelt in front of the archers, their crossbows aimed at the gates.


    "Loose!" the Master cried out. Dozens of flaming arrows sailed through the air, into the city of Isselhan. Within moments, the city was ablaze, the shrieks and cries of agony rising with the smoke.


    A loud crash at the gate.


    The doctors watched carefully for any sign of a living thing breaking through,


    to


    When the gate burned down, there lay beyond its remains the fire-cleaned bones of dozens of Vermin.


    Two thousand souls drifted up on the smoke, joining

 How Giradin Became a Crow

    I shall do my best to tell the story of Giradin the Crow, and his part in the events surrounding the plague doctors and their efforts to stop the Black Death. Most of the information I''ve gathered comes from Giradin himself, but some I received from other witnesses of those days.


    No child, when contemplating the vast possibilities his future holds, says, "I want to be a plague doctor when I grow up!"


    Giradin was no exception.


    He''d been apprenticed to the local cobbler in a town far from his home. It was not a glorious profession, but it was one that would ensure a peaceful life with food on the table and a roof over his head. Growing up, there had been many nights he''d gone to bed hungry, and the thatch-roof of his home had almost always had holes in it, through which the rain would leak. How many nights had he awoken to cold water spilling into his snoring mouth?


    Giradin was never late. His mother used to joke that ever since he was born two weeks early, he had made it a permanent habit to arrive thirty minutes before he was expected every where he went.


    Thus when Oweyn, the cobbler to whom he''d been apprenticed, answered the door rubbing his eyes and still clad in his night-shirt, Giradin was hardly surprised. Oweyn yawned, his mouth stretched so wide Giradin expected his jaw to pop, and said, "Last week you came half an hour early, so I says, ''Hey, let''s go ahead and move our start time half an hour earlier.'' Then, yesterday, you came earlier still, so I made ''justments again." Oweyn pointed to the golden glow peeking over the horizon, where the sun still hid beyond the distant mountains. "Now you''re ''ere affore the sun comes up! I know you''re eager, Gir, but, so help me, if you show up at my house any earlier I''ll club you on the head, I will!"


    Giradin lowered his head. "Sorry, Messere Oweyn. I guess... I just don''t want to be late..."


    "Being too early''s just as rude as being late!" Oweyn grunted and gestured for Giradin to enter his home. Giradin walked in and started toward the tools on Oweyn''s table, eager to get to work.


    Oweyn reached out his hand to Giradin''s chest to stop him before he got to the tools. "No no no. Not yet. You wait ''ere ''til I''ve changed into me work clothes. Then we''ll get to it." Oweyn walked off to his bedroom in the back, grumbling to himself and rubbing his eyes.


    After Oweyn had changed and returned, Giradin spent the next several hours repairing shoes under Oweyn''s direction (and occasional scolding). In later journals, Giradin would write that his last truly happy memory was Oweyn looking over a completed shoe and saying, "Good job, lad. Now, do the rest this good."


    Giradin and Oweyn started at the sound of screaming outside Oweyn''s shop. Both men opened the windows and peered outside.


    "Crows!" one of the villagers shouted, and Giradin''s blood ran cold.


    Villagers ran and hid inside their huts as ten figures approached on horseback. The men were clad in black coats with wide-brimmed hats and masks with long beaks and dark lenses. Were he a child, Giradin might have thought them monsters rather than men. Giradin had heard the stories, but he''d never actually seen plague doctors in person. He''d long prayed he would never have to see them.


    The ten men rode into the village square and dismounted. Nine of them drew long-swords and held them tight in both hands. The one at the front strutted forward, leaning on his cane with every third step.


    "We have heard reports--" the leader bellowed, his muffled voice surprisingly loud in spite of his mask, "that one among you has the plague and has been hiding his symptoms." He reached into his coat and produced a vial with a green liquid from his pocket. "We will give you one chance to come forward, whoever you are. If you are honest, then you may take this poison. It will give you a quick and painless death, no worse than falling asleep. However, if you fail to cooperate with us we will drag you out of your home and execute you."


    The last of the villagers in the streets retreated into their homes to hide from the plague doctors. Oweyn tore himself away from the window and fled to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.


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    "You have until the count of ten!" the Crow shouted. After a brief pause, he began his count, each number yelled as loud as he could. At three his voice sounded disappointed, but at seven he started to sound angry. Finally, he reached, "TEN!" his tone full of rage. "Everyone! The infected person is a traitor, one who would condemn all of you, and your children too, to horrible death rather than give himself over to inspection!"


    Silence met the Crow''s words. The rest of the plague doctors exchanged looks with one another. Their leader peered around the village, his eyes hidden behind those dark lenses.


    Giradin''s heart leapt into his throat when the leader of the Crows snapped his face in his direction and pointed both beak and cane right at him. "You!" the Crow shouted. Giradin wanted to protest, tell the Crow he must have been mistaken, but the words never got past the lump in his throat. "Come here!" the Crow demanded.


    Trembling, Giradin exited the front door of Oweyn''s shop and stood before the plague doctors.


    The leader of the doctors tilted his head to one side, those dark lenses staring at Giradin. "In which house does Berengier live?" he asked.


    Giradin hadn''t meant to betray Berengier the fletcher, but the moment he heard the Crow''s question his eyes peered over to Berengier''s house.


    The Crow leader pointed his cane at the house and four plague doctors approached and surrounded it while five others walked around town gathering sticks and straw and throwing them into a heap on the cobblestone path in the village square. The Crows at Berengier''s door kicked it down and stormed inside. Giradin heard Berengier scream and fight back for a moment, until the two Crows came back out, dragging along the scrawny, middle-aged fletcher.


    The Crows pushed him down onto the kindling, on his knees, and all pointed their swords at him.


    Berengier peered up at the leader of the Crows, tears in his eyes and mucus dripping down from his nose. "Please! Please, don''t do this! I want to live!"


    The leader poked Berengier in the chest with his cane. "Remove your tunic. Now!"


    "Please, have mercy!" Berengier cried again.


    Smack!


    At first, Giradin hadn''t seen what had happened. But when he saw the leader holding his cane out to his right and Berengier holding his red cheek and whimpering, he knew the leader had struck Berengier''s cheek with the cane.


    "NOW!" the Crow repeated.


    Berengier scrambled to get his tunic off. The Crow leader pushed on his shoulder with the cane, forcing him to show his chest. Black sores dotted Berengier''s bare torso, and the Crow shook his head. "When you saw this, you should have turned yourself over to us immediately. By staying here, you endangered everyone in this village." He turned to the villagers, hiding in their hovels. "All of you, stay in your homes. We will be by to inspect each and every one of you soon. First, we have to deal with the traitor. Father Hewlett, if you would."


    One of the other Crows, one who wore rosary beads around his wrist and a crucifix around his neck, drew near and knelt before Berengier. From within his coat he produced a small vial with a dark red liquid inside and a wafer. He uncorked the vial and held it out to Berengier, "Take this and drink from it: this is the cup of His blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It was shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of Him."


    Berengier''s hands shook as he took the vial and held it to his lips. He pressed his eyelids together and tilted his head back, downing the sacramental wine. He gulped hard and wiped the tears from his cheeks.


    Father Hewlett held out the wafer to him next, "Take this and eat it: this is His body which has been given up for you."


    Berengier reached out, took the wafer, and brought it to his mouth. He nibbled on it, taking his time and peering around at the crows all around him.


    Father Hewlett stared at Berengier through his dark lenses, unreadable under that mask. "May God forgive you of your sins."


    Berengier ate slower and slower the closer he got to the end of his wafer. The leader of the Crows gently tapped his shoulder with his cane. "Hurry it up, or we''ll execute you before you''ve finished."


    Obviously fearing Hell if he died unsanctified, Berengier finished off the rest of his wafer and swallowed it. The moment the lump traveled down his throat, one of the Crows thrust his sword through his back. Villagers screamed. Giradin stood paralyzed with terror. The Crow stepped his boot down on Berengier''s back and forced him face-down onto the kindling as he withdrew his sword.


    Another of the Crows approached the pile of kindling, knelt beside it, and struck flint and steel together until the straw caught aflame. All the plague doctors stepped back as the fire grew and consumed Berengier''s body.


    The leader of the Crows turned to Giradin. "You''ve proven yourself useful, lad," he said. "My name is Triston. Submit yourself to one of my fellows for inspection. If you are clean, then you will join us."


    "I don''t want to be a plague doctor!" Giradin protested.


    Triston stared at Giradin in silence for a moment. A deep sense of dread gripped Giradin''s heart as he gazed at Triston''s unfeeling mask. "I didn''t ask you that," Triston said at last. "The king and the Pope have granted me the authority to conscript anyone I choose to join our ranks, so long as they are not a nobleman''s heir. Are you a nobleman''s heir, lad?"


    Giradin knew Triston did not expect him to answer the question, so he kept his mouth shut.


    Triston nodded. "Very well, then. Submit yourself for inspection, and your career as a Crow will begin."

 The Prophecy of St. Ida of Louvain

    After conscripting him, the plague doctors brought Giradin to their local headquarters. By the look of it, the building had once been a monastery, but the monks were long gone.


    Once he was inside, the doctors stripped Giradin naked, inspected him for any sign that he had the plague, and scrubbed him down with soap and vinegar, until his flesh was raw. They burned his old clothes and presented to him a sack cloth robe when they were done bathing him.


    Leaving him no time to recuperate, they hurried him along to the meeting hall, where sat dozens of men in sack cloth robes. As Giradin peered around the room, he saw Moors and Jews among his new brethren. The Moors, in particular, were a wonder to his eyes, for he had never seen a man with black skin before.


    "Don''t stare." The voice of the doctor to Giradin''s left made him jump, and he turned to face the old man with a gray beard. "The Moors don''t like it when you stare. Come to think of it, no one does."


    "I... I''ll try to remember that," said Giradin.


    The meeting hall''s door opened again, and all present rose to their feet as there entered the room a tall man with shoulder-length, dark hair in curls. The man looked to be in his early twenties, and wore a stern expression on his face. "You may be seated," he said, and all present returned to their seats. Giradin couldn''t be sure, but the man''s voice sounded like the leader of the plague doctors who recruited him.


    The man with dark hair cleared his throat and spoke, "Good evening, brethren. As many of you know, we have a new initiate among us. Giradin is his name. Who will handle his training?"


    A balding man in his mid thirties raised his hand, "I''ll make sure he learns well."


    The man with dark hair nodded to him. "Thank you, Father Hewlett," then turned his attention to Giradin. "I am Grand Master Melcher Fitz. Welcome to the Order of St. Ida of Louvain, more commonly known as ''The Plague Doctors'' or ''The Crows.'' How much do you know about our order already?"


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    Giradin shrugged. "All I''ve heard is that you try to stop plague from spreading and everyone''s afraid of you."


    "Both of these are true," said the Grand Master. He crossed the room and took his seat at the head of the meeting hall, just under a stained-glass window with the image of St. Ida in blues and reds. St. Ida held a baby over a bathtub, and a halo encircled the baby''s head. When Giradin got a better look at the baby, he realized it had a surprisingly adult face. "The Pope--" Melcher continued, "--Has ensured that wherever our order exists we have the authority we need. Or, at least, his Holiness has tried his best. Out here, on the edges of Christendom, not all lords and kings are as cooperative as they should be."


    Melcher pointed to the stained glass window behind him, "On her deathbed, St. Ida warned of the coming of a terrible plague. She said that she received a vision, a prophecy from Jesus Christ Himself, warning us of a disease which would wipe out all of Christendom, unless we did what was necessary to prevent it. She said that the Jews would be our greatest allies in preventing the Plague, and that they would teach us ways to prevent its spread. Understand this, Giradin, if we fail at our mission, the Black Death will sweep across the land, until there isn''t a home in Christendom that hasn''t lost a child to the Devil''s disease. The Pope has charged us with doing whatever it takes to prevent the Black Death."


    Melcher raised an index finger in front of his face and his eyes pierced Giradin''s. "But, you must understand, if you hope for thanks in this life you will not get it. No one truly understands our mission, or what we hold at bay. All they see are terrifying men in masks, all clad in black, who do things they can never comprehend. Commoners have cursed us, bishops have petitioned the Pope to disband our order, and lords have withheld our payment from us. When we come to the cities, the peasants throw rotten vegetables at us, or dump chamberpots over our heads. But we must press on, Giradin, no matter what they say or do, no matter how horrible the persecution may get. The people of Noah''s time mocked him as he built his ark, but none of us would be here today if it were not for him. We are as sons of Noah, preparing for the destruction of the world."

 Meeting Brethren

    At the end of Giradin''s third day of training, Father Hewlett invited him to join his fellows in the cellar, giving only the vaguest of indications of what they would be doing down there.


    When Giradin descended the stairs into the cellar, Father Hewlett leading the way, he saw four men sitting upon barrels with bottles of mead, ale, wine, and beer in their hands.


    One man had curly, black hair, a long beard, and wore a tiny cap on the crown of his head. One look and Giradin was sure this man was a Jew.


    Another man had long, blonde hair pulled back in a braid and a bushy mustache hanging over his lips. When he raised his bottle of ale to his lips, the bottle''s neck parted the mustache hairs to reach its destination. He tilted his head back and took a long swig.


    The third was a moor, with a head shaved bald and scars across his face which appeared to be from the claws of some terrible beast. The moor raised his bottle of mead to Giradin and Father Hewlett as they entered and gave them a friendly smile, showing his snow-white teeth.


    The fourth man also had a shaved head, but also a long beard without a mustache. His eyes remained on a spot on the floor when Giradin and Father Hewlett entered the cellar.


    Father Hewlett nodded to them all, and the blonde man handed him a bottle of wine. "Thank you," said Father Hewlett. He turned back to Giradin and pointed to the blonde man. "Giradin, this is Sir Bertran. Before joining us he was a knight hospitaller."


    Sir Bertran, the blonde man, chuckled. "With the crusades over, had to find something to do with my life, aye?"


    "Umm... aye..." said Giradin.


    Father Hewlett gestured to the Jew. "This is Shlomo. He''s been helpful in coming up with ways to clean patients."


    Shlomo, the Jew, nodded his head to Giradin and held out a bottle of beer to him. Giradin reluctantly took the bottle. "Eat, drink, and be merry," said Shlomo. "For tomorrow we may all be in the grave."


    Shlomo''s words sounded oddly familiar to Giradin, and he was about to ask him about them before Father Hewlett placed a hand on his shoulder and directed his attention to the moor. "This is Mujahid Ibn Hisham," said the priest.


    The moor grinned at Giradin. "Just call me Mu. Everyone else here does."


    Giradin shrugged, "I... I imagine Mujahid Ibn... that your full name is hard to remember."


    "Not where I''m from," said Mu, the moor, "but in these lands, yes."


    Father Hewlett''s hand on Giradin''s shoulder steered his attention to the man with a bald head and short beard without a mustache. "Finally, this is Fulk. He''s... well, he''s from Beltin."


    Fulk shook his bald head, still not looking up at either men. "You can say it, Father. I''m a murderer here to make some form of penance for my sins."


    Giradin caught his breath at Fulk''s words, and every instinct within him screamed that he should put as much distance between himself and Fulk as possible.


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    "These days, we''re all murderers," said Shlomo with a shrug. "We take life, often innocent life, to protect the people. Kill one man, one woman, save thousands."


    "Millions," said Sir Bertran, "Or have you already forgotten St. Ida''s prophecy?"


    To Giradin the numbers seemed absurd. He''d never seen a thousand of anything, let alone a million.


    Shlomo looked up at Giradin. "How did you get recruited into this?"


    "I..." Giradin hesitated. "I was conscripted."


    Shlomo chuckled. "Yes, most of us were conscripted. I''m askingwhy you were conscripted."


    "I don''t know," said Giradin, thinking back to that day. "Because I was helpful, I guess?"


    "Oh, the joys of being virtuous!" Shlomo raised his bottle of beer. "For I was envious at the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.For they have no pangs until death; their bodies are fat and sleek."


    Giradin gave the Jew a confused look. "Umm... something like that."


    Father Hewlett took a seat on one of the barrels in the cellar and drank from his wine bottle. Giradin watched as the priest finished off half the bottle at once before finally stopping to take a breath. "Ah! Nothing sweeter!"


    Giradin shook his head. "Pardon me, Father, but it''s... strange to see a priest drink so much."


    Shlomo snorted. "You''ll see far stranger things than that soon enough, shegetz."


    "Celebrate how you can when you can," said Father Hewlett. "This is a thankless profession. Everywhere we go we will be hated and feared, and we see far more death than most men."


    Sir Bertran nodded. "I think I''ve seen more death since I''ve been a plague doctor than I ever did in the crusades. Heavens! If someone had told me when I was a young lad that one day I''d both fight beside and drink with a moor I''d have boxed his ears! Ha ha!"


    Mu drank from his bottle of honey mead. "No. No you wouldn''t. You''ve far too gentle a soul for that, and you know it! Sometimes I wonder if such a good man can really be a Christian."


    Sir Bertran started to his feet and raised his fists. His brow was furrowed in rage and his nostrils flared over his bushy mustache. "Say it again, Mohammedan! Or I''ll show you howgentlethis Christian truly is!"


    Giradin backed away from the two men, fearful of getting caught up in their fight.


    Mu slowly rose to his feet and took another drink from his bottle of mead. "Sometimes... I wonder... if such a good man... can really be..." Mu whispered the final words, "a Christian."


    Sir Bertran pointed at Giradin. "You! New recruit! Throttle this Godless heathen!"


    Giradin glanced between the knight and the moor, his whole body trembling with fear. "Why... umm... why can''t you do it?"


    Sir Bertran pointed at the moor again. "You heard me! Don''t let this blasphemer live!"


    "I... I... I..." Giradin stammered, his mind racing for some manner of excuse not to get involved in their fight.


    Shlomo shook his head. "Stop torturing the poor lad."


    A painful silence followed Shlomo''s words, and finally both Sir Bertran and Mujahid broke into laughter.


    Sir Bertran gave Giradin a firm smack on the chest. "You should have seen your face!"


    Mujahid nodded. "We''re jesting, boy. In the crusades we might have been enemies, but all peoples are equal in the sight of the plague, for it kills Christian and ''Heathen'' alike."


    Giradin groaned, shook his head, and drank the beer Shlomo had given him. He''d never had beer before, and the instant the alcohol touched his tongue he knew he hated it. But the other men in the room seemed to enjoy it, so he hid his disgust the best he could.


    "Strong drink--" Fulk began, his eyes still cast down at the floor, "--makes the ghosts quiet."


    Giradin felt a chill at the self-professed murderer''s words. There was something in his flat tone and the distant stare in his eyes that told Giradin this man lived in shame. When Giradin peered around the room at the others, he saw that they laughed and joked together as they drank, but when he looked at their eyes rather than their smiles he saw a deep pain within them. These men hated themselves and their lot in life, and they drank and celebrated life together to fight off the pain of seeing so much death.


    And soon enough, Giradin knew he''d be just like them.


    Fulk looked up at Giradin. When their eyes met, Giradin felt he knew this man''s life story. This was a man in Hell, who had given up hope of seeing Heaven one day. Both men raised their bottles to their lips and savored the bitterness within, which was still far sweeter than their lot in life would prove to be.

 Planning the Future in a Plague-Ridden World

    "Have you ever thought about how you want to die?" Shlomo asked.


    Giradin, Shlomo, Mu, Fulk, Sir Bertran, and Father Hewlett rode together on the backs of horses, off to investigate a report of plague in a town called Neuhausen. All wore their black, waxed-leather uniforms and bird-like masks, with weapons strapped to their belts and over their backs.


    The Jew''s question caused Giradin''s jaw to drop, and he caught a stronger whiff of the flowers and sweet-smelling herbs in his mask.


    "Personally--" Shlomo continued, "--if I could choose how I die, it would be like this: I reach old age, having helped rid the world of this awful plague. As I lay on my deathbed at... oh... say... one-hundred years old would be nice... children come to see me. Children I''ve never met, but my efforts saved their lives. Christian children, Jewish children, Muslims, all manner of children from all over Christendom and beyond! And they all look at me with such affection as I give up the ghost."


    Father Hewlett snorted a stifled laugh. "That''s a fairy tale if I ever heard one."


    Shlomo shrugged. "Hey, I''m not asking how we think we''ll die, but how we would want to die. Have a little fun with it, Father!"


    "I''ll bite the hook," Mu interrupted. "You ever hear of an herb called a ''Black Jerusalem?''"


    Sir Bertran chuckled.


    Mu turned his beak to him. "Ah! I see you have heard of it! When one eats just a little Black Jerusalem, colors all start to look more beautiful, and everything tastes better. Have a little more, and you''ll start dreaming while still awake. Some people have claimed to see angels after eating Black Jerusalem. So, here''s how I''d like to die. On my seventieth birthday, I close and bar all the doors to my home so no one can interrupt me, I take six doses of Black Jerusalem, then smoke as much opium as I can find. After that, I just sit there, waiting to slip away into the great unknown."


    Father Hewlett grunted. "So, your ideal death is suicide?"


    Mu laughed out loud in his mask, his voice somewhat muffled. "A most spectacular suicide, Father."


    Father Hewlett shook his head. "Does the Koran not forbid suicide?"


    "Don''t know, Father," said Mu. "Never read it, and never paid too much attention to the imams either. What about you, Fulk?" Mu''s beak turning to the bald murderer (hidden behind a doctor''s mask) riding to his left. "If you could choose how you die, how would it be?"


    Fulk grumbled something incoherent for a moment, followed by, "The same way I was born. Writhing and screaming in a pool of blood."


    A long silence followed Fulk''s comment. Deep dread seeped into Giradin''s heart, and while he kept his nose pointed straight ahead, his eyes swiveled behind those dark lenses to keep watch on Fulk.


    Finally, Shlomo said, "That old cliche? You have no imagination, Fulk!"


    Mu, Shlomo, and Sir Bertran all laughed. Fulk remained unreadable.


    "There''s Neuhausen!" Interrupted Father Hewlett. He pointed his gauntleted hand at the church steeple in the town ahead of them. "Save your morbid jests for another time."


    The dull gray clouds over Neuhausen gave way only occasionally to the golden rays of the sun. The light shone down into the town in streaks, illuminating the foul dust in the air.


    Giradin had heard all about miasma from Father Hewlett, who described it best as, "Bad air." The herbs and flowers in his mask were supposed to block out the miasma, but even the priest himself admitted they didn''t always work right.


    Giradin''s every breath was now a leap of faith.


    Father Hewlett raised his hand and the plague doctors brought their horses to a gentle halt just on the outskirts of town. Father Hewlett dismounted first, and the rest of the doctors followed. Giradin watched them for cues, and saw that they went to tie their horses'' reins off at the nearest tree. Giradin looked at them, then looked down the long road to the center of town.


    "We''re not taking the horses with us?" Giradin asked.


    Father Hewlett shook his head. "No. As a team, we''ve agreed to Shlomo''s standards of cleanliness. It''s served us well so far."


    "It''s not my standards, it''s the Torah," said Shlomo. "Anyway, Torah says to keep... well, shit out of wherever you camp. Horses shit everywhere, so it''s best we not bring them into town."


    Sir Bertran gestured to Shlomo. "That''s been the greatest boon. Most plague doctors have to revisit the same town over and over, but whenever the villagers listened to Shlomo about how to stay clean? They stay uninfected from then on. Since we''ve started telling people to listen to Shlomo, we haven''t had to go back."


    Mu leaned in closer to Giradin and whispered, "That''s why we don''t tell any townspeople that Shlomo''s a Jew. So they''ll listen to--"


    "Quiet!" Father Hewlett hissed, and the group fell silent as they strolled into the town square.


    Giradin found it was already harder to follow his orders than he expected. He did all he could to keep his eyes straight ahead, on Father Hewlett. But every now and then, against his will, his pupils would wander off to the hills and woods outside town, where he knew two more teams of plague doctors lay in wait in case any infected should try to run.


    And he''d jerk his pupils back to Father Hewlett again, so as not to give away his comrades'' positions.


    Father Hewlett reached the center of the town square, marked with a wooden pole from which hung a bell. It was only then that Giradin dared to take his eyes off the priest on purpose, for he had to see what Hewlett was looking at.


    All of the men in town, as well as their eldest sons and their biggest dogs, stood outside the doors of their homes. The men rested their hands on barrels, crates, or on their hounds'' leashes. The hounds licked white saliva from their lips, and watched the plague doctors with their ears perked up. Through the open windows behind the townsmen, Giradin saw women, children, and elders peering back.


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    Straws fell from the thatch-roofed homes, into the dirt roads covered in waste and urine.


    Shlomo stared at that same spot, where the straw fell. Giradin could almost swear he saw Shlomo''s hand start to tremble before it became a fist. Some sort of prayer fell from Shlomo''s lips. It wasn''t for many years that Giradin would learn what they were, and remember them. "Baruch atah, Adonai, Elohaynu Melech ha''Olam..."


    Ding Ding!


    Giradin jumped at the sound, and his head jerked back toward it. Father Hewlett had rung the bell in the center of town. "I understand I am to meet Father Gervis here," the priest shouted. He turned to the others and, in a hushed tone, told them, "Crossbows out!"


    Each of the plague doctors drew the crossbows down from off their backs and aimed them at the ground. Bolts sat ready for the trouble afoot.


    Giradin''s hands shook as he drew the crossbow from his back. Once he had it out, the thought that it might go off by accident and shoot one of his fellows entered his head. His heart screamed with fright, and he forced the weapon down toward the ground.


    Why can''t we just use swords? he thought. No one ever got accidentally shot by a sword.


    The church door flung open, and two common men in filthy tunics strutted out, dragging with them a bald man bound and gagged. The men, both far bigger than their captive, sneered at the plague doctors as they drew near and threw their prisoner on the ground before them.


    "HERE is Father Judas!" the taller of the two men shouted. He had a crooked nose which looked like it had been broken before, and was missing his pinky finger on his right hand.


    The other brute spat on the bound father.


    Giradin''s finger inched toward the trigger of his crossbow, but slipped away again. He recalled what Father Hewlett had told him; only put your finger on the trigger when you''re ready to shoot. Giradin peered around at the townspeople. Their eyes betrayed a deep rage, a hatred beyond mere words. The lids on their barrels and boxes had slid open, and inside Giradin could see wood-cutting axes and wooden clubs.


    His eyes fell on another common man who stood with a sword in his belt and one hand on its pommel.


    Either the sheriff or local militia...


    Whatever the case, the swordsman with hair like hawk''s feathers was surely someone with authority, but he did nothing to help Father Gervis as the nine-fingered man kicked the priest in the ribs.


    "Stop that at once!" Father Hewlett barked, his crossbow raising just an inch.


    Sweat soaked Giradin''s gauntlets. The townsmen had their clubs and axes in hand, and their grips on the leashes loosened.


    "Blasphemers!" the nine-fingered man bellowed. "These folk will tell you they got authority from the Pope himself. They may even show you a seal on a piece of paper you can''t read, but they are partners with Christ-killers!"


    "Jew-lovers!" one of the other townsmen shouted.


    "Christ-killers!" shouted one of their wives.


    Father Hewlett gestured his hand to Sir Bertran, who stepped forward and produced a medallion from his pocket. "You may not listen to your priest, but you will respect a knight hospitaller, sirrah! I fought in the crusades to keep you safe from the Saracen Empire, and for the glory of Christ, who Himself was born of a Jewish mother!"


    "Lies!" the nine-fingered man roared.


    "Filth!" shrieked an old woman in one of the cottages.


    Above all the other noise, what Giradin heard most was his own frantic breath within his mask. White mist started to creep over the lenses, fogging his vision.


    "These people are with the Anti-Christ!" shouted the nine-fingered man. He gestured with the wooden club in his hand. Giradin saw the weapon move and looked to Father Hewlett for the signal to take aim. A signal the priest did not yet give. "They would turn us away from our Lord and Savior to worship the Devil with the Jews. Christ is the true emperor of Rome, and the Empire would return with Him if only He were on the throne. Mother Church has betrayed us, and no longer speaks for Christ! This is why the Saracens defeated we who marched to crusade!"


    Sir Bertran''s body jerked at the words.


    Are these men... disgraced crusaders? Volunteers back from the war?


    "Well doctor?" the nine-fingered man snarled. "Speak your blasphemies again! I dare you!"


    Father Hewlett sighed and turned to Fulk and nodded his beak. Fulk shook his head. Father Hewlett nodded again.


    The murderer obeyed on the second command, and stepped forward with his crossbow raised as high as the nine-fingered man''s shins.


    Giradin saw the townsmen grip their weapons with both hands.


    Father Hewlett snapped his attention to Giradin, and the cobbler''s heart raced. The priest held up his left hand and bent all his fingers at the knuckles to form an arch.


    The signal to start looking for shelter?


    Not the signal to get ready to flee?


    Father Hewlett didn''t think they were going to be able to escape. The only reason he''d tell Giradin to seek shelter was if they planned to stand and fight long enough for reinforcements to arrive.


    If you force your enemies to come through one doorway you can face them one at a time, Father Hewlett had said.


    Fulk glared at the townspeople through his mask. Though his face was hidden, something in the way he held his shoulders gave an aura of bubbling rage.


    Fulk growled, "I don''t have time for mass right now, you rotten shit! If you folk don''t have a plague problem don''t waste our time!" The murderer pointed at the nine-fingered man. "And you! If I ever see your face again..." Fulk raised his crossbow a little higher, until it pointed at the nine-fingered man''s groin. "I''ll skewer both your balls, gouge out both your eyes, break all your fingers, and feed you to the pigs." Fulk snorted and screeched like a boar. Giradin couldn''t tell if it was meant to be funny or chilling.


    Giradin spotted an outhouse just a few strides away, and the tall, scrawny man with a pitchfork guarding the way.


    The nine-fingered man raised both hands, the wooden club high in the air. All the plague doctors raised their crossbows to knee level, and Giradin followed suit. "What can mere man do to me, for the Lord is my shield! My rock! My fortre--"


    A loud snap.


    The nine-fingered man doubled over on the ground with a painful yelp. Like the townspeople, Giradin craned his neck to see what had happened. When the nine-fingered man rolled over, they beheld a crossbow bolt impaling the bloody groin. The nine-fingered man rocked his body and screamed, and the townspeople watched him with horrified eyes.


    Some of the townsmen took two steps back. Others glanced back and forth at each other, wincing in sympathy at what had happened to the nine-fingered man.


    Fulk loaded a new bolt into his crossbow and turned the crank. Sir Bertran followed as Fulk stepped forward to stand over the wailing man with all nine fingers on his crotch. Fulk shook his head. "I really hope you''re the last person I do this to!" he growled loud enough for all nearby to hear. He took aim at the wounded man''s groin and pulled the trigger again, putting the second bolt through his right hand as well as his pelvis.


    The townspeople recoiled in horror and disgust. More of them fell back, away from the town square.


    Father Hewlett breathed a sigh of relief, and Giradin soon followed.


    The nine-fingered man sputtered, choked, then cried out, "Deus vult!"


    The frightened faces of the townsmen turned to the fiercest scowls. They thrust their weapons in the air and cried out, "Deus vult!"


    Father Hewlett raised his crossbow to chest level, and all other plague doctors did the same, aiming their weapons at the crowd. Giradin took aim at the tall, lanky man between him and the outhouse.


    "STAY BACK! I WARN YOU!" Fulk barked.


    "Hold until they charge," Father Hewlett said in a hushed voice.


    "Deus vult!" the townsmen shouted again.


    "Kill the Jew-lovers!"


    "Avenge our Lord!"


    "Drive the Heathen Church from Christendom!"


    Giradin stared down the end of his crossbow at the tall, lanky man between him and the outhouse. The weapon trembled in his hands as he studied the slender stranger''s sunken-in face, which he now believed to be far younger than he''d previously thought. No, this lad was younger than Giradin. A mere boy, despite his unusual height.


    The boy lunged forward.


    And Giradin pulled the trigger.

 Deus Vult!

    Talons had gripped Giradin''s heart and pulled down with such a force he thought the guilt would pull him into the pit of Hell itself.


    Blood spurted from the spot where Giradin''s crossbow bolt had skewered the slender youth''s throat. The tall man made a choking noise, spraying blood over his lower lip, and slumped onto the ground. His unblinking eyes accused Giradin.


    Had the hounds not barked at that moment, Giradin might not have recalled the rushing mob, coming to slaughter him and the other doctors. Or that he was supposed to be taking shelter.


    Giradin bolted over the youth''s fallen corpse, fumbling to reload his crossbow.


    Two townsmen on either side turned and charged him, their axes brandished high. Directly behind him, Giradin heard deep, heart-stopping barks, followed by the sound of four rushing paws.


    Giradin dropped the bolt he''d been trying to load and stumbled forward, toward the outhouse.


    Had plague doctor masks not, rather notoriously, obscured the wearer''s peripheral vision, Giradin might have spotted Father Hewlett heading for the same shelter.


    As it was, Giradin didn''t see where Father Hewlett was headed until after slamming the outhouse door shut behind him and throwing the latch.


    Only then did he peer through the small, moon-shaped window and see Father Hewlett''s mask, etched with crosses, crash into the outhouse door. Father Hewlett grunted, then whipped around to face the charging mob.


    "STAY IN THERE, GIR!" the priest shouted.


    Another loud snap.


    A dog yelped in pain, then fell silent.


    Giradin heard something heavy and wooden crack on the ground, followed by the sound of a blade leaving its sheath. Through the gaps in the door, Giradin saw the flash of Father Hewlett''s longsword.


    Then a stream of red shot into the sky, accompanied by a choked cry.


    Giradin fumbled again for a crossbow bolt, but it slipped from his fingers. Terror and rage ablaze inside him, he violently threw his crossbow on the ground and drew his seax. The slight curve of the blade always made it easier to wield.


    Another tortured scream and more crimson flew from the tip of Father Hewlett''s sword.


    A hound''s snarl.


    Father Hewlett screamed, and his silhouette fell from view.


    Another ferocious bark, and the sound of more pawsteps.


    Giradin rose to his toes to peer through the hole. Father Hewlett flailed and shrieked between two dogs. Both hounds had his arms locked in their teeth, and they shook their bodies back and forth.


    Was that tearing sound Father Hewlett''s suit, or...?


    Giradin got his answer when streams of scarlet poured forth from under the seams at Father Hewlett''s armpits. The cries of pure agony from the priest chilled Giradin''s blood.


    The flash of a blade, and the swordsman thrust his shortsword down onto Father Hewlett''s mask. The lens split and the tip buried itself in Father Hewlett''s eye socket.


    "Deus vult!" the swordsman shrieked.


    Giradin kicked the outhouse door open and charged the swordsman, his seax pulling him along.


    The swordsman''s eyes snapped up, and he raised his blade to parry Giradin''s seax.


    A dog yelped to Giradin''s right, and he jerked his beak to see why.


    A mace flew past Giradin''s nose and cracked the swordsman in the chest. The swordsman fell flat on his back.


    The plague doctor who''d crushed the swordsman''s ribs punched Giradin in the chest. "Shelter! NOW!" Fulk shouted. "Take hostages!"


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    Of course! The men were away from their homes at the moment.


    Giradin turned to the nearest house and fled. The wooden windows had been closed, so Giradin twisted his body around to throw his shoulder into it.


    His shoulder collided with the wooden window, followed by his head, and the window broke inward as he fell backwards on the ground.


    "GOT ONE!" came a roar from above, followed by a wooden club to Giradin''s chest.


    All air left the cobbler''s apprentice''s lungs in an instant, and Giradin thrashed his seax around. He heard a sound like a knife through raw pork, followed by a townsman''s cry of pain.


    Giradin forced himself to his feet again, his weapon dripping with dark, sticky blood. The red mess flicked all over as the seax tried to flee Giradin''s fingers.


    The open window lay before him, and the women and children inside cowered away. Giradin staggered forward and flung himself in through the open window.


    His knees smashed on the dirt floor of this little hovel, but he fought the pain and rose to his feet again. Around him, all in fright, stood a family who''d just seen an intruder force his way into their home. The mother was a woman with frizzy, red hair and cheeks colored with dirt. She held onto the shoulders of two little girls, both of whom had the same scraggly orange manes. One stood only a foot taller than the other, and both gazed up at the plague doctor, petrified with fear.


    Giradin turned his mask to look upon an elderly man with bandages over his face crouched low, by a straw bed. No mortal force could have persuaded Giradin to take a woman or a girl as a hostage.


    So, he seized the old man by his white, whispy hair and forced him to his feet. Once the bandaged elder was up, Giradin wrapped an arm around his throat and raised the still-bloody tip of his seax to the old man''s face. Not for many years would Giradin allow himself to realized, that very blood may have belonged to the old man''s son. Once that demon had entered Giradin''s thoughts, no holy man or saint in all the world could cast it out.


    "Get back!" Giradin shouted. "If anyone comes near me, I''ll kill him!" he bellowed. Truthfully, there was so much screaming, barking, and violence throughout the town that Giradin didn''t think anyone could hear him. But saying the words was still strangely comforting. "Even a dog! Everyone, stay back! Or you''ll have another wake for a loved one!"


    Like Fulk had taught him. When in a crisis, find whatever these people were afraid of and use it.


    Whether they could hear him or not was irrelevant. The two girls backed against the wall and fell to their knees, clasping their hands together and sobbing. Their mother had also dropped to her knees, but her eyes searched the inside of the hut.


    She''s looking for a weapon... She''ll attack the second I let my guard down!


    Dark red splashed through the open window, and Giradin''s body betrayed him. His instinct had taken over, and he jerked his head to peer out the window.


    In the next instant, Giradin heard a loud thump and felt air moving toward his chest. He lashed out with his right arm before he could even turn his head to see his assailant.


    The seax had pierced the mother''s gut, and she doubled over to clasp her wound. She choked and gasped.


    Thank God... it wasn''t one of the girls!


    As if on cue, the two daughters dashed toward Giradin, and he prepared his blade for the attack.


    But they stopped and fell at their mother''s side. The girls each grasped their mother''s hands in their own.


    There are some stories Giradin has always glossed over when he retold them. Once such story is what those girls said to their mother in that moment. Whenever asked about it, Giradin always claimed he didn''t remember what they said, only that they were upset, or that he couldn''t hear them over all the noise.


    But late one night, when he was full of drink, I heard him talking to himself. He was muttering these words over and over again.


    "No, mommy! Please don''t die! Mama! You can''t leave! Please, God, don''t take mommy away! That was my little girl, you bastard!"


    And he would repeat the phrases over and over. He''d start out sounding desperate and angry, but each time he repeated the words he grew a little more monotone.


    But when I asked Giradin about it the next day, he claimed not to know what I was talking about.


    What Giradin said he remembered next was hearing the door crack open. His heart leaped in his chest, and he rounded on the front of the house with his weapon.


    But it was a plague doctor in the doorway, a scimitar in his hand. "Come on!" Mu called as he beckoned Giradin. "Reinforcements have arrived! We have the town!"


    Giradin says he let the old man he''d taken hostage go, but the tears in his eyes whenever he recounted the story made me skeptical.


    When Giradin left the hostages'' home and his eyes had adjusted to the glaring beams of sunlight in the dusty air, he saw plague doctors stood outside every house, loaded crossbows at the ready.


    The only ones without crossbows held a mace, a shortsword, and a broadsword.


    Father Hewlett had taught Giradin to be mindful of his companions'' equipment. If for no other reason that he might be able to know which ones still lived.


    Mu was already accounted for.


    The doctor with the mace was Fulk.


    Giradin thought he remembered Shlomo having a shortsword.


    The white cross painted on his black coat told Giradin the last one was Sir Bertran. He leaned upon his longsword and breathed heavily. Only then did Giradin notice the rip in the side of Sir Bertran''s coat. Thankfully, there was no sign of blood on the tear.


    When Mu walked past Giradin to rejoin the group, Giradin noticed that the moor was now walking with a limp. There were little burn-holes at the hem of his waxed-leather coat and in the trousers underneath.


    Shlomo approached Giradin and patted him on the chest. "Any day we stay above ground is a blessing. I''m glad to see you made it, shegetz! Baruch Hashem!"


    "Praise the Lord!" came a wheeze from Sir Bertran. "And then ask for his guidance for our superiors, who have to decide what to do with these people now."

 Shall We Elect Fulk to Lead us?

    The plague doctors locked up the townsmen who''d survived their capture of Neuhausen in the cellar under the church. They packed all the men tight in there, stuffed so close together Giradin wondered if they''d have enough air.


    But after what they did to Father Hewlett, he didn''t care if they suffocated.


    A plague doctor with black, plate-mail armor under his dark coat approached Giradin and what remained of his team. When he spoke, Giradin recognized the voice as Melcher Fitz, the leader of their chapter. "I''d like to offer to you five the chance to decide what to do with Neuhausen. The men of this village attacked you unprovoked, so you may do as you wish with them."


    Sir Bertran raised his gloved hand. "These men didn''t attack us out of desperation or want of gain. They did it because they''d all gone mad, as if the Devil himself had possessed the lot of them. They spouted heresies and declared even the Mother Church evil. I vote we behead the men, leave the women and children, and arrest the able-bodied boys."


    "What? And leave all the women widows?" Shlomo chimed in. "Make orphans of the children?"


    Sir Bertran''s mask turned to Shlomo. "Rebellions like this cannot be tolerated! Unless these people suffer grave consequences for their actions, we will see many more towns like this rise against us."


    "They BUTCHERED Father Hewlett!" Giradin bellowed. "Their dogs tore his arms out of joint! Mary... I can still hear his screams in my head! Kill them all, and make the children watch!"


    "You want vengeance?" Fulk asked.


    "Yes!" Giradin roared.


    "I do too," said Fulk. "So will their children, if we do what you want. And that''s all we need..." He rolled his eyes. "Young whelps who grow into men and hunt us down..."


    Mu stepped between them. "Might I suggest, we take from each man his right hand." The Moor pointed to his own, gloved wrist. "Where I come from it''s done wonders to terrify thieves without executing them."


    Shlomo pointed to Mu. "I prefer his plan."


    Melcher Fitz glanced between them. "Father Hewlett was your immediate superior. Have you yet decided who among you replaced him?"


    Sir Bertran shook his head. "We have not, Messere."


    Fitz nodded. "Very well. Then it comes down to a vote, but do decide on a leader as soon as possible." Fitz tapped his gloved fingers on his mask. "By my count, we have two votes for lopping the men''s hands off, and two for beheading them. Fulk."


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    "Shit..." Fulk grumbled.


    "Looks like the deciding vote is up to you."


    "I don''t care..." Fulk snarled. "Make a decision and I''ll live with it." He groaned. "I always do."


    Fitz pointed his finger at Fulk. "I don''t think you understood me, sirrah. That was anorder!The deciding vote is yours, whether you want it or not."


    Fulk rolled his head back, his lenses cast up at the gray sky above. He cursed over and over, and finally said, "Chop off the hands! That seems fair enough. Fewer little brats growing up to be the vengeful hero that way."


    Fitz gave a brief nod and walked away, to give orders to the other doctors.


    Giradin glared his fury at Fulk.


    The cobbler couldn''t believe his ears when Sir Bertran said, "That was the right decision, Fulk."


    "Piss off..." Fulk grunted.


    "I agree with Sir Bertran," said Shlomo. "You stepped in to make a decision when no one else could. That''s a trait of a true--"


    Fulk''s interrupted Shlomo, "IF YOU ELECT ME LEADER I''LL RIP YOUR CIRCUMCISED COCK OFF!"


    Shlomo chuckled. "Now, why would I suggest our leader be a man with such a temper? Honestly? Why would I suggest the man in charge be anyone but me?"


    Mu slapped Shlomo''s back and laughed. "Maybe because no one actually wants to lead?"


    Shlomo shrugged. "I imagine Sir Bertran, as a knight hospitaller would make the most sense? The question is, though, do you want to lead, Sir?"


    Sir Bertran brought his shoulders back as if standing at attention. "I would not wish for the burden, but if you need me to serve as a decision-maker I shall."


    At first, Giradin was confused. He''d always heard stories of people fighting for power. Why now were all these men rejecting power? But Giradin soon remembered what Fulk had ordered Giradin to do.Take a hostage!Such a thing to tell someone... Giradin wasn''t sure he would even think to give a command so criminal. Yet, if its goal was to keep Giradin alive it had worked.


    But Fulk was a murderer and was violently opposed to being made to lead.


    Sir Bertran was a warrior. He had taken life in war, but he always kept his sights on the Holy Cause. If the stories Father Hewlett had regaled him with were true, Sir Bertran was a true hero.


    Giradin raised his hand. "I vote for Sir Bertran as our new leader."


    Shlomo nodded and raised his hand. "I second that."


    Fulk shrugged. "Anyone but me."


    Mu raised both hands. "Can I vote twice? Or is that cheating in ''Democracy''?" The Moor chuckled.


    Shlomo patted Sir Bertran''s shoulder. "Then, it''s settled. Sir Bertran is in charge now. First order of business, Sir, what sort of funeral should we have for Father Hewlett?" With full enthusiasm, like a youth planning a party, Shlomo rambled on, "A wake, where we all get drunk? A somber, religious ceremony? Or is it a ''celebration of life,'' where we sit around his funeral pyre and tell stories of how we remember him?"


    "A somber ceremony," said Sir Bertan. He paused a moment, then shrugged and continued, "Followed by a drunken version of the ''celebration of life.'' It''s not what he''dsay he wanted us to do... but it''s what he''d want us to do."


    Fulk shook his head. "So, the priest gets me to go to both mass and confession even from beyond the grave... Shit!" His voice wavered and he clenched both fists. He grumbled, "Hope you''re happy up there, ya rotten bastard..."

 Hazards of the Profession

    Giradin knelt in the sanctuary, his hands clasped together as he prayed before the altar. Melcher Fitz had scheduled this part of Giradin''s day to spend in prayer, but Giradin hardly knew what he should pray for.


    For a moment, he considered praying for God''s punishment on the people of Neuhausen for what they did to Father Hewlett, but he remembered the priest''s condemnation of curses. "We all deserve God''s wrath, my son. What we wish on others we may very well wish on ourselves."


    And, indeed, the priest was right. Whenever Giradin thought back to that day, when the town of Neuhausen rioted and attacked the plague doctors, first he''d recall Father Hewlett''s screams, then he''d remember that he took an old man hostage and killed a mother in front of her girls. The memory had made Giradin paranoid, and whenever he saw darkness or shadows in the corners of his eyes, he feared it was the Devil, come to claim his soul.


    So, he settled on praying for mercy. For himself and for all mankind. He begged God to hold back the plague, and protect the people of Christendom from Hell.


    "Ahem." The sound of a clearing throat snapped Giradin''s attention back to the present. The abrasive collar on his robe roughly rubbed his neck when he turned to see his visitor. Shlomo stood behind him, clad in the same robe and wearing a black yarmulke in his dark, curly hair.


    Shlomo''s face was devoid of his usual amused smirk. The expression he wore was dire, and he wrung his hands. "I''m sorry to interrupt."


    Giradin stood and brushed off his knees with his hands. "Not at all. I don''t know if God really listens to cobblers'' prayers anyway."


    Shlomo twisted and twirled some of his beard around his left index finger. "I''m sorry, Giradin... it''s Sir Bertran..."


    Giradin''s heart raced when he heard the knight hospitaller''s name. "What happened?"


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    "He has voluntarily secluded himself in one of the holding cells," said Shlomo. The Jew bit his lip, the words clearly as painful to speak as they were for Giradin to hear. Maybe worse. "He said he''s having symptoms of the plague and wants to keep everyone safe."


    "Oh, dear God..." Giradin gasped.


    Shlomo rested a hand on Giradin''s shoulder. "Fitz is making sure he gets all the medicine we can give him. Maybe something will work... Hey! Where are you going?"


    Giradin had pushed past Shlomo and headed toward the sanctuary''s exit. "I want to see him! I need to talk to him before he--"


    "You can''t get in to see him!" Shlomo interrupted. "He''s in a lonely cell so no one else catches plague. No one''s allowed to enter. No one''s even allowed near the cell without Melcher Fitz''s permission, and the only people he''s allowing to get close are our those delivering his drugs. Even they only slide them through a slot in the door."


    "I want to speak to him at least!" Giradin protested.


    Shlomo nodded vigorously. "I know, and I understand. But you''ll need Fitz''s permission for that, and he''s away right now. You can''t go see him today."


    "Then why did you bother telling me?" Giradin snapped.


    Shlomo shrunk away from Giradin and raised his hands defensively.


    Giradin sighed and hung his head. "I''m sorry... That was unworthy."


    Shlomo''s hands slowly lowered. "Would you rather not know these things? I can keep secrets from you in the future, if you prefer. You can find out about our friends getting sick when you show up for their funerals."


    Giradin winced. "No... thank you for telling me, Shlomo."


    Shlomo''s hands returned to his sides. "Look at it this way, if you had any doubts before about what to pray for I''m sure they''re gone now."


    Giradin groaned. "How many plague doctors have fallen ill since you''ve been here?"


    "Since I''ve been here?" Shlomo repeated. "I''ve only been a plague doctor for two years, so, I''d say about three. But since this chapter was founded? More like twenty."


    Giradin nodded. "And... how often have prayer and medicine worked to save their lives?"


    "Twice," said Shlomo.


    "Only twice..."


    Shlomo shook his head. "Not ''only twice,'' Giradin. Twice! Since when are two miracles not enough? There''s hope for Sir Bertran yet, just like there''s hope for the rest of us. The prophet Isaiah said that in those days, ''the wolf will dwell with the lamb and the leopard will lie down with the young goat.''"


    "So?" grunted Giradin.


    "So, look at me!" Shlomo spread his arms wide. "I''m a Jew who''s joined an order run by Christians, and one of my closest friends here is a Moor! This is a dark time, my friend, but in such times miracles can happen."

 Find Ivette and Bethia

    Giradin found it difficult to pretend he belonged when he crept through the halls of the monastery dressed in his plague doctor uniform. It was the dead of night and the moon was as black as Giradin''s coat. The starlight would not give him away, and even if he was spotted, his mask would hide his identity.


    Eventually, he came to a place where the halls were pitch black. He knew that in that darkness lay the isolation cells, where Sir Bertran had been locked away.


    Since he''d not thought to bring a lantern, Giradin placed his left hand on the wall and followed it along while he felt the ground before him with his cane. Every so often, he felt a gap in the stone wall, and his glove ran along the grains of a wooden door. Whenever this happened, he leaned in close and whispered, "Sir Bertran? Are you in there?"


    Usually, he received no response, but every so often a patient inside would mumble curses at him.


    The harsh, wet coughs of the patients within made Giradin grateful for his suit. Though doors stood between him and the plague-ridden patients, he feared the miasma might otherwise slip under the door and infect him if he drew too close. He could only imagine the foul smell here, a smell his mask protected him from.


    A warm glow peered around a corner up ahead.


    Giradin froze in place, fear turning his body to ice. He''d never learned what the punishment for insubordination was, he''d been too terrified to find out. He''d not gotten Melcher Fitz''s permission to visit Sir Bertran, as Shlomo had told him, Fitz was still away from the monastery.


    The light drew closer. Should he turn and run? No, he''d still be spotted, and a fleeing doctor would look far more suspicious than one at rest.


    Giradin stood his ground, with his back resting against the wall, trying to look as casual as possible, though his hands trembled.


    Another plague doctor, in full uniform, rounded the corner, a lantern in his hand. Light made the lenses of the doctor''s mask look like the glowing eyes of some bizarre monster as he looked Giradin over and tilted his head to one side. "Standing guard?" came Fulk''s voice from beneath the mask.


    Would Fulk give Giradin away if he heard his voice? He couldn''t be sure. Giradin merely nodded his head.


    Fulk snorted. "Great job keeping watch without a light." The murderer sighed and shook his head. "You''re here to visit Sir Bertran too, right? Shlomo''s too much of a rule-monger for this... So, that leaves Mu and Giradin. Which one are you?"


    Giradin''s jaw dropped within his mask, but he closed it again and said nothing.


    "So, Giradin," Fulk said, drawing closer to his companion.


    "Umm... aye..." said Giradin.


    Sir Bertran''s voice spoke from behind one of the wooden doors. "You came to visit me? How thoughtful." His voice was hoarse, and followed by a wet cough so violent it made Giradin wince.


    Fulk set his lantern down on the stone floor and leaned against the wall next to Sir Bertran''s door. Two wooden beams and two chains held the door shut. In Sir Bertran''s case this seemed unnecessary, but Giradin realized that other patients in isolation cells may be more prone to escape attempts.


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    Fulk grunted. "If you die they might make me lead the team. So, don''t die on us. If you do, I''ll piss on your grave."


    "You''re too kind," came Sir Bertran''s sarcastic reply.


    Giradin drew closer and rested his fingers on one of the wooden beams. "I''ve been praying for you. Constantly."


    "I appreciate it," said Sir Bertran. "Have you prayed for my soul as well as my recovery?"


    Fulk snorted. "Why bother praying for your soul? You''re such a damn saint... if God rejects you then to Hell with Him!"


    Sir Bertran sighed. "Fulk... I''m dying. Can we refrain from blaspheming just for a little while? Or, at least, can we not speak of Hell?"


    Fulk''s shoulders sunk. "Dying, hmm? It''s certain now?"


    "Yes," said Sir Bertran. Giradin''s felt as if he''d missed a step on a ladder and was about to fall into an empty void below. "I''ve got the buboes now. My skin''s turning black, and my fever''s getting worse. Tomorrow morning, they''re going to give me poison so I can die painlessly."


    Giradin bit his upper lip and clenched both fists.


    "And then they burn you," said Fulk. "Damn..."


    "And, you''re wrong, by the way," said Sir Bertran.


    Fulk turned his head, his beak pointed at the door to Sir Bertran''s cell. "About what?"


    "I''m not a saint, Fulk. Not at all. I''d say I''m more a sinner than you are. At least you''ve been honest about your crimes."


    "Psh!" Fulk scoffed and shook his head.


    "I''m serious!" wheezed Sir Bertran. "And there''s something I want you to do for me."


    "Anything you need!" said Giradin, his voice wavering.


    "Don''t go to my funeral," said Sir Bertran. "While everyone else is there, watching my body burn and pretending they knew me well and liked me, go to the old oak on the west end of the monastery. Between the two biggest roots, I buried a chest with some valuables I''ve... well... gathered over the years."


    Fulk chuckled. "You looted the cities we purged, didn''t you?"


    "Only when there was no one left to claim the goods," said Sir Bertran.


    Giradin stared at the door, the best representation he had of Sir Bertran at the moment. "You robbed the dead?" His voice betrayed his appalled disbelief.


    "They couldn''t take it with them when they left, and they had no one left to inherit it," said Sir Bertran. "And some is from the Crusades as well. Gold taken back from filthy Saracen marauders. Anyway, dig up the chest and take it to the city of Kinhan. There you''ll find a woman named Ivette and her daughter, Bethia. Give the chest to them, and tell them it''s from me."


    Fulk''s beak pointed at the door, and he unfolded his arms. "Bethia''s your bastard?"


    "She''s my responsibility," said Sir Bertran. "That''s all you need know."


    "Come off it, Berty!" Fulk snarled. "Is the girl your daughter or not?"


    After a long pause, Sir Bertran said, "No. She''s not. But she''s the closest thing to a child I''ll ever have. Please, you must do this for me. You can each take one thing from the chest as payment."


    Giradin opened his mouth to thank Sir Bertran and promise that they''d get the chest to Bethia, but Fulk spoke first, "To Hell with that! I''m not taking some little girl''s money. The Devil''s got enough reasons to hunt me down!"


    "Please!" Sir Bertran pleaded. "This is my last request..."


    "We''ll get the chest to her," said Fulk. "But we''re not taking any of your blood money. Right, Giradin?" The murderer''s beak snapped to point at Giradin, and his flashing lenses drilled accusations into his chest.


    "Right!" said Giradin. "We won''t accept payment."


    "Thank you!" said Sir Bertran. Another coughing fit took him, and the two other men stood in uncomfortable silence while the knight tried to collect himself. When the fit had abated, he spoke in a wavering voice. "I want you two to know, we may have only known each other a short time, but in that time you two have been like brothers to me."


    "Oh, shit..." Fulk mumbled, "Now you''re getting sentimental."


    "I mean it!" Sir Bertran said. "In my final days, you were the only family I had."


    Fulk leaned against the door and hung his head. "Now that''s sad..."


    "You''re my brother too," said Giradin.


    "My brother tried to strangle me when I was a boy," said Fulk. "So... I can''t say you''ve been like a brother to me. But... you''ve been a friend." The murderer sighed and turned his face up, toward the ceiling. His voice choked, as if the words didn''t want to leave his throat but he forced them out. "Thank you, Berty."

 The Dread of Kinhan

    "So, if all we''re doing is delivering a chest full of treasure, why are we in uniform?"


    Giradin rode with Shlomo, Mu, and Fulk to the city of Kinhan. Fulk rode at the front, leading the way to their destination. The sun beat down on them, baking them in their black uniforms. On the horizon, they saw dark clouds moving in. Giradin welcomed the rainstorm that was sure to come with those clouds, if only to give him some relief from the heat.


    Mu chimed in to answer Giradin''s question, "Two reasons. First, we don''t want people to identify us. If the townspeople find out we''re plague doctors it''s better if we look just like every other Crow, so no one comes after us with a vendetta. Second, because we''re going to a city, and in cities there''s almost always someone with plague."


    "Cities are disgusting..." Shlomo muttered and his shoulders shivered.


    The city gates lay ahead, wide open. Guards stood on either side of the main gate, leaning on their spears as they ate chunks of bread and cheese they held in fingers covered in black and brown dirt.


    When the guards saw the four plague doctors approaching, they stuffed their snacks into their pockets and crossed their spears in front of the open gate.


    "What''s your purpose in Kinhan?" one of the guards asked when Giradin and the others drew close.


    Mu raised his hands to show he held no weapon, and therefore no ill will. "Easy, messere. A few days ago, we witnessed a last will and testament for a man dying of plague. We''re here to deliver a small inheritance."


    The guard''s eyes flashed with greed, and a smirk formed on his lips. "Is that so? Well, for anyone whose not a citizen there''s a toll to enter the city."


    Fulk grunted. "We don''t have time for this shit! Let us pass, or I''ll bash your bloody head in!"


    The guard shook his head and scowled at Fulk. "Threats will get you nowhere."


    Shlomo trotted forward and rested a hand on Fulk''s shoulder. "Easy there. Please, let me handle this." He turned his dark lenses to the guard. "You''re quite a courageous young man, aren''t you?"


    The guard opened his mouth to argue at first, but a confused look on his face choked his words. The confusion soon turned to pride, and he swelled out his chest. "Yes. Yes I am."


    Shlomo nodded. "Well, that''s just grand! You know, we could use a courageous young man like you among the Crows. I might just have to conscript you."


    "Conscript me?" the guard repeated, his spear lowering just an inch.


    "Yes." Shlomo reached into his coat pocket and produced a rolled slip of paper. "By order of the king, I am allowed to conscript anyone who is not a nobleman''s heir. Your courage in the face of my companion''s threats has proven you worthy of this great honor."


    "It has?" The guard said, his eyes darting back and forth nervously. "What if I... don''t want to be a Crow?"


    Shlomo shrugged. "I''m not sure what you want really matters. This decree gives me the authority to conscript, and since that authority comes from the king any refusal to join the plague doctors is basically treason. I''d hate to have to write to his majesty to tell him... Oh..." Shlomo snapped his beak to the other guard, "What''s your friend''s name?"


    "Raynald," said the other guard. The first one glared at him, as if he were trying to tear him limb from limb with his eyes.


    "Raynald," Shlomo repeated. "I''ll have to remember that. Raynald. Raynald. Anyway, I''d hate to write to his majesty and tell him that Raynald, the gate guard at Kinhan, has refused conscription. He''d be most displeased. Then again, if you proved yourself a coward, then I suppose I wouldn''t really want to conscript you anyway."


    Raynald looked between Shlomo and Fulk, the spear trembling in his hands. After a few seconds, he dropped his spear on the ground. "Please, don''t hurt me!" he cried.


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    "That''s what I thought," Fulk mumbled.


    The two guards moved aside as the plague doctors rode through the city gates. They passed under the archway, with a grate in the ceiling above them. Giradin briefly relished in the relief the shade gave them.


    Until the stench of the city hit him, even through his mask. The cobblestone streets were smeared with filth and urine, and the teeming masses of people were much the same.


    "Dismount," Shlomo said.


    The group of them climbed down from their saddles and tied the reins to hitching posts nearby. Fear filled Giradin''s mind with a thousand worries when Neuhausen came flooding back into his mind.


    "I know why we leave the horses--" he said, his fingers still clasped around the reins, "--but is it really necessary here? These streets are so filled with filth that horse shit hardly seems like it will matter."


    Fulk unclasped the saddlenbag and carried it over his shoulder. "He makes a fair point, Shlomo. Why bother? Maybe it would be better to have our horses with us in case this goes wrong again." The murderer leaned in closer and whispered. "We don''t have anyone to come to our rescue this time."


    Shlomo shook his head. "We can''t become part of the reason the plague spreads, no matter how small our part in that is."


    Mu nodded. "Spreading sickness is the Devil''s work."


    Fulk shrugged. "Fair enough."


    "Let''s ask around," said Shlomo. "See if we can get anyone to tell us where Ivette lives."


    When Giradin turned his attention to the citizens of Kinhan, he could tell this would be no easy task. The people shied away from the plague doctors, and hurried back to their homes to avoid them. Every question they attempted to ask was met with a frightful retreat, profuse apologies, and sometimes threats of violence.


    Just after Giradin had been told that if he talked to a man''s wife again her husband was going to chop him up and throw him in an oven, he heard a child''s voice behind him. "Are you here to kill the vampire?"


    Giradin turned and stared at a little girl in rags with dirt smudged on her face. In the alleyway behind her two little boys crouched in wait, their fearful eyes on the girl and Giradin.


    "Vampire, you say?" Giradin repeated. He wondered for a moment if he should tell the little girl that vampires were just made-up, but he remembered his encounter with the vermin at Isselhan a while back. If rat monsters were real, the idea that vampires could be too didn''t seem so unbelievable. Giradin crouched low in front of her so they were face to face. "I haven''t heard about the vampire. Tell me more."


    "Teebald hanged himself, he did," said the little girl. She pointed to a tall tree with thick limbs and strong branches. "Right there. That''s where they found him. The sheriff said it was murder, but everyone else says it was suicide. They buried him in the graveyard behind the church."


    Giradin looked over to the church, trying to see if he could spot the graveyard she spoke of.


    "A couple nights ago--" the girl continued, "--some people say they saw Teebald walking the streets. His wife even said she looked out her window and saw him standing there one night."


    "Are you sure she didn''t just imagine it?" Giradin asked. "Sometimes, when we miss someone we love very much we see them even though they''re not there."


    "No!" the girl grunted and stomped her foot. "He''s a real vampire! Teebald hated Mihill, the blacksmith, and now Mihill is dead! There have been other people Teebald''s killed too. Please, you''ve got to do something!"


    Giradin sighed. "I''ll do what I can. But maybe you can help me too? Do you know where Ivette and her daughter Bethia live?"


    A look of recognition crossed the little girl''s face, but her smile faded immediately. "I''m not going to help you unless you help us first." She folded her arms and stuck her nose up in the air.


    Giradin groaned and rose to his feet. "Fine. Let me talk with the other doctors and see what they say." He returned to the group and regaled him with the story the little girl had told him.


    After the story was over, Shlomo said, "This may be worth looking into."


    Fulk shook his head. "What next? You want us to check under children''s beds for monsters too? It''s not our concern to chase after every local legend."


    "Maybe it is," said Mu. "We don''t know for sure that it''s just a legend. Maybe this is another symptom of the plague. It''s worth investigating at least."


    "To Hell with that!" Fulk folded his arms. "I''m not here to chase monsters, I''m here to fulfill Sir Bertran''s last wishes. Or have you forgotten our real purpose here?"


    Shlomo raised an index finger. "Ah, but I think you''ve not really thought your mission through, shegetz."


    "Don''t start!" Fulk pointed an accusing finger at the Jew. "Now you''ll spout some weird, twisted reason why this whole living dead rumor is what Sir Bertran would have wanted..."


    Repeated blows of a hammer on steel echoed off the houses. The two men raised their voices so they could still be heard over the noise.


    "Well, didn''t Sir Bertran want to make sure the girl was taken care of?"


    "Damn it..." Fulk''s shoulders sank and he hung his head.


    Shlomo continued, "Why else would he want us to deliver that chest to her? And, if he cares so much about her well-being, wouldn''t making sure there isn''t a vampire or burglar on the loose in her city serve that goal?"


    Fulk shoved Shlomo''s shoulder. "Fine! You''re right! Let''s go see if there really is a vampire in Kinhan. Gah! Next we''ll be chasing fairies and dragons!"

 Desecrating the Dead

    When Giradin was a boy, the other children of his village often made a game of daring each other to go into the graveyard at night. A fence surrounded that old cemetery, and it was said among the children that the bravest boy of all would be the one who could cross from the lychgate at the entrance all the way to the headstone on the opposite end, touch the headstone, then calmly walk back.


    Giradin had attempted this several times as a boy, but always lost his nerve.


    Now, as a grown man, he entered the graveyard in Kinhan with his fellow plague doctors under the cover of darkness. There''d been some argument as to how, exactly, one killed what was already dead, so they brought with them whatever they could get their hands on.


    Giradin carried a cross he''d made by tying together two branches of a hawthorn plant. In his other hand he kept a tight grip on his seax.


    Mu held a wooden spike in one hand, cut from the limb of an aspen tree, and his scimitar in the other.


    Shlomo held a braid of garlic cloves in one hand and his short sword in the other.


    Finally, Fulk carried a shovel he''d "borrowed" from one of the commoners.


    Only the moon and the stars lit the Crows'' path as they crept into the graveyard, for grave-robbing was punishable by a hangman''s noose, and none of them wanted to risk trying to explain that they weren''t grave-robbers.


    Wooden crosses marked every grave in the cemetery, making Giradin less confident that his hawthorn cross would have any effect on the vampire, if indeed there was one. Not a single name was etched into the grave-markers, for the commoners of Kinhan couldn''t read anyway. It was just as well, neither could Giradin, and he suspected his companions were equally illiterate.


    "How are we to know which grave to check?" Giradin whispered. "We don''t know where Teebald was buried."


    "Start by looking for a grave with disturbed dirt," whispered Shlomo as he leaned down to get a closer look at the ground by the crosses.


    "Over here!" Mu called, in a hushed voice just above a whisper.


    The other three men hurried over to him. Giradin''s temples throbbed with each beat of his racing pulse. When they all drew close to the grave where Mu stood, Fulk knelt down and nodded his head. "Aye, someone''s dug up this grave recently, then reburied it. They did a poor job of it too." Fulk stood again and pressed the tip of the spade to the disturbed soil. "Shlomo, keep an eye out so we don''t get caught. Mu, Giradin, eyes on the grave in case something jumps out."


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    Fulk started on the heretical work of digging up the grave while the others kept watch. Spade-full after spade-full tossed aside. It seemed Fulk was digging for days, though the moon had barely moved in the night sky above. Giradin heard the snaps of branches nearby, but he kept his eyes transfixed on the grave, trusting Shlomo would keep an eye on all other threats.


    Fulk''s spade hit something wooden. "Get ready!" he said before leaning down to clear away some of the dirt by hand. "Here''s the coffin." He dug more of the dirt away with his shovel, then leaned down again and felt for the lip of the coffin''s lid. With a groan, he pulled the lid off the coffin, letting the remaining dirt slide off. Moonlight poured into the wooden box, illuminating the inside.


    It was empty.


    All men stood in shocked silence, until Shlomo looked over his shoulder and saw the empty grave. "Baruch Atah Adonai, Elohaynu Melech ha''Olam..."


    "Don''t panic," Fulk said. "This doesn''t mean there''s a vampire on the loose. It could just as easily mean someone stole the body already. Or that Teebald was accidentally buried alive, happens all the time."


    "But what if it really is a vampire?" Giradin snapped. "What then?"


    Fulk shrugged. "Then we kill it, and we make sure we''re thorough about it. Beheading, stake through the heart, garlic in the mouth burn it... everything!"


    "Better question," Mu chimed in, "Now that we know that Teebald isn''t in his grave, how do we track him?"


    "Could we lure him out?" asked Giradin. All three of the other doctors turned their beaks toward him, as if waiting for him to explain more. "You know... we could spill blood somewhere and the scent of blood might draw him to it."


    Shlomo chuckled. "Kill someone to stop the monster that''s killing people, hmm? A cunning plan!"


    "No!" Giradin groaned. "Not human blood. Maybe a sheep or a chicken or something."


    Mu shook his head. "We don''t know that vampires crave animal blood the way they do human blood. Or how intelligent vampires are. He might guess it''s a trap."


    "Here''s a thought," Fulk said, "The girl who told Giradin about the vampire said Teebald''s widow saw him, right? So, we find out where Teebald lives and we wait there for him. And whatever we do, we leave this graveyard NOW so we don''t get caught! Come on!"


    Fulk dropped the spade in the empty grave and pushed past the others on his way out of the graveyard. He passed under the lychgate, checked for witnesses, and motioned for the others to follow.


    All four plague doctors left the graveyard together. "Anyone know where Teebald''s widow lives?" Mu asked. "Or what her name is?"


    "The children do," said Giradin. "And they''re sure to help us. Poor little ones are so terrified."


    "There''s a far easier way," said Shlomo. "Around here, widows hang black wreaths over their doors when they''re in mourning for dead husbands. We just find a door with a black wreath over it and lie in wait for our dead friend to show himself."

 Strigoi

    While once the chirping of the crickets had been a calming sound, now it had become grating to Giradin''s ears. A cool breeze rustled the branches of the trees where the plague doctors hid, and an owl hooted in the distance.


    Rapid steps on the cobblestone streets caused Giradin''s heart to leap, and he readied his seax for the attack.


    A stray dog passed by, its fur mangy and ragged. Giradin''s heart settled back into its proper place and he lowered his arm.


    "Stop jumping at shadows!" Fulk hissed.


    "Stop talking!" Mu whispered.


    The four of them kept their heads low, crouched on their knees behind the leaf-covered branches. Down the street from them stood a house with a black wreath over the front door. Having gotten closer about half an hour ago, Shlomo had confirmed that the only denizen of this home was a young woman, barely older than marriageable age. They could only assume this was Teebald''s widow, and hope their assumption was right.


    The sound of leather boots on the cobblestone streets.


    Giradin spotted a figure in a black cloak creeping toward the house. Shadows hid the stranger''s face, and Giradin caught a glimpse of claw-like nails on its fingertips. The moon cast a long, dark shadow behind the figure, as if it were the shade of a giant.


    Is that Teebald?


    Giradin tapped Mu on the shoulder and pointed with his hawthorn cross at the cloaked figure. Behind him, he heard Mu''s head nod and the other two doctors turn to watch the stranger.


    The cloaked figure stopped across the street from the widow''s house, and turned toward it. The figure''s body rocked back and forth, and Giradin heard a breathy whisper, though he could not make out the words.


    Giradin glanced at the other plague doctors, silently asking them if it was time to act. If this was, in fact, Teebald, they needed to do something before the vicious vampire either attacked his widow or disappeared.


    But none of his comrades moved.


    The chirping of the crickets needled Giradin''s brain. Their repetitive songs seeming to mock his inaction. Maybe the others had lost their nerve. Or, perhaps, since they had no leader at the moment, everyone was waiting for someone else to lead the way.


    The hooded figure stopped whispering and started to cross the street, toward the front door of the widow''s home, and Giradin could wait no longer. He lunged out from hiding and seized the cloaked figure by the arm. He yanked the figure''s arm, ready to bring his seax down on its neck if he saw the face of a dead man underneath that hood.


    But as he forced the figure to turn, he heard a woman''s yelp call out from under the hood, and found himself staring into a face of unearthly beauty. Emerald green eyes gazed up at him with confusion and fear. Hair as black as night fell on either side of full cheeks, and down to a slender neck. Supple, cherry-colored lips quivered with every heavy breath she took. Her skin was paler than most commoners'', but even through his gauntlets Giradin knew she was warm to the touch.


    Shlomo came out of hiding as well. "You can let her go now!"


    Fulk grunted and emerged from the trees. "Shit! Well, there goes our ambush!"


    Giradin released the cloaked woman''s wrist, and her frightened expression turned to one of anger. She took two steps back from him and spoke in the sweetest voice Giradin had ever heard, "Do you always accost women in the dark?" Her eyes were accusing and furious, but Giradin never wanted them to look away from him. He never dreamed such a woman''s gaze would ever fall upon him.


    Mujahid stepped forward. "Begging your pardon. My friend... well, he thought you were someone else."


    The cloaked woman rolled her eyes, "Oh. That makes it better. If you''ll excuse me-- wait! Do you hear that?" Her eyes darted back and forth, and her hand slipped inside her cloak.


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    The five of them went silent as they listened for whatever had so startled her. After a few moments, Giradin whispered, "I don''t hear anything..."


    "The crickets have stopped," Fulk muttered.


    Waves of ice-cold washed over Giradin. Fulk was right. All chirping had ceased, and the owls made no noise either. The night was deathly quiet.


    Then came the sound of approaching footsteps.


    The cloaked woman drew a silver dagger from within her cloak and closed her eyes. She muttered strange words, "Spiritibus infra, ostende mihi verum. Spiritibus infra, Ostende mihi verum. Spiritus infra--"


    Shlomo fell backward with great force, as if hit by a charging bull. He collapsed flat on his back with a loud thud.


    Mu swung out blindly with his scimitar. Then doubled over as something struck him in the gut with a loud thump.


    "Spiritibus infra, ostende mihi verum!" The cloaked woman lunged forward with her dagger and thrust it into empty air. The blade disappeared from view, and when she withdrew it again a stream of crimson followed it.


    Giradin blinked twice and saw a strange distortion in the air, like the shimmering horizon on a hot summer''s day. And from that distortion blood spilled. He heard a sound somewhere between a growl and a rattle.


    Smack!


    The cloaked woman''s face snapped to one side and she tumbled into the cobblestone streets.


    With a fierce roar, Giradin leapt upon the invisible foe and hacked at it with his seax. With Giradin on its back, the creature growled and flailed. The hawthorn cross flew from Giradin''s fingers. With every swing of Giradin''s blade, more red covered the monster''s invisible body, pouring from wounds seemingly in the air itself.


    A hand gripped Giradin''s ankle, and the abomination twisted its body around, throwing Giradin from its back. For a moment, Giradin felt only the rushing wind under his back. Until it connected with the hard streets with a loud crack.


    Agony shot up Giradin''s spine and into his skull. His vision was awash with colors, even as he forced himself to sit up again.


    When his vision returned to normal, Shlomo was on his feet again and repeatedly stabbed the bloody mass in front of him. Fulk beat the same figure with his mace over and over. Mu reached into his coat, produced two vials, and threw them at the monster. When the glass broke, the bloody figure erupted in flames. A chilling shriek filled the air.


    With the creature''s body illuminated, Mu swung out with his scimitar again, the blade embedding itself in the creature''s neck.


    The cloaked woman had climbed to her feet again, took a few steps back, and began chanting again, "Spiritibus infra, hac turpi neglegimus tollere quasi unus de creatura tua! Spiritibus infra, hac turpi neglegimus tollere quasi unus de creatura tua!"


    Giradin charged in and chopped the back of the creature''s neck with his seax. The intense heat from the flames made the weapon red-hot in his hands. The stench of burning hair and flesh seeped its way past his mask and into his lungs.


    Fulk picked up Giradin''s hawthorn cross and bellowed as he drove it into the creature''s chest.


    The monster crumbled onto the ground, and all four men hacked, stabbed, and beat it with their weapons over and over while tongues of fire licked the cool night air. The dancing flames cast horrible, shadows on the walls around them. Giradin could swear he saw smiling faces in the shadows and eyes in the blaze itself.


    All the while, the cloaked woman continued her chant, "Spiritibus infra, hac turpi neglegimus tollere quasi unus de creatura tua! Spiritibus infra, hac turpi neglegimus tollere quasi unus de creatura tua!"


    And the vampire thrashed, flailed, and shrieked, its cries turning Giradin''s heart to stone.


    Finally, when the flames died down, the scorched and bloody body stopped moving. Giradin brought his seax down one more time and finished the severing of the creature''s head.


    The cloaked woman''s chants stopped, and the four men stood around the remains of their foe. They fought to catch their breath, but in their masks they simply could not take in enough air.


    Against his better judgment, Giradin removed his mask and welcomed the soothing night air into his lungs. Soon, all the others did the same. A dry cough forced its way out of Shlomo''s throat, and he leaned down to support his hands on his knees.


    When Giradin looked up, he saw the doors to many of the houses nearby creak open, and the citizens of Kinhan standing in the doorways with questioning expressions. Giradin forced a smile and nodded his head to tell them everything was alright.


    "Where do you think you''re going?" Fulk bellowed.


    Giradin snapped his eyes back to his comrade, who held the cloaked woman''s wrist in his iron grip.


    "Let go of me!" she demanded.


    Fulk yanked harder on her arm and twisted it, forcing her to her knees. "You have some explaining to do first, witch!"


    "Let her go!" Giradin shouted. "She helped us!"


    "For all we know, she called that thing here to begin with!" Fulk yelled back. "Shlomo, go ahead of us and rent a room at the inn. Mu, grab her other arm."


    Shlomo gave a nod and ran off down the street. Mujahid scurried around to the cloaked woman''s other side and took hold of her loose wrist.


    Both men hoisted the woman to her feet and forced her to march down the same road Shlomo had taken.


    "Don''t struggle!" Fulk barked. "Don''t make me hurt you. I''m not afraid to beat a woman!"


    As Fulk and Mu dragged the cloaked woman away, she glanced over at Giradin for just a moment. In that instant, he saw a pleading look in her eyes, a look which told him he was her only hope. She looked on him as a hero, and she silently begged his help.


    No one had ever looked at him like that before.

 The Crows Dance with a Raven ?

    Let me see if I can remember how Giradin told me this one...


    Fulk forced the witch down onto the inn''s cold floor. Giradin winced when her knees smacked the stone. Fulk shoved an accusing finger in her face. "Breathe one Latin word, and I''ll bash your skull in!" he snapped his head to his left. "Mu, make sure we''re not interrupted!"


    "Yes, my lord!" Mu responded, his voice full of such vigor it was clearly sarcasm.


    Mu closed the door behind him, leaving the other three men and the witch inside their room at the inn. Shlomo slipped a wooden bar over the door to prevent entry, then pulled the ragged curtains over the window.


    "Umm... F-Fulk?" Giradin stammered, "What are you going to do?" His eyes glanced between his murderous teammate and the injured witch on the floor. The witch''s dress had ripped, exposing her pale legs. Were her knees not so purple with bruises, Giradin might have taken a moment to secretly admire her strong, smooth calves. As it was, instead of lust his heart was filled with pity.


    Without looking at him, Fulk raised a finger in front of Giradin''s face. "You do anything to interfere and I''ll break your damn neck. Shlomo! Watch him!"


    "Yes, your majesty," said Shlomo with a dramatic bow of his upper body. Outside the door, Mu laughed out loud.


    "Start with your name, witch!" Fulk hissed behind his unfeeling steel mask. "Now!"


    "My name is Lillith," said the witch.


    "Horse-shit!" Fulk bellowed and raised his fist. "You think I''m stupid? This isn''t my first encounter with the occult! Tell me your real name!"


    The witch cowered from Fulk and shrunk away. "L-Levanna!" she said. "My name''s Levanna."


    Giradin gestured to get Fulk''s attention, moving his fingers into the murderer''s limited line of sight. "Hey! She might be more likely to cooperate if you don''t frighten her!"


    "Piss off, Giradin!" Fulk shook the same fist at him, but the face of his mask did not leave Levanna. "Now, tell me, what was that thing we killed out there?"


    Levanna shifted until she sat on the stone floor with her knees raised to her chest. She rubbed both her knees, and the skirt of her dress fell back around her hips. Giradin''s face burned, and he looked up, over her head so he was less likely to see what lay between her legs.


    "He used to be called Teebald," she said between gasps and seethes as she massaged her own knees and shins out of Giradin''s line of sight.


    "I didn''t ask you who he was!" Fulk snarled.


    "Though, to be fair," Shlomo chimed in, "That is helpful information."


    Fulk glanced back at Shlomo and grunted, then lowered and unclenched his fists. "That is, yes," he conceded, his voice a little calmer. His beak turned back to Levanna. "Thank you. Keep that up and we won''t have to hurt you anymore." Though the words were far from gentle, Fulk spoke them as if he were a father reassuring his child that there were no monsters outside his window. "Teebald was supposed to be dead. And visible! Yes, visible, last I heard about him. What was he?"


    Levanna hugged both her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth. Against Giradin''s will, his gaze fell to the movement. Her thighs were so supple and soft that Giradin''s heart was ablaze inside him with the desire to lie between them.


    Shlomo slid up closer to him and muttered. "I feel it too, brother. It''s just heartburn."


    Under his mask, Giradin gave Shlomo a confused look.


    "What''s that in your hand?" Fulk lunged at Levanna, seized her wrist, and forced her up to her feet in his grip. Levanna moaned and screwed her eyes shut. Both her hands she held in tight fists, one slightly bigger than the other. She fought and flailed in his grip, utterly unable to pull her wrists away. With one hand locked around both her wrists, Fulk''s other gauntlet reached up to force her bigger fist open. But he couldn''t get his bulky fingers under her nails. "Open your hand, damn it!" Fulk barked. "I told you, I''m not afraid to BEAT a woman!"


    Levanna''s eyes locked with Fulk''s goggles and, with a brow of full confidence, she said, "Yes, you are."


    Fulk flinched at her words.


    Her eyes remained on his dark lenses, and Giradin''s heart froze when he heard her say, "You''re as terrified of hurting me as he is." She pointed at Giradin. "Because you''ve seen a broken woman before, Dashiel." She spat the name like an accusation.


    Fulk twisted Levanna''s wrists and forced her down onto her knees again. Her cries of pain stung Giradin''s every nerve. The murderer towered over her, his left hand clenched into a shaking fist. Giradin could hear the leather stretching tight over Fulk''s knuckles. His voice sounded more animal than man when he said, "Say that name again and I''ll cut you open!"


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    "No," Levanna groaned. "You won''t." She hissed through gritted teeth, her eyes clenched shut in pain. "You will hurt me, but you will never break me. You never want to see a broken woman again."


    Though Shlomo surely tried to be discreet, Giradin heard him mutter, "Zine beh-sechel..." and shake his head.


    Fulk threw her wrists away from him. "Even if you''re right about me, the people outside would love to burn a witch, and you know it! Now, open your hands!"


    Levanna spat at him.


    "Fine!" he grunted. "You can''t use whatever''s in your palm unless you open your fingers anyway." He leaned in, resting his hands on both knees and nodding his head. His voice cruel and patronizing, he said, "So, tell me, you shit! What was Teebald?"


    The billowing sleeves of Levanna''s dress had fallen down around her armpits, leaving her arms bare up to her shoulders. Giradin''s eyes fell upon the bruises on her shoulders and forearms. She rubbed her wrists, her long, sharp nails a stark contrast to her soft, inviting flesh.


    "A strigoi," said Levanna.


    Giradin shook his head and stared just over her raven-colored hair.


    "That''s what the gypsies call it," she continued. "It''s a vampire. They say when someone takes his own life, he comes back from the pit of Hell as a monster. They''re the ones who are only seen if they want to be seen, so they say."


    "Why would he want us to see him?" Fulk grunted and he rose to his feet again.


    "It didn''t," said Levanna, a confident smirk tugging the corners of her blood-red lips. "He wanted me to see him. Because a spell made him see me as one of his own." Levanna massaged up her own arms, her sharp nails gently gliding against her ivory skin. "There''s nothing worse for a monster in this world than to feel he''s all alone. Some of the abominations in this world are so vile, so hated, that they will willingly embrace death if they can fend off the loneliness for just a moment."


    Fulk snorted and crossed his arms. "You''re telling me that an immortal, murderous, demon dead-man made himself vulnerable because he just wanted to be loved?"


    Levanna''s eyes met Fulk''s lenses again and narrowed to slits. "The only thing valuable to such a pariah is a cure for solitude. You know this is true, for even in prison the worst your jailers could do to you--" she rose to kneel with her back upright, "--was to leave you alone for a full day."


    Fulk stumbled a step back from her and shook his head as if trying to wake himself up. "I see..." he stared in silence through his dark lenses, his face hidden behind that iron beak. "Fair enough."


    "What is Eternity if you have to spend it alone?" Levanna said.


    "Yes, thank you!" Fulk snapped. "So... out of all that we did, which thing killed it?"


    Levanna shrugged.


    "You don''t know what killed it?" Fulk raised his fist. "You expect me to believe that, you rotten shit?"


    Levanna breathed out the softest laughter, her lips a stream of sweet wine across her star-white teeth. "When you men encountered this beast you tried everything you could think of all at once. So has everyone else who has ever fought a strigoi. Is it any wonder that we don''t know which method works?"


    Fulk grunted. "You can at least narrow the field for us! What didn''t work? So help me, witch... stop dancing around what we want to know. I''ll turn you over to the church, I swear it!"


    "Are you sure you want that?" Levanna tilted her head to one side. "There are countless different kinds of vampires out there. Each of you used a method that might work on some kind of vampire... It might be better if you just keep trying them all."


    Fulk pulled back as if he was about to hit her, but she did not flinch. "Stop stalling! Just tell us how you kill the fucking invisible monster!" He stamped his foot hard and lowered his fist again.


    "A silver dagger to the heart might do it," said Levanna, unable to hide her arrogant smirk any longer. "Though, it might have died from burning. It could have died from the spell I cast, of simple disease and rot, or from the sting of betrayal the one time it no longer felt alone. Or, it might have died when the handsome one beheaded it."


    Levanna gestured to Giradin when she said "handsome." His cheeks burned and his heart raced at the thought that such an enchantress found him attractive. When he heard her chuckle, he realized he''d raised his hand to his pounding chest, an obvious tell of the sway she had over him.


    She laughed a little louder, her giggles playful and strangely uplifting. "I''m sorry, you''re just so sweet and funny!" she covered her lips with the back of her left hand, her bruised wrists rising back up into view. "You''re hidden behind a mask and costume. Did you really think I thought you were handsome?"


    Later, Giradin would recall this incident and feel humiliated, but in the moment he laughed at his own mistake.


    Which earned him a deadly glare from Fulk. Though he could not see his eyes, the posture of Fulk''s neck and back made him look about to lunge. Giradin forced himself to stop laughing and cleared his throat. Two words flung from Fulk''s mouth like the sharpest daggers. "Piss. Off." The murderer pointed to the witch''s hands again. "Now, stop confusing us with all your silly words and show me what''s in your hand!"


    With no further protest, the witch held out her open palm with a vial in it. "Poison," she said, with a hint of pride.


    Shlomo drew his short sword. Giradin rattled his head and brought out his seax.


    "Poison for us?" Fulk asked, his voice unnervingly calm.


    She shook her head. "Imp''s kiss."


    "So... for you?" Fulk said.


    "Yes, a poison meant for suicide. My way to avoid the stake."


    The witch and Fulk exchanged a long silence, his lenses locked on her emerald eyes.


    "Brothers?" called Mu from outside the door. "The other guests have all left their rooms and gone down the hall. At least, I''m guessing that''s all of them, because it''s been quiet out here for a while. And... and now I''m hearing a commotion outside."


    Levanna shuddered and crawled on her knees toward Fulk. The murderer backed away from her, and Shlomo brought the tip of his sword closer to her face. She stopped just when the blade touched her cheek. "Please!" she begged, her voice and face desperate. "I''ve helped you. Now let me at least die a painless death." She held up the vial.


    Fulk nodded. "Very well. Drink your poison."


    Levanna popped the cork and swallowed the poison in one gulp.


    "I can hear them coming down the hall!" Mu called through the door.


    Shlomo rested a hand on Fulk''s shoulder. "What do we tell them? We have a dead girl here and a burned man out in the streets..."


    "Plague," said Fulk with a nod of his head. "It''s a simple enough explanation. The man outside had plague and refused to cooperate with us, so we killed and burned him. This woman had touched him, so she feared she too had plague and took poison rather than risk spreading it."


    "Brothers," Mu called from the other side of the door. "They''re coming down the hall, and most of them have weapons..."

 The Iron Medal

    "You three find Ivette. I''ll bury Levanna in the wilderness outside town."


    Giradin didn''t think much about Fulk''s command when he gave it. The murderer left Kinhan out the front gates, carrying Levanna''s body, wrapped in sack cloth, as he went.


    Once Fulk was far from sight, and the three remaining plague doctors were left standing outside the inn, Mu whispered, "Why do you think he''s lying to us?"


    Shlomo shrugged. "I just hope he''s thinking with his head rather than his loins."


    "What do you mean?" Giradin asked. "What''s he lying to us about?"


    Mu''s beak turned to Giradin. "You haven''t thought it through yet, have you? We told the villagers here that the charred corpse outside the late Teebald''s home was that of a man with plague, and that Levanna drank poison rather than risk spreading the plague, aye?"


    "Aye," said Giradin, still confused.


    "So, why not burn Levanna''s body too, just to be safe?" Mu asked. "For that matter, why not turn her body over to the villagers, allow them to bury her?"


    Giradin''s eyes widened behind his lenses. "Wait... and Shlomo said he... that comment about loins... is Fulk going to... to take advantage of a dead woman?"


    Mu shuddered.


    Shlomo chuckled. "Fulk''s done some pretty terrible things, but nothing that bad. As far as I know."


    Mu shook his head. "The dark places your mind goes, Giradin... No, he''s not going to make with her corpse..." Mu looked back and forth, as if to ensure that no one was close enough to listen in. As usual, the townspeople gave the plague doctors a wide berth. Mu leaned closer to Giradin and whispered, "Because she''s still alive."


    Giradin stammered for a moment. "What? She looked dead as a..."


    While Giradin struggled to think of an analogy, Mu continued, "Imp''s Kiss isn''t a poison, it''s a drug one takes when one intends to fake death. One dose and even the best physician in the world will declare you dead." Mu turned his lenses toward the city gates. "Fulk must have known I''d know that too... I brewed and sold drugs for ten years."


    For a moment, Giradin felt a swell of relief in his soul that the witch was not dead after all. "But... what''s he doing with her, then?"


    "Letting her go," Shlomo muttered, "I assume."


    "Do you suppose he''s going to..." Giradin couldn''t bring himself to say the words. Something between jealousy and disgust formed a lump in his throat at the very thought.


    "He might," said Shlomo.


    Mu shook his head. "I don''t think Fulk would take that kind of risk. He didn''t seem to really trust her. He''s probably just letting her go because she''d proven helpful, and he hopes she will again in the future."


    Shlomo snorted. "I''m sure like most men he''s not thinking of his dick at all..."


    Mu grunted. "Whatever the case, we''ll have to worry about it later. For now, we have a job to do. Find Ivette."


    Shlomo tilted his head to one side and held the chin of his mask in his gloved hand. "I wonder if the people here will be more likely to help us or less after what we did last night..."


    "The children will help," Giradin said. "I know that much. Now that the vampire''s gone."


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    Shlomo nodded. "See if you can find them. We''ll meet up here again in half an hour."


    The three plague doctors parted ways, walking the filthy streets of Kinhan again. As Giradin made his way through the city, he saw far more suspicious gazes cast his way than before. Every time he passed two or more people gathered to talk, they would lean in closer to each other and whisper secrets, all the while keeping one eye on him.


    A dog barked furiously, and Giradin''s seax appeared in his hand in an instant. When he saw the beast, the hound stood on the end of a long chain, spittle flying from its lips with each thunderous bark.


    "Easy boy!" came a voice from nearby, and a man with a scraggly beard and strong arms seized the dog''s leash and pulled. "Leave the doctor alone!"


    Giradin gave a sigh of relief, but soon noticed the fearful glances of the other townspeople nearby, their eyes locked on the weapon in his hand. His skin felt as if thousands of tiny thorns danced against it, threatening to draw his blood if he moved too quickly. He sheathed the seax again and gave an apologetic shrug, wishing he could tell them all about the last time he heard a dog bark that furiously.


    His embarrassment and fear gave way to hope, however, when he saw the little girl who''d told him about Teebald. She looked up at him with a grateful smile, and he walked over to greet her.


    "You killed the vampire!" she said with a giddy giggle.


    "We did," said Giradin. "You should be safe at night now."


    The girl shook her head. "We''ll never really be safe. People are often worse than monsters."


    "True... well... at least you''re a little safer," said Giradin.


    The girl nodded. "True. You wanted to know where Bethia and her mother live, right?"


    "Yes," said Giradin. "If you''d be so kind, I really need that information."


    The girl held up both her arms. "I''m Bethia."


    Giradin blinked twice. "You? You were Bethia the whole time?"


    The girl giggled. "No, I''m only Bethia now. Yesterday I was Jane. Yes! I was Bethia the whole time, silly!"


    "Why didn''t you tell me?" Giradin asked.


    The little girl rolled her eyes. "I didn''t want to."


    Giradin groaned. "Where''s your mother? We need to speak with her too."


    The little girl pointed to a house on the corner, two doors down from Teebald''s home.


    Giradin nodded. "Very well. Hurry home and tell your mother we''re coming with a gift for her. We''ll be there soon."


    The little girl ran off to her home while Giradin sought out his commrades.


    "Glad someone is being helpful," Mu said. "Everyone else here''s telling us... well, they''re turning us away and they''re not being kind about it."


    The three of them approached Ivette''s home together. It was one of the smaller houses, made from wooden beams nailed together with a thatch-roof. Giradin knocked on the door, and after a few moments it swung open to reveal a skinny woman who stood no taller than Giradin''s chest. Her blond hair she kept up in a head scarf, and her otherwise beautiful face was marred only by a wart on her left cheek. Bethia hid behind the woman''s linen skirt, smiling up at the three Crows.


    "Ivette, I presume?" said Giradin.


    "Yes," said the woman. Bethia bounded away, into the house.


    "May we come in?" asked Giradin.


    Ivette peered past them, at her neighbors. When Giradin turned his head to see what had caught her eye, he beheld three men standing by one of the houses nearby. All three men had their arms folded and shook their heads at Giradin and the other plague doctors.


    "Umm... y-yes..." Ivette stammered, "Please come in."


    The three doctors entered her home. For a moment, it was too dark for Giradin to see anything, but his eyes soon adjusted to the shadows. A black pot beside the fireplace bubbled with a yellow stew filled with chunks of what appeared to be root vegetables. In the back corner there lay two straw beds, one far smaller than the other. Bethia sat on an open patch of floor, quietly playing with dolls made of straw and clay.


    Ivette stood with her back leaning against the far wall. "How can I help you?" she asked.


    "We come bearing a gift for you," said Mu. "Well, an inheritance, actually."


    "Inheritance?" Ivette said. "I... I have no living relatives..."


    "Not anymore you don''t!" said Shlomo with a chuckle.


    "Shlomo!" Giradin chastised.


    Mu ignored both of them and produced the small chest from inside his coat. "A man named Sir Bertran was a member of our order. His last wish was that we give this to you. We haven''t opened it."


    Ivette''s face looked even more confused than before. "Sir Bertran?" she took the chest. "I''ve never heard of..." she stopped short after she opened the chest and looked inside. Though Giradin could not see what lay inside, the mix of gold and silver light reflected on Ivette''s shocked face told him all he needed to know.


    Ivette reached into the chest and produced an iron medal with a cross etched onto either side. As she gazed upon it, tears filled her eyes and a tortured smile took its place on her lips. "He... he forgave me... after all this time..."


    Bethia glanced up from her dolls, a look of confusion on her face.


    Ivette stared down at whatever treasures lay in the box, a smile on her lips and tears forming in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, bit her lip, and finally just whispered, "Thank you."


    Mu nodded to Ivette. "Well, with that our work here is done. Thank you for your time."

 A Cure? To Elekvaz!

    The moment the door creaked open, Giradin heard the sounds of bubbling and boiling on the other side. When he entered, he saw the back of Mu''s bald head as he gently stirred compounds in their measuring beakers with a glass rod. He wore a scarf over his mouth and goggles over his eyes, protection from the blue and red mist which arose from the alembics, retorts, and crucibles on his work table.


    "Ah, you''re here," said Mu. With a pair of steel tongs he removed a ceramic crucible from the furnace in the corner. "Thank you for coming."


    Giradin''s eyes trailed along the jars on the shelves along the walls, each filled with strange ingredients and compounds with labels he could not read. Some looked like animal parts. Others, he suspected, may even be human. "What is all this?"


    Mu set the crucible down on his table and walked over to Giradin with a scarf and a pair of goggles in hand. "My laboratory," said Mu. He held the scarf and goggles out to Giradin. "Here. You''ll want to wear these. Unless you enjoy hallucinating, which I would fully understand."


    Giradin took the scarf and goggles, securing both where they belonged on his face. "Did you send for me because you want me to learn alchemy?" he asked.


    Mu tilted his head to one side. "You know, now that I think about it, that''s not a bad idea. I can start teaching you all I know, if you''re willing to learn." He turned to a book on his desk and turned a few pages, his fingers following along the letters of the page. "But, no, not today. I''m here because I need a favor from you."


    While Mu searched his shelves for a particular ingredient he needed, Giradin asked, "Do you need me to retrieve the liver of a new-born babe for you? Or is it eye of newt this time?"


    Mu snorted. "I''m not a witch, boy. I''m an apothecary. No..." Mu pulled a jar of yellow powder off the wall, and then a jar full of black seeds. "See, I''ve been treating some of the patients we have in the sick ward, and may have stumbled onto something quite helpful. A little black elderberry... a dash of echinacea... sulphur... nether seeds... aaaand a few other trace ingredients, and we have what I call Ida''s Hope."


    Mu added the ingredients he''d gathered into his mortar and pestle. "My patient in the sick ward has been taking it for the past several weeks, and the plague has stopped spreading through him. Praise Allah!"


    Giradin''s eyes flew wide and his heart soared. "Is this a cure?"


    Mu shook his head. "Probably not."


    Giradin''s heart sank again and he hung his head.


    Mu chuckled. "Sorry to get your hopes up. No, it doesn''t seem like a cure, but it does seem to be a treatment that could help patients in the early stages of the disease."


    "What do you need me for?" asked Giradin.


    Mu finished grinding up the yellow powder and black seeds together and added them to the alembic. "Just because one patient got a little better... or, rather, stopped getting any worse... that doesn''t mean Ida''s Hope actually did anything. For all I know, any number of forces beyond my control may have had a hand in this. I need more patients. Many many more. Maybe a few hundred. That''s what I need you for."


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    Giradin placed a hand over his heart. "You need me to gather patients for you?"


    "Not exactly," said Mu. "There''s a city called Elekvaz which is rumored to have become infected with plague. Melcher Fitz is about to send men to secure the city so others can go in and examine the people there and see if it is true. If it is... well... it will be a repeat of Isselhan."


    Giradin cringed as the cruel memories of what happened at Isselhan flooded back into his mind. He still remembered the ashes falling like snow as the city burned, and the cold, accusing eyes of the dead.


    "I need you to persuade Melcher Fitz to let us try Ida''s Hope on the people of Elekvaz," said Mu. "I''ve already told him my plan, but Fitz is under enough scrutiny these days without being seen to take advice from a moor." Mu turned to Giradin, and his cheeks pushed upward as if he smiled beneath his scarf. "He needs a good Christian to make the suggestion, and he needs said Christian to do it in front of an audience. That way no one can accuse him of taking orders from a heathen."


    Giradin groaned. "He can''t listen to the apothecary about experimental cures?"


    Mu stared at Giradin in silence for a moment before saying, "Look, I''m going to be honest with you. My people? The Mohammedans? Many of them would love to see Christendom fall to the plague. They''d see it as a sign that Allah hates the Infidels. Two things they don''t realize that I do: first, that the plague will not stop at the borders of Christendom. Second, that all people are Allah''s sacred creations, and we should not let anyone fall sick and die, if we can help it."


    Giradin shook his head. "I don''t understand... what does that have to do with..."


    Mu raised his index finger. "Any advice that comes from me will be suspect, especially to those among the Crows who fought in the Crusades. They''d fear, and rightfully so, that my intention is to spread the plague rather than fight it. But, if you make the suggestion they''ll have a little more confidence in the plan. So, go to Melcher Fitz and tell him we want to try an experimental medicine on the people of Elekvaz. Tell him he can still purge the city and burn the bodies of the infected if it doesn''t work, but we should at least give them this chance."


    Giradin nodded. "Very well. I''ll talk to Fitz."


    "Good lad," said Mu. "Oh! One more thing... Please suggest to him that Fulk lead our team."


    Giradin''s heart raced. "Suggest Fulk? But... he doesn''t want to lead! He threatened to rip Shlomo''s balls off if he was made leader!"


    Mu chuckled. "You still can''t tell his empty threats from his sincere ones? Forget what he said, think about what he did. In Kinhan, Fulk took charge. He gave us all orders, and he had complete control over the situation. Good leaders aren''t the ones who seek power, they''re the ones willing to make hard choices and deal with whatever sleep they may lose over those choices. Fulk is more than willing to do what''s necessary."


    "Why can''t Shlomo lead us?" Giradin asked.


    Mu snorted. "Please... Father Hewlett died because the people of Neuhausen thought us a bunch of Jew-lovers. Can you imagine how much more people would hate us if a Jew actually led one of our teams?"


    "What about you?" Giradin asked.


    The moment the words left Giradin''s lips, both men burst into laughter.


    "Aye, that''s what we need!" Mu choked out between guffaws. "A moor in charge of a team of plague doctors! Ha! That''s the only thing I can think of worse than a Jew in charge. The people would eat us alive!"


    Giradin wanted to suggest himself as the next leader, but the idea of taking charge of this team struck him as truly terrifying. He wouldn''t mind so much just helping the team come to a decision when opinions were split, but he feared he''d never be able to make snap decisions when all their fates were in his hands.


    "Fulk is the best candidate among us, isn''t he?" Giradin said.


    Mu nodded. "Sadly, yes."


    Giradin sighed. "What does it say about the times when a murderer is our best hope for survival?"


    Mu shrugged. "I know what Shlomo would say to that. Moses himself was a murderer."


    "Blasphemy!" Giradin grunted.


    "Ask a priest some time," said Mu. "Or a rabbi. Moses committed cold-blooded murder. That''s why he left for the wilderness, where he found the burning bush. It''s not what we''ve done in the past that defines us, it''s what we do now, and what we choose to do here forward."

 The Gates of Elekvaz

    Like thieves, the plague doctors moved in the night to take what they wanted. But unlike burglars who steal money and goods, they came to take the whole city of Elekvaz.


    Dozens of them approached in the cover of darkness, with no moon in the sky. They stationed themselves outside the main gates, with their crossbows and spears at the ready should anyone potentially infected try to run.


    Giradin''s team walked with Melcher Fitz to a spot barely in view of the main gate. Fitz turned to the four of them. "Since this is your plan, you will be the ones to enter Elekvaz and get the sheriff and local militia on our side. Whatever you do, you must not let this operation descend into panic. If the people of Elekvaz riot we will have no choice but to seize control of the city."


    "And purge it, I would assume?" Mu asked.


    Fitz remained silent for a moment, but finally said, "That''s possible, but we''ll do everything we can to avoid it. In any event, the struggle for Elekvaz''s fate will start with the four of you." He started to turn away, but stopped and returned his attention to them. "One more thing, Fulk, you should know that your teammates have each told me they want you to lead them."


    Fulk grunted behind his mask and clenched his fists.


    "Don''t act so surprised," said Fitz. "From what they''ve told me, you took charge in Kinhan and got them out of a dangerous situation. You''ve already become their leader by your own doing. Now they just want to make it official."


    Fulk repaid Melcher Fitz''s words with silence.


    Fitz pointed a gloved finger at the city of Elekvaz. "You have work to do. Get to it!" The senior doctor turned from them and walked off, toward the plague doctors who lay in wait for any who tried to escape Elekvaz.


    Once he was gone, Fulk turned to the others. "You want me to lead? Fine! Then I''m going to do this how I want to do it, and I''ll not suffer complainers! First one of you who whines that I''m being too mean gets his nose broken."


    Shlomo chuckled. "Not long ago you threatened to rip balls off."


    In a flash, Fulk''s fingers gripped Shlomo''s groin. Giradin heard the sound of tightening leather and Shlomo stifled a yelp.


    Fulk''s dark lenses stared at Shlomo''s. "Don''t fuck with me." The Murderer released Shlomo and pushed him away. "Mu, when we get to the front gate you''ll talk to the guards. Better we start off with a nice, reasonable approach, and you''re good at that."


    Mu nodded his head in agreement, and the four of them resumed their trek to Elekvaz.


    The noisy chirping of crickets had proven a comfort to Giradin''s ears after their encounter with the Strigoi in Kinhan. It meant there was, at least, one more terrible thing they didn''t need to worry about.


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    The guards at the gate leaned with their backs against the walls and their spears wrapped in their arms. When Giradin drew close, he saw that their eyes were closed and their mouths hanging open, with drool dribbling from their lips. The gate behind them was closed, and through the gaps Giradin saw a wooden bar holding it shut.


    Mu walked ahead of the rest, stood in front of the two guards, and cleared his throat.


    The guards continued their upright slumber, their nasal cavities vibrating with loud snores.


    "Good evening, sirrahs," said Mu.


    Both guards caught their breath and rattled their heads as they awoke and beheld the four plague doctors before them. "Oh, shit..." one of them muttered.


    Mu''s body shook with a subtle laugh. "Why does everyone say that when they see me? Fellow Christians, I bring glad tidings, for we wish to try a new medicine on the people of Elekvaz. If we are successful, history will remember this city as the place where the plague was stopped for good. We just need your cooperation to make our dream a reality."


    One of the guards craned his neck to look past Mu and the others. "There are more of you out there, aren''t there? You''ve got us surrounded?" The spear rattled in the guard''s chain-mail covered hand


    Mu raised both of his hands as a peaceful gesture. "I''m not going to lie to you, my friend. Yes, there are more plague doctors out there, in the dark, ready to act in case vermin are found hiding in Elekvaz. Admittedly, they are also there in case anyone infected tries to run. We simply cannot let the plague spread, can we?"


    "How do we know you''re not just here to poison us?" asked the guard.


    Mu''s hands lowered to his side. "You didn''t know we were there until we woke you. If our plan was to simply kill everyone, why would we draw attention to ourselves? No, my friends, today you have the opportunity to become heroes who saved the world from the Devil''s affliction. You are part of a holy endeavor, even more so than the Knights Templar themselves! Now, would you please allow us entrance to the city so we may begin our work?"


    The two guards exchanged fearful glances. Giradin held his breath, fearing what might happen if the guards refused to help. They''d had enough trouble just fighting an angry mob. If these better-armed militia-men turned on them they would surely be cut to pieces long before the other plague doctors could step in and help them. Worse yet, Melcher Fitz would certainly order the city purged after such a skirmish.


    Every tiny expression or twitch in the guards'' faces set Giradin''s teeth on edge. He tried, unsuccessfully, to read every look they gave to get some hint of the fate which awaited them and the city of Elekvaz.


    "Hey!" one of the guards tapped the gate with his spear, and beyond the gate, Giradin heard another guard startle awake. "Open the gate!"


    "Aye!" the militiaman on the other side raised the bar and the gate started to creak open.


    "And go tell Jesper that the Crows have come to Elekvaz," said the guard at the front.


    The militiaman inside responded with a gasp, a moment of silence, then, "Umm... aye..."


    Giradin and the others strolled into the streets of Elekvaz with the two gate guards behind them. Once they were inside, Mu turned to the guards. "If you would be so kind, find a way to barricade the gate from the outside. We can''t have anyone running away from their medicine."


    While the two guards still outside struggled to find a way to block escape from the city, Giradin peered around at the wooden houses all around them, some stacked on top of each other to accommodate the over-sized population of the city. If every window in every home represented at least one sleeping citizen, then all Giradin saw there was a potential legion of infected patients.


    If the city of Elekvaz was overrun with plague, and the Crows failed to contain it, the army of sick men and women who''d come from here could easily end Christendom.

 The Crushed King

    The chill was like a bitter old man. Not content in its own misery, it felt the need to choke out the joy of all it embraced.


    Giradin had heard the North was cold, but he hadn''t expected it to reach through is coat, his armor, and even his flesh to get down to his bones and turn them to ice. He feared his body had become brittle and even shivering too much might cause it to break. No torch or brazier could warm him enough, no matter how long he lingered near those flames.


    And yet, colder than the frosty teeth of the northern winds were the eyes of the Elekvazi people. Giradin stood by the side of the road as they shuffled by, holding a censer of burning incense on the end of a short chain in one hand and his seax in the other. The citizens of Elekvaz sneered at him as they passed in two single-file lines, one for men and elders, the other for women and children. Elders spat at Giradin''s feet and muttered curses under their breath. The younger men had far too much to lose to dare such a sign of disrespect.


    Especially with the local militia so close at hand. The sheriff had, thankfully, seen reason when Fulk threatened to burn him first if the Crows decided to purge the town. He''d agreed to assign his men to helping the plague doctors try their experimental cure.


    At the front end of both lines of patients stood two tents with steam creeping out from under the flaps. Though he could not see the goings-on in those tents, Giradin knew that Mu and Shlomo awaited the patients in either one. When the patients walked in, Mu and the few volunteers they''d managed to round up would strip the patients naked, scrub them down, and check for signs of plague. Those who passed that examination were given Mu''s experimental elixir.


    But every now and then, there would come a patient who didn''t pass the test. Giradin knew them when he heard cries from within the tents, followed by a pale, naked form dashing off for cover. Just before Fulk loosed a bolt from his crossbow and the runner fell. By Giradin''s count, there had been three runners already.


    "You think we don''t know what you''re up to?"


    The raspy voice drew Giradin''s attention back to the parade of patients. One such patient was an old man with fleas in his beard and an eye missing. The old man sneered at Giradin, his dagger-like nose curled up at the nostrils and the gaps in his teeth filled with spittle.


    Giradin tried to puff out his chest to appear more intimidating. "What we''re up to? We''re trying to help you people!"


    "He''s a liar!" the old man rasped. He pointed to Giradin with a long, crooked, bony finger and glanced at the other men around him. Being young men with families to care for, the others around him averted both his gaze and Giradin''s. "We know you plan to give us all the plague! Crows are liars! They are unholy demons sent to kill us all!"


    Children in the opposite line cringed and hid behind their mothers.


    Giradin shook his head. "You''re speaking lunacy, old man. Stop frightening people with your wild tales!"


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    The ragged old man responded with an obscene gesture.


    Giradin thought for a moment, trying to think of what Fulk would do. He settled on telling the old man, "Do that again and you''ll lose that finger."


    The raspy chuckle that followed his words told Giradin his threat had not been believed.


    A wooden baton rested against the old man''s hunched back, at which he flinched. The militiaman wielding the baton said, "Move along, Rawlin! And shut your noise!"


    The old man said no more, but kept his furious face fixed ahead of him.


    What seemed like years passed by as Giradin watched the line move along, his eyes searching the faces of those in line for buboes or discolored eyes. Truth be told, none of these commoners really looked healthy. Half of them stifled hacking coughs, and mucus dripped from many a nostril. Their skin was pale, their hair ragged, and their nails black with dirt. Worse yet was their stench, which Giradin could almost taste even through his mask.


    When finally, the lines were done, Fulk drew the four of them together.


    Fulk looked to Mu. "So, we''ve treated everyone in town and dealt with the few here who had plague. What''s the next step in your plan?"


    "Now we wait," said Mu. "We wait and we observe. Every three days we do this again. If no one else catches plague, then I''ll know my medicine worked."


    "How long do you propose we wait?" Fulk asked.


    "As I told Melcher Fitz, three weeks."


    "Three weeks?" Fulk intoned, incredulous. "Shit! You can''t expect us to do this every three days for three weeks! That''s over a month!"


    Shlomo shook his head. "No, it''s not. A month is usually about four weeks."


    Fulk clenched his fist and groaned, "Shlomo, I swear to God..."


    Shlomo shrugged. "I''m not mocking you, it''s true!"


    "I''d prefer to wait longer than three weeks," said Mu. "Just to be really sure. But Fitz won''t lend his aid that long. Come on, now, Fulk, we''re testing a medicine that might prevent the plague from spreading. Isn''t that worth three weeks of this?"


    Fulk glanced over his shoulder, his dark lenses scanning the crowds as they returned to their homes for the night. "If we were coming back every three days maybe... but to actually stay here in town that long?"


    "We have to stay close to the patients," Mu said. "It''s the best way to be sure."


    Fulk groaned and hung his head. "Fine! Alright, men... ummm... good work today and..." he rubbed the back of his hood with his gloved hand. "And... umm... oh, sod it! Let''s just go back to the inn and clean up. Get some rest."


    The four of them retreated to their shared room at the inn. All four men stripped out of their uniforms and scrubbed them down with brushes and soap. Having few options, they rinsed their suits off while holding them out the window, letting the soapy water run down into the filth-filled streets.


    Once cleaned up, every man changed into his sleeping clothes and curled up in his bedroll on the inn''s cold floor. Giradin rested his head against a bag filled with his belongings and drifted off to an uneasy sleep, still in the icy grip of the chill that had settled over Elekvaz.


    Hours later, he awoke to the sound of scratching on the inn''s floor, followed by a squeaking sound.


    A rat?


    He reached for the weapon underneath his make-shift pillow and drew the blade from its sheath. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and he listened for the sound of the rodent''s little claws on the stone floor.


    But it was not one squeaky voice he heard, it was two.


    And soon he realized why, when he saw a grotesque lump of flesh and fur crawl across the inn floor. The creature was only a little larger than a normal rat, but to Giradin''s horror, it had two heads, eight legs, two tails, and a lump on its back which almost looked like a third head.


    Giradin could only watch in shocked silence as the rodent''s twisted form crept across the inn''s floor on all eight leggs.


    Crack!


    The sudden sound and the red splatter caused Giradin to jump, and he thought his heart about to explode.


    Fulk held his bloody mace while he lay on his back. "A rat-king..." he muttered. "Shit..."

 The Burning Tide

    Giradin and the other plague doctors approached a building made of white bricks. The windows were tall and all smashed in. The roof was shaped like successive steps, each reaching higher and higher into the sky, until they came to a highest point in the center. Scorch marks spread across the outer walls as if they''d been spread by a hyperactive child with a paint-brush. Across the front of the door were two boards nailed to the walls on either side.


    Each plague doctor held in one hand a mallet or sledgehammer they''d borrowed from the people of Elekvaz.


    "What is... or... was this place?" Giradin asked.


    "According to the locals," said Fulk, "it used to be a synagogue."


    "She still is," said Shlomo, his voice betraying a hint of sadness. "Even if she''s been abandoned."


    "Why is there an old synagogue in Elekvaz?" Giradin asked. "The people here are Christians, aren''t they?"


    "I can confirm that," said Mu. "Yesterday I didn''t see a single circumcized dick."


    "There used to be a ghetto here," said Fulk. "At least, that''s what the locals told me. Then there was a pogrom."


    Shlomo shivered at the sound of the word. Giradin felt the same chill crawl across his shoulders like a spider.


    "So, why are we here?" asked Giradin. "To chase away the ghosts of the past?"


    "No, we''re here to kill the rats," said Fulk. "You saw that rat-king last night, didn''t you? Those things only come about when there are many many rats tightly packed together in an enclosed space. There aren''t many places in Elekvaz where so many rats can gather without the citizens noticing. This abandoned synagogue is one of them." Fulk adjusted his grip on the hammer and turned his beak toward Shlomo. "Do you have any qualms about entering a synagogue with the intent to do violence? If so, you can stay here while we go in."


    Shlomo shook his head. "No qualms in this case. These rats have desecrated this sacred place and need to be destroyed."


    Fulk returned his attention to the synagogue''s front door. "Fine, then. Let''s be ready for the worst. If you see anything, from a simple mouse to a damn vermin, don''t keep it to yourself."


    Mu and Fulk bashed away at the boards crossed over the door. Splinters and sawdust flew with every loud crack, until the door broke inward. All four doctors raised their hammers high, ready to crush the beasts inside when they rushed out into the light.


    But nothing emerged from within.


    "Shit... they''re gonna make us go in after them..." Fulk shook his head. "Someone has to give up their hammer and hold the lantern so we can actually see what we''re doing..." He looked up at the three other plague doctors, his lenses passing from to the next, then back again. "Giradin, you carry the lantern."


    Fear struck Giradin''s heart at Fulk''s command. He was to enter the synagogue more or less unarmed, but holding a lantern so his fellows could see. "Why me?"


    "Will you accept ''because I said so?''" Fulk asked. "Or do I need to explain about how Shlomo and Mu are better warriors than you are?"


    "No, because you said so is fine," Giradin sighed, set his hammer against the synagogue''s outer wall, and picked up the lantern. With flint and steel he lit the oil inside and the flame shone through the panes of glass surrounding it.


    Shlomo patted Giradin''s shoulder. "Look at it this way: we now have more motive than ever before to make sure you get through this alive."


    The four of them entered through the front doors of the synagogue, stepping from dull, gray light into utter darkness. The lantern''s flame spread out orange illumination through the building.


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    Pews were broken in half, scorched skeletons lay on the ground, and old blood stained the stone floor brown. Dust and ash hovered in the air, and every step the doctors took echoed through the vast expanse.


    "Rat droppings." Mu''s voice split the silence, and the moor crouched down to get a closer look at the stone floor. "There are rat droppings wedged between the tiles. The scum have been here... no, they''re definitely nesting here."


    Giradin shivered.


    Shlomo nervously whispered under his breath, "Mah tovu o ha''lecha Yaakov..." followed by more words Giradin did not recognize.


    The ceiling creaked overhead and the wind howled through the broken windows, whipping around the sharp shards of glass. Giradin peered up at the elaborate symbol of a tree carved into the wall above archways on the left side of the synagogue''s sanctuary.


    "Hey! Cast that light over here!" Fulk hissed. "We''re not here so you can admire the beautiful artwork, we''re here to kill rats!"


    Giradin lowered the lantern and held it out toward Fulk. "Sorry!"


    "Over here!" Mu shouted and gestured with his hand for the others to draw closer. The other three walked over, craning their necks to see what he had discovered. Mu stepped aside, and they all peered at a rug he''d kicked aside and a trapdoor in the floor with holes chewed through it.


    When Giradin''s lantern shone through the holes in the trapdoor, he saw countless, glimmering eyes staring back at him from the darkness below. The shapes and shadows squirmed about beneath the wooden door, and Giradin heard the squeaks and cries of the creatures underneath.


    "Well, look at that," said Fulk, his voice smiling. "The nasty little shits all gathered themselves into one place for us."


    "Indeed," said Mu. "So, what do we do?"


    Fulk turned to Shlomo. "You''ve been in synagogues before, right? Are the cellars typically made of wood or stone?"


    "Stone," said Shlomo.


    Fulk nodded. "Good good. And is your God likely to bring his wrath down on us if we start a fire in an abandoned synagogue?"


    Shlomo shrugged. "How should I know what The Lord''s going to do?"


    "Then I think we''ll chance it," said Fulk. "Mu, you have anything that can burn these bastards?"


    Mu nodded, reached into his coat, and produced two vials full of black liquids. "Same stuff I used on the vampire."


    Fulk reached into his own coat and produced a bottle marked with a picture of a lantern. He uncorked the bottle and poured the black contents down through the holes in the trapdoor. The shining eyes underneath scattered away from the spill. Fulk knelt down and slipped his fingers through a metal ring on the trapdoor.


    Fulk looked up at Shlomo. "Pull one of those broken pews over here. Be ready to block the trapdoor."


    "Yes, master," said Shlomo with an overly-dramatic bow. He set his hammer against a pillar and dragged one of the smaller pieces of a broken pew over to rest beside the trapdoor.


    Fulk turned to Mu. "As soon as I fling this trapdoor open, set the fuckers on fire. I''ll slam the trapdoor shut again and Shlomo and Giradin will push the broken pew over it so they can''t escape."


    Giradin set his lantern down on the floor and walked over to the broken pew Shlomo had pulled over. He placed both hands on the side, ready to help push.


    Once everyone looked ready, Fulk threw back the trapdoor, exposing the swarms of rats below to the lantern''s light. The rats below had many heads, tails, and legs. Giradin''s stomach turned, thinking of what manner of natural laws had created them into the twisted abominations they had become.


    Mu chucked the two vials into the cellar. They broke on the stone floor and instantly errupted into bright orange flames.


    Fulk slammed the trapdoor shut again and there was a groan of wood dragging on stone as Shlomo and Giradin barricaded the door with the broken pew.


    All four of them jumped back as flames leapt up through the gaps in the trapdoor, engulfing the pew in seconds. The rat-kings down below shrieked in terror and agony, a thousand tiny voices ringing in Giradin''s ears.


    "Burn, you shits!" Fulk bellowed, before breaking into laughter. "Filthy beasts!"


    Crack!


    The flaming pew jolted upward as something slammed the trapdoor from underneath.


    The plague doctors exchanged nervous glances with one another. Shlomo grabbed his hammer from the pillar and held it tightly in both hands.


    Crack!


    Crack!


    The broken pew toppled over and snapped in two. The trapdoor was a gathering of splinters, barely holding together anymore.


    Giradin picked up the lantern again and drew his seax.


    "Vermin..." Fulk whispered. "That''s got to be vermin... mere rats could never--"


    The trapdoor burst open and the flames underneath were the first thing to leap out. The plague doctors fell backward to avoid the tongues of fire lashing out to taste the air and whatever fuel they could feed upon. Giradin tripped over a tile sticking up out of the floor and tumbled backward. He crashed into a broken pew and it crumpled under his weight.


    The lantern flew from his hand and rolled across the synagogue floor, casting strange shadows across the ceiling.


    The rats'' screeching grew louder, followed by the sound of thousands of little paws on the steps leading up out of the cellar.


    "Oh, God!" Fulk shouted.


    Giradin craned his neck to see a wave of countless flaming rat-kings charge out of the cellar. Fulk swung out with his hammer and crushed one, but the swarm pulled him under.


    The rats moved like one burning cloud, a storm blown in by unholy winds from the pits of Hell itself.

 In Nomine

    Many would later call Giradin a coward for what he did next, but what was he supposed to do when a burning tide of rats swarmed after him?


    He ran.


    Giradin turned and fled from the rodent horde as fast as his feet could carry him. The synagogue''s door was still broken open, so he charged through the gap, crying out to the passersby. "Flee! Flee!"


    Behind him he could hear the high-pitched screams of what must have been thousands of desperate rodents, and the roaring sound of their approach. Ahead of him, he saw the orange glow from the flames, and black smoke above. Townspeople screamed and fled, along with their children and their dogs. Even the city watch turned tail upon seeing the disaster that had been unleashed from within the depths of the abandoned synagogue.


    Giradin felt the heat growing behind him as he ran, and heard the crackling of burning wood.


    The houses have caught fire!


    Ahead of him, down an impossibly-long road, he spotted the city gates, which he remembered had been barred shut.


    They must open it... they can''t just let us all die here!


    His breath fogged up the lenses of his mask, and he choked and coughed as simply not enough air got through to his mouth and nostrils. The very same thing that had kept him safe from plague threatened to smother him now, so he undid the straps on the back of his head and removed the mask from his face, the precious air filled his lungs, foul as it may have smelled.


    Behind him, the shrieks and squeaks of the rats had ceased, but he still heard the fires raging and could see the black smoke billowing into the skies above.


    Ahead of him, citizens gathered at the city gates and pounded on the wood. He couldn''t hear what they cried out to the guards and doctors on the other side, but he was sure they were begging to be let free.


    Able-bodied men ran past Giradin, toward the fires, with buckets of sand and water in hand. Giradin stayed the course, heading toward the main gate.


    "Stand aside!" he cried as he drew near. "I''ll get it open! Stand aside!"


    The citizens at the gate parted to allow him passage, and the momentum from his long run carried him crashing into the wooden gate. "Let us out of here! You can''t leave us to die!" he bellowed.


    No answer from the other side.


    "I''m a Crow too!" Giradin yelled. "Look! Look through the gaps and you''ll see! I''m one of you! Let us out!"


    "Our job is to stop the plague from spreading. That is all," came a cold reply from the other side.


    "DAMN YOU!" Giradin shouted and beat his gloved fists on the gate. He glanced back at the leaping flames in the distance and the pillar of smoke rising from the inferno. "Open this fucking gate, you bastard!"


    Silence met his pleas.


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    "Damn you to Hell!" Giradin shrieked.


    The commoners beat their fists on the gate, shouting all at once their various bribes and demands to be set free from Elekvaz. All the while the fires grew behind them. The larger men threw their shoulders against the gate, over and over, making no discernible progress with getting it open.


    "Out of the way!" came a bellowing voice behind them, and Giradin was swept aside as the crowd parted ways again. Three men with wood-cutting axes rushed forward and attacked the gate. Splinters flew with each strike. More common people piled in with hammers and axes in hand, assaulting the gate with all their might. Those around them cheered and threw their shoulders into the gate in their attempts to break it.


    At first, Giradin was among those cheering as the commoners tried to break the gate.


    Until he remembered Isselhan.


    "Wait!" he cried. "Stop!" He waved both hands over his head in a vain attempt to get his fellow citizens'' attention. "If you break through they''ll kill us all!"


    Giradin couldn''t tell if they were ignoring him or simply hadn''t heard him. In their panic, they continued to assault the gate, breaking holes through the wood.


    Snap!


    One of the axe-men fell dead with a crossbow bolt through his eye.


    Snap!


    Snap!


    Giradin felt the wind of a crossbow bolt flying past his head, and saw another pierce one of the townsmen''s shoulders.


    The noise rose to a deafening cacophany between the screams of terror and pain, the roaring fires, the barking dogs, and Giradin''s own attempts to warn the people not to break through the gate.


    "Our only hope is to fight the fire!" Giradin shouted, but even he couldn''t hear his voice.


    Knowing these people were headed to their own deaths, Giradin turned to face the fire. He was determined to help combat the blaze as it seemed the only chance they had at survival.


    He''d not taken two steps before the crowd caught him up in its flow and flung him back. As if they''d all become one body, the citizens slammed against the gate, and Giradin''s body was crushed in the middle of it all.


    "Turn back!" he cried, his voice starting to get hoarse. "Turn back!" His arms flailed around as the flow of the crowd pulled him back and threw him forward again, crashing into the wooden gates.


    Spear-heads popped through the holes in the gates and blood sprayed the crowd as the weapons sliced throats open and pierced hearts. More crossbow bolts flew through, striking down those within.


    Over the heads of the crowd, Giradin watched as the flames leapt from one rooftop to another. Then another. The blaze was spreading faster now, and the efforts of those brave enough to attempt to put it out seemed to have little effect, if any.


    In that moment, Giradin was sure that he was about to die. If not from the fire, then trampled under the crowd''s feet. If not trampled, then by the spears and crossbows of his fellow Crows. If not from his fellow Crows, then surely from plague, for he had dropped his mask somewhere in the midst of all those people.


    He cast his eyes to the blackening skies above, so bleak and devoid of hope or mercy.


    "Sweet Jesus! Deliver us!" he cried out. "Saints above, here my prayer!"


    When the crowd threw itself against the gate again, Giradin lost his footing and collapsed onto the ground around their feet.


    "God Almighty! HELP!" He shouted, even from the ground.


    A foot stamped on his sternum.


    Then another in his gut.


    And leather-booted toes kicked him in the nose.


    "Merciful God, help us!"


    Giradin curled into a fetal position, protecting his face, chest, and guts the best he could as the citizens of Elekvaz rushed by all around him and stomped on his side.


    Then, suddenly, they all stopped. Giradin felt a rush of cool air as they moved away from him, followed by a downpour of cold, wet drops.


    He uncurled his body and gazed up at the sky again as a torrential rain flowed down from the heavens.


    With pain coursing through his body, Giradin forced himself to his feet and peered back at the fires. The flames shrank back from the rain, and white steam rose where black smoke had once been.


    The citizens of Elekvaz all stared up at the sky, a mix of gratitude, confusion, and relief on their faces.


    Giradin closed his eyes, spread his arms, and turned his face to the sky, soaking in that sweet, freezing cold rain from above. He didn''t know if it was just a crazy coincidence or an answer to his prayer, but he thanked God nonetheless.

 Patient

    "But I''m a doctor too!" Giradin protested. "I''m one of you!"


    "At the moment, you''re a patient," came Melcher Fitz''s cold reply from underneath that steel mask.


    After things had calmed down a bit more, Melcher Fitz had entered Elekvaz with a dozen plague doctors in the city square, each with their weapons out and ready should any of the citizens seek revenge. As it was, the people of Elekvaz kept even greater distance between them and the doctors than before.


    Giradin stood before Melcher Fitz with the trampled remains of his mask in hand. Mu and Shlomo each stood beside him in their full plague doctor uniforms.


    Shlomo raised an index finger, "If I may, Lord Fitz... with Fulk in the infirmary for his burns we need all the help we can get. Losing Giradin will make our job most difficult."


    Fitz''s beak snapped to Shlomo. "Really? Then maybe next time you''ll think twice before you unleash a swarm of flaming rats in a populated area!"


    "We didn''t ''unleash'' anything!" Mu protested. "We tried to trap them in the cellar so Fulk could kill them all at once. No one could have predicted that those... monsters could have been strong enough to break through the cellar door!"


    "Maybe not," said Fitz. "But you all are still responsible." He groaned. "And besides, Giradin''s not a patient now because I seek to punish any of you, but because he lost his mask and then got swept up in the crowd. That means he might be infected, so he needs to be watched for symptoms for the next couple of days."


    The wind picked up and Giradin gagged on a whiff of the filth in the streets. "Ugh... tell me I at least get a new mask..." he said.


    Fitz shook his head. "The smiths are still working on making a new one. In the meantime you will stay here, in Elekvaz. Once we''re sure you''re not infected you''ll be permitted to leave the city and don a new uniform."


    "But just staying here without a mask..." Giradin glanced back and forth in the town. "I''m vulnerable! If I''m not already sick I will be soon..."


    Fitz pointed at Giradin''s face. "Then you''d better hope that Mujahid''s cure works."


    Mu reached into his coat. "Speaking of which..." he produced a vial and held it out to Giradin. "Drink this and pray."


    Giradin hesitated a moment, then reached out and took the vial. He popped the cork and poured the contents into his mouth, almost choking on the bitter taste.


    Fitz turned to Shlomo. "Until Fulk has recovered you are in charge."


    Shlomo chuckled. "In charge of who? Mu? It''s just the two of us now."


    "I''m going to send some of our new recruits in to help you two," said Fitz. "And if there is one more incident like before I''m putting an end to this entire experiment."


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    Giradin felt his stomach drop at Fitz''s words. "What will happen to Elekvaz if you halt the experiment."


    Fitz stared at Giradin in silence for a moment before finally saying, "You already know the answer to that."


    Giradin grunted. "Sure... burn one more city... what does it matter anymore."


    Fitz lunged forward and seized Giradin by the collar. Giradin struggled to slip free, but Fitz held him fast. "We work to stop the end of all of Christendom. St. Ida said that if the Black Death spreads unchecked millions will die. MILLIONS! That''s more than all the stars in the sky, more people than you will ever see in your lifetime."


    Giradin curled up his nose at Fitz. "So, to prevent countless people from dying it''s ok to kill countless people?"


    Fitz shoved Giradin away. The young man lost his balance and crashed onto the filthy streets behind him with an earthy splash. The combined stenches of urine and muck burned in Giradin''s nostrils.


    Fitz''s fists and shoulders shook with rage as he stared down at Giradin. "I do what''s necessary to fulfill my holy cause, Giradin. A cause I hope you still believe in, because I will not tolerate traitors in our midst." Fitz drew his longsword and pointed the tip at Giradin''s nose. Giradin''s eyes turned from a defiant glare at Fitz''s mask to a fearful stare at his own reflection in Fitz''s blade. "Don''t give me a reason to use this, lad."


    The two of them remained silent for a long while, with the tip of Fitz''s weapon half an inch from Giradin''s face.


    "Say ''yes, my lord,''" Fitz ordered.


    "Yes, my lord," Giradin choked out.


    Fitz sheathed his sword. "Good. Just remember the penalty for insubordination." Melcher Fitz turned from Giradin and stormed off, his cadre of Crows following after him.


    Shlomo and Mu both took Giradin''s arms and helped him to his feet.


    Once he was up, Shlomo patted him on the shoulder. "I know it''s hard to understand sometimes, but Fitz is doing what must be done."


    Giradin shook his head. "I''m not sure I can believe that anymore, Shlomo... When I was there, in the midst of that crowd... I saw those faces so full of fear... and..."


    Mu interrupted, "Afraid of the fire we started. They were afraid because of a mistake we made, one we won''t make again."


    Giradin grunted. "There''s a bigger picture here, Mujahid! How many towns, villages, and even cities have we burned? Do you really think everyone in Isselhan deserved that?"


    Shlomo shook his head. "It''s not about what they deserved, Giradin. We needed to do it."


    "Did we?" Giradin asked.


    "We offered a quicker death to anyone who would come forward," said Mu.


    Giradin snorted. "The priests always tell us that God sends those who commit suicide to Hell. We even saw what happens to suicides with our own eyes!"


    Shlomo chuckled. "No, we didn''t. The vampire was invisible, remember?"


    "You know what I mean!" Giradin snapped. "Think about the options we''re giving these people! Suicide and damnation, or death by fire? There''s got to be a better way!"


    Mu placed both hands on Giradin''s shoulders. "Yes! Yes, I agree with you! There needs to be a better way. That''s why we''re here, remember? To test the medicine I made. If it works, the Church can make enough of it for all of Christendom to take it."


    "And if it doesn''t work?" Giradin asked. "What happens to Elekvaz if your medicine does nothing?"


    "Pray it doesn''t come to that," said Mujahid. "I''ll pray to Allah, Shlomo can pray to his God, and you can pray to the saints or to Jesus or to Mary or... whatever you do. One of us is bound to be talking to the right God, Giradin. Or, if not the right God, at least one willing to listen and help."


    Shlomo nodded. "You''ll be confined to your room at the inn for the next few days, except when you come out for inspection, so use that time to pray."


    "So, I''m a prisoner now?" Giradin said.


    "A patient," said Shlomo. "Though, admittedly, the lines between the two are often a bit blurry. In any case, we ask that as our patient you be patient."

 A Mass Murder of Crows

    Not a single person in the crowd could give Giradin a straight answer to his simple question, "What is everyone fretting over?"


    He pushed his way through the teeming masses of people, some of them trying just as hard as he was to get to where they could see what had everyone''s attention, others walking away from the scene with horrified expressions and mouths hanging agape.


    "Oh, God!"


    "How does something like that happen?"


    "It''s a sign!"


    Giradin gently pushed aside those blocking his way. Some moved without a fuss, others gave him dirty glares and threatening gestures.


    When finally he reached the front of the crowd, his eyes beheld what had them all so confused and terrified. He''d expected to see a dead man, maybe one with his blood drained from a wound in his neck. Or, perhaps, a dead woman horribly mutilated. He''d witnessed the Devil''s dark work before and had prepared himself for whatever gruesome sight awaited him.


    But it was no man nor woman that lay dead. Black feathers were strewn about, and on the ground lay hundreds of ravens, half-plucked with their necks snapped. The broken birds lay in a pile of ashes. Some had their wings town off, others their eyes cut out.


    "Sweet Mary..." Giradin gasped and stepped back at the sight.


    Across the clearing where the dead crows lay, Giradin spied one of the plague doctors watching the scene. He wondered if this was Shlomo, Mu, or one of the others Fitz had assigned to them, but had no way of knowing until he heard them speak.


    In the other faces of the crowd he saw confused and adults and morbidy fascinated boys.


    Giradin stared down at the crows'' lifeless eyes and their open beaks. His pupils roamed over the bones protruding through their black feathers. Their blood mixed with the muck in the streets, and bugs swarmed to the filthy feast.


    A hand clamped down on Giradin''s shoulder, causing him to jump and draw his seax. When he rounded, he saw a face covered in bandages. The stranger caught Giradin''s wrist and twisted it, causing him to drop his weapon.


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    "It''s me!" the man spoke in a gruff voice.


    "Fulk?" Giradin said.


    "Aye," Fulk gestured with his head for Giradin to follow him, released his wrist and shoulder, and turned to walk away from the raven graveyard.


    Giradin obeyed, and once they had made their way through the crowd he said, "What could have done something like that? It looks like those crows were all killed at around the same time."


    "Killing a flock of birds all at once isn''t really as impressive a feat as you think," said Fulk, not yet turning back to face Giradin. "Whoever did this could have set traps for the birds, captured them, and when he had enough crows killed them all at once and dumped their bodies there."


    Fulk led Giradin around the corner of one of the houses, into a back alleyway cast in shadows. "The real thing to worry about," said Fulk, "Is not how that''s possible, but why someone would do that."


    "Good point," said Giradin, scratching his chin. "Maybe this was the work of a witch? This could be part of a curse or something."


    Fulk shook his head. "I don''t think so. Frankly, I think it''s rather obvious what that is. It''s a threat."


    "A threat?" Giradin repeated.


    "Aye, a threat against the plague doctors," said Fulk. "Is that confusion on your brow? You really can''t put the clues together? People call us the Crows, and now, after all that happened the other day, we find a pile of dead crows. Clearly, some bastard''s threatening us."


    Giradin glanced behind him, then turned to Fulk and spoke in a low voice, "You think you could avoid saying ''us'' when talking about the plague doctors? I don''t have my mask anymore, and if there''s someone with a vendetta against the Crows..."


    Fulk rolled his eyes. "Anyone who went through this much trouble already knows you''re one of the plague doctors. Hell, you''re even still wearing the coat!"


    Giradin looked down at the long black coat he''d wrapped himself in. It was true, other than the mask he was still wearing the plague doctor uniform. It wouldn''t be difficult for anyone to guess what he was.


    "But... something doesn''t add up about your theory..." Giradin said. "It couldn''t be someone who has a vendetta against us for what happened the other day. Not with that many dead crows."


    Fulk folded his arms. "What do you mean?"


    "Well, think about it," said Giradin. "You said that whoever it was could have been setting traps for crows for a long time, caught however many he needed, and then killed all of them last night and dumped them there in the street. That looked like hundreds of crows there, hundreds! Wouldn''t it take him... I don''t know... a lot longer than just a few days to catch that many?"


    "Aye, it would," said Fulk. "But that''s easy enough to explain: the vendetta didn''t start with what we did, it''s far older than that." Fulk shrugged. "Maybe whoever this fellow is, he''s hated the plague doctors for a long time. Maybe years. He could be someone who lost a loved one to us, a loved one who was sick and executed."


    "So, what do we do about it?" Giradin asked.


    "We talk to the sheriff," said Fulk. "Get him to tell us what his men have found out so far. Then we help with the investigation, find this lunatic, and kill him before he kills us."

 Drinks!

    "Piss off!"


    Giradin might have been shocked by the sheriff''s response had he not been too busy trying not to laugh at the surprised look on Fulk''s bandaged face.


    The three of them stood in the streets outside the sheriff''s office. The city militia milled about all around them, chattering to each other about how miserable they were still trying to clean up the mess from the fire.


    "We''re offering to help!" Fulk protested. "Whoever did that to the birds is--"


    "You''ve helped enough!" the sheriff snapped, interrupting Fulk. "The Crows may have control of the city right now, but solving crimes is still my job." His dismissive scowl turned into a mocking smirk. "Besides... I''m not sure you''re really still a Crow anyway."


    "Rotten shit..." Fulk muttered.


    The sheriff pointed his leather-gloved finger at Fulk. "Keep it up. Keep talking like that and I''ll have you in the stocks."


    "I''m not scared of you, lawman!" Fulk spat, both his fists clenched tight.


    The sheriff opened his mouth to speak again, but Giradin knew he had to intervene before this escalated too far. He stepped between them and held up both hands. "Fulk, maybe it would be better if we let them do their job and we just rested for now."


    "Rest?" Fulk repeated with incredulity. "How can we rest? Someone just threatened the Crows!"


    "We don''t know that for sure," said Giradin. "We''re not militia. We don''t solve crimes, we prevent the spread of a deadly disease. How furious would we be if the sheriff were to start... I don''t know... treating plague patients? Would we trust him to give them medicine?"


    "...No..." Fulk unclenched his fists.


    Giradin gave a sigh of relief. "You said it yourself in Kinhan, we are not monster hunters. Whether man or beast, whatever did that to those birds is a monster."


    Fulk snorted and shook his head, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lip. "That''s a stretch... but, fine! We''ll let the sheriff do his job."


    Giradin turned to the sheriff and nodded. "Good luck with this one."


    The sheriff shrugged. "If God wills it, the man who did this will be caught."


    Giradin put a hand on Fulk''s shoulder to try to steer him away from the sheriff, but Fulk shoved him away. "Don''t touch me!" he snapped, then turned and stomped away.


    Giradin followed. "Is all this anger really necessary?"


    "''All this anger,'' he says," Fulk grumbled. "I''m irritated. You haven''t seen me angry. When I get angry people die."


    Giradin chuckled. "So, you''ve never been angry at Shlomo?" He slowed down just a step to make sure he was out of arm''s reach. "Does that mean you were just fondling his balls the other day, not threatening them?"


    Giradin had expected Fulk to lash out again, and was prepared to jump out of the way, but to his surprise the murderer only chuckled and said, "Don''t tell me you aren''t curious what a circumcized dick is like, Giradin."


    Both Crows laughed at Fulk''s joke and shook their heads.


    Once they''d gotten the laughter out, Fulk said, "Well, shit! What are we supposed to do with our time if we can''t investigate what happened to those birds?"


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    Giradin shrugged. "Well... when''s the last time you had fun?"


    "Fun?" Fulk repeated, as if the word were some foreign concept. "Probably about... oh... maybe four years ago."


    "Well, then, let''s go to the tavern and have a good time," said Giradin with a smile.


    "We''re not here to have fun," said Fulk.


    "Right, we''re here as patients, at the moment," said Giradin. "Patients milling about in a city with streets full of shit and piss. A city where there were already a handfull of people hiding symptoms of plague. A city that hates the Crows for... well, too many reasons right now. Let''s face it, we''re probably dead men. If the plague doesn''t get us, the people of Elekvaz will."


    "You''re doing a great job lifting my spirits," Fulk muttered.


    "I''m just saying, why not use the time to eat, drink, and be merry, like Shlomo always says?"


    Fulk considered it for a moment. "You mean... drink for some reason other than self-loathing and to drown the demons within?"


    "Would it really be so terrible to do something other than work or wallow in self-loathing?"


    Fulk pointed an accusing finger at Giradin, but the smirk on his scarred lips let Giradin know he wasn''t serious, "Hey! Wallowing in self-loathing is my favorite pastime!"


    ..................


    And so, the two of them found themselves at the Dutch Cavern Tavern.


    With mugs of dark beer in their hands and plates of roast pigeon on their table, Giradin and Fulk sat and listened to the minstrels play and the serving wenches tell bawdy jokes. Jokes which were meant to implant sinful ideas in their patrons'' minds as well as bring laughter.


    "Another round here!" Giradin called out to one of the wenches, and she re-filled both his and Fulk''s mugs. The two men clacked their clay cups together and Giradin said, "To living while we can!"


    Fulk nodded and took a long drink from his mug, gulping down the beer. Giradin still couldn''t imagine how someone could drink something so bitter so quickly.


    "That one''s looking at you," Fulk muttered to him and gestured to one of the serving wenches.


    She was a young woman, probably around 19 years of age, with dark hair in curls and bright blue eyes. For a common woman, she was delightfully plump, so much so that the front of her dress could barely contain her ample bosom. The alluring gaze in her eyes and brief movement of her tongue along her ripe, red lips made Giradin''s loins stir with lust.


    "Don''t just stare back," Fulk said, giving Giradin a pat on the shoulder. "She''ll roll in the hay with you for a few coppers, I''m sure."


    Giradin shook his head and turned his gaze down to the beer in his cup.


    "What''s wrong with you?" Fulk asked. "You waiting on some long-lost princess? Or are you a buggerer?"


    "I''m the son of a whore, actually," said Giradin.


    Fulk snorted. "Ah..."


    Giradin sighed. "I was raised in a brothel, among a bunch of other children who didn''t know who their fathers were. And when I turned eight I found out the reason why, when I walked in on my mother... ''conducting business'' with one of her patrons."


    "And you don''t want to make another child who goes through what you went through... I see..."


    Giradin chuckled. "No, it''s nothing so noble as that. A few years ago, I found a dead man by the side of the road, and I picked his pockets. He had quite a bit of money on him, so I used some of it to pay for a night with a whore." He shivered. "Worst mistake of my life! All I could think of when I was with her was my mother. Gah! It just felt like incest the whole time."


    Fulk chuckled. "Was your mother as plump as this one?"


    "Don''t."


    "Because this one''s got huge--"


    "I SAID DON''T!" Giradin snapped.


    Fulk closed his mouth and set his mug down on the table. After a moment of silence, he said, "You know, you''re going to have to get past that hang-up eventually. Otherwise you''ll never get to dip your wick. None of us are likely to get married anytime soon."


    Giradin shrugged. "If the priests can live celibate lives so can I."


    Fulk snorted. "Such a naif! You really think the priests actually keep their vows of celibacy? What do you think the nuns are for?"


    Giradin shot him a glare. "That''s blasphemy!"


    "I agree!" Fulk growled. "It''s blasphemy every time a priest sticks it in a nun, but it happens all the time. Or do you really believe every pregnant nun was raped by a demon?"


    Giradin groaned and rubbed his right temple with his fingers. "Keep talking like that and God''s going to smite us both."


    "Ha!" Fulk downed more of his beer. "Well, if you''re not going to have a go at the plump whore, I am. That bother you?"


    Giradin waved a dismissive hand. "No. Do what you will."


    Fulk tilted his head back and drank the last of his beer, then slammed the clay mug down on the table, adjusted his collar, and sauntered over to the plump serving wench, who gave a fearful look at his approach.


    Giradin sipped more of his beer and listened to the flute-player as he wove tapestries of sound, taking Giradin away to happier times. Times he never actually had, but always imagined.

 Smoking

    "No signs of plague yet."


    Giradin breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his arms. Mu, clad in his plague doctor uniform, handed Giradin his clothes and let him dress in the tent, then gave him a vial of the medicine he''d brewed. Giradin popped the cork and swallowed the revolting contents.


    "Has anyone shown any symptoms yet?" Giradin asked.


    "There are a few," said Mu. "But those who''ve cooperated have been locked up in the jail for now, and they''ve shown no signs of worsening. I hope that means the medicine''s working."


    "How much longer will this experiment go on?" Giradin asked.


    The moor stared back at Giradin through his dark lenses, his face hidden beneath that steel beak. "I don''t know. And I''m afraid I have to ask you to move along. I have more patients to treat."


    Giradin slipped his clothes on, starting with his long coat, and left the tent. Once outside again, he glanced back at the two long lines of patients making their way to the two tents where they would be inspected, scrubbed down, and given Mu''s experimental drug. In the line he spotted Fulk, his face and right hand still wrapped in bandages.


    Giradin left the city square and started on his way back to the inn. The people of Elekvaz sneered and spat at him when he drew near, so he re-routed himself toward the back alleys. Fearing they might follow him, he drew his seax and held it firmly at his side.


    A few steps into the alley, he glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could. No one followed him.


    The following sigh of relief was cut short with a yelp from Giradin''s throat as a black figure fell from one of the rooftops and crashed onto the ground in front of him. "Oh, God!" he shouted and jumped back.


    There lay on the hard, stone street a man in a black cloak, his eyes torn out and his neck and arms broken, having clearly been twisted and popped into directions they should not have faced. The dead man''s tongue lolled out of his mouth and blood leaked from within.


    "Law men!" Giradin shouted, turning away from the body in black. "Oh, God! Law men! There''s a dead body here!" He glanced up at the roof from which the body fell, spotting a wisp of smoke from the thatch for just a moment before it faded into the air.


    The sound of boots on the cobblestone streets.


    Giradin turned to see two militiamen approach with their wooden batons in hand. "What happened?" the taller of the two barked while the other rushed over to check the dead body.


    While one of the militiamen bent down and held his hand over the dead man''s mouth to check for breath, Giradin told the other, "He fell from the roof like that... I don''t know how or why... I think someone else was up there. I saw smoke."


    "He''s dead," said the kneeling militiaman.


    Giradin rolled his eyes. "Such insight! Thank you for your wisdom."


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    "Watch it!" the taller militiaman said as he pressed the tip of his baton under Giradin''s chin. "You were here when he was found. How do we know you''re not the killer?"


    Giradin pushed the baton away from his face and glared at the militiaman. "Wouldn''t the killer have fled rather than calling for the law?"


    The taller militiaman sneered. "Could be a trick. Drop your weapon."


    Giradin glanced down at the seax in his hand, then returned his gaze to the guard. "Wait... you''re arresting me?"


    "We just want to question you," said the militiaman, "But if you don''t do as we say we''ll get rough. Now, drop the weapon before I bash your damn face in!"


    For a fleeting moment, Giradin considered fighting both of these men and showing them what was what. He was an innocent man, and didn''t deserve any of this rubbish.


    But the last thing he wanted was to start more violence in the city, so he sheathed his seax, untied it from his belt, and lowered it to the ground by the leather strap.


    The taller militiaman gestured to the other. "Bring the manacles."


    The shorter of the two walked around to Giradin''s front, took both his arms, and clasped his wrists in manacles. Giradin ground his teeth in rage at the injustice of it all, but he kept quiet. Even as the shorter militiaman picked up his seax, Giradin said nothing.


    "What''s the meaning of this?"


    Giradin recognized the voice as Shlomo''s. His friend stood outside the alley with his gloved hand resting on the pommel of his short-sword.


    The taller militiaman used his dirty fingers to brush back his mustache hairs from his lip and said, "Don''t you have patients to attend to, Jew?" The last word was an accusation, not merely an address.


    Shlomo''s head twitched, as if he was surprised at the militiaman''s pointed insult. "The others can handle this. I heard my friend screaming about a dead body and though that, as a doctor, it was my responsibility to come see. Now you''re arresting my friend?"


    "He was the only one near the body when it was found," said the militiaman, his grip on the baton tightening.


    Shlomo shrugged. "That makes him a witness, doesn''t it? I''ve generally found that witnesses are far more helpful when you''re kind to them."


    "I''ve found that patients do better when you visit them in bed," said the militiaman.


    "It''s a poor doctor who lays with his patients," said Shlomo with a chuckle.


    "You damn well know what I mean!" the militiaman snapped. "You do your job, and let me do mine!"


    Shlomo''s fingers wrapped around the handle of his short-sword. "Your job wouldn''t entail torturing the suspect until he confesses to crimes he did not commit, would it?" He took a step closer and the militiamen both took two steps back from him. "Because, here''s what you need to know about my job.Iget to decide what does and does not look like a sign of plague.Iget to decide when a patient, or even a city, is beyond hope." Shlomo''s blade sang as he slowly withdrew it from its sheath. "And both of you men seem rather pale to me."


    The militiamen exchanged glances with one another, asking silent questions as they tried to decide how to respond to Shlomo''s veiled threats.


    "We..." the shorter militiaman began, "We still need... to take him in for questioning... even as a witness..."


    "Then you can do so without the manacles," said Shlomo.


    "I suppose we could..." said the taller militiaman. The shorter of the two unlocked the steel on Giradin''s wrists and removed the manacles.


    "And," Shlomo continued, "Since he''s a witness, that means that whoever did this will want to silence him. Probably best if your only witness can defend himself, don''t you think?"


    The militiamen met Shlomo''s inquiry with silent stares and faces trying in vain to hide their fright.


    "You know..." Shlomo said, "A common symptom of a great many diseases is impaired judgment..."


    The taller militiaman grunted in disgust and turned to Giradin. "Pick up your weapon."


    Giradin didn''t hesitate to snatch up his seax and tie it to his belt again.


    Shlomo nodded to the militiamen. "Now, while it seems this man did not die of natural causes, his death may still have something to do with the plague. You fellows wouldn''t mind at all if I was part of Giradin''s questioning, would you?"


    Another brief silence, followed by, "We welcome your help. Thank you."

 Thatched Roof

    Cries of agony from the lower levels of the militia headquarters reminded Giradin of the fate which might have awaited him had Shlomo not stepped in. Had he realized what these militamen''s idea of "justice" was sooner, he might have tried to fight back when they tried to arrest him. For now, he simply thanked God that they merely meant to question him as a witness, not interrogate him as a suspect.


    Giradin and Shlomo sat across a wooden table from the two militiamen who''d responded to Giradin''s cries for help. The walls all around were made of gray, stone bricks, with barred windows up high, letting sunlight through in golden beams. Giradin imagined that for those prisoners brought up here from the dungeons below, the light was a vain glimmer of hope that they might return to the world of the living once again.


    Giradin studied the faces of the two militiamen who sat across from him.


    The taller of the two had a bushy mustache hanging over his lip and the scraggly remnants of a beard along his jaw. His nose was large and bulbous, and his eyes were a cold shade of blue. Though he had not introduced himself, Giradin had heard the other militiaman refer to him as Fendrel.


    The shorter of the two had just the hint of mustache and beard hairs on his face, though it was clear on a glance that he couldn''t actually grow facial hair. Giradin might have thought this meant he was young, but the bags under his eyes and lines on his forehead prevented him from thinking so. He had heard Fendrel calling the shorter militiaman Hicks


    And, by the looks on these men''s faces, they had been studying Giradin''s appearance just as thoroughly as he was theirs.


    Fendrel was the first to speak. "State your name."


    "Giradin."


    "And what do you do for a living, Giradin?"


    He thought it foolish to ask a question to which they already knew the answer, but he decided it better not to stir up trouble by bringing this up. "I''m a plague doctor."


    A sudden scream from the lower levels gave Giradin a start. Fendrel and Hicks seemed either not to have heard it or to be numb to the tone of suffering.


    Fendrel continued. "What were you doing in that alleyway, Giradin?"


    "Trying to avoid the crowd," Giradin answered.


    "Why?"


    Giradin shrugged. "Because I''m uncomfortable in crowds."


    "Is that because you don''t want crowds to watch your deeds?" Fendrel asked.


    "No!" Giradin grunted, offended at the militiaman''s question.


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    "What is it you are so intent on hiding from your fellow man?" Fendrel asked.


    "I..." Giradin stammered for a moment.


    Shlomo shook his head. "Don''t answer that." He pointed his beak at Fendrel, his dark lenses carrying harsher accusations even than the militiaman''s eyes. "Does justice mean nothing to you? My friend has witnessed a murder and you''ve asked him no questions at all about it. If I didn''t know better, I''d think your lack of focus a sickness of the brain."


    The narrowing of Fendrel''s pupils spoke of repressed terror, though his face and posture did not otherwise betray him. "Perhaps I should get to the point..." Fendrel smoothed out his mustache with his index and middle fingers. "Giradin, what were you doing when you saw the body?"


    "Just walking," said Giradin with a shrug.


    "And you stumbled upon it?" Fendrel asked.


    "No," said Giradin. "He... the body fell from the roof of the house on my right."


    "And he was already both dead and mangled?"


    "Yes. Eyes gouged out, arms and neck broken."


    Fendrel twisted the end of his mustache between two fingers, his gaze narrowing. "The dead man has been identified as Anselet, a traveling merchant. Did you know him?"


    Giradin shook his head. "No."


    "You say he fell from the roof. Did you see anyone else up there?" Fendrel asked.


    "I didn''t see anyone, no. But I did see a wisp of smoke, so I think there might have been someone else there."


    Fendrel looked over to Hicks. The two seemed to exchange some sort of silent conversation with eye contact for a few moments. Finally, Hicks turned to Giradin. "The roof you''re talking about was a thatch roof. It couldn''t possibly hold the weight of two full-grown men."


    Giradin felt his blood go cold at Hicks'' words once he realized their implication.


    Hicks continued. "And the fall was nowhere near far enough to break his neck. So, unless the dead man with no eyes and two broken arms climbed up there himself, there are a few holes in your story."


    Sickness churned in Giradin''s gut, and he felt himself about to throw up.


    "Wait a moment!" Shlomo interjected. "The possibilities are not limited to walking dead and Giradin being a liar! Consider this: the killer might have hoisted the body up there with a rope and a candle left on the roof might have burned through the fibers, causing poor Anselet''s body to fall just as Giradin passed by."


    "A candle flame on a thatch roof?" Fendrel shook his head. "I think not. The straw would have caught fire. Besides, once the body was up there, how could the killer have also climbed up to light the candle and position it properly? The roof would never support two grown men. It''s a stretch to believe it supported even one!"


    "You keep saying that," said Shlomo, "But has anyone actually tested it?"


    "Ask any thatcher," said Fendrel. "Anyone who fixes roofs will tell you--"


    Shlomo cut him off, "Have you tried having two full-grown men climb on that particular roof to see if it would support them?"


    "Well... no..."


    "Then I suggest you do so," said Shlomo. "Every house is different. This one might just be a little stronger than most."


    Fendrel rolled his eyes. "You''re just trying to delay justice. To me, it seems pretty clear that--"


    Shlomo snapped. "If Giradin wanted that man dead he could have just told you he had plague, then burned the body! Please tell me the law here in Elekvaz is intelligent enough to figure that out."


    "We... I..."


    "Are you really so stupid as to think Giradin killed a man, broke his arms and legs, gouged out his eyes, and then cried out to you for help?"


    "He''s the only suspect we have!" Hicks protested.


    All three men jumped when Shlomo pounded his fist on the table. "Then I suggest you find another one! Obviously, Giradin is innocent. Any half-wit can see that. Now, is Giradin permitted to leave, or do you intend to waste more of my valuable time, time which could be spent protecting your city from the Black Death?"

 Ashes Ashes

    Giradin met with Fulk, Shlomo, and Mu in his room at the inn.


    "You don''t think the murderer is threatening Crows?" Fulk asked, his fingers tracing along the bandages on his face.


    Shlomo shook his head, his beak whipping back and forth. "It wouldn''t really make any sense. Let''s look at what we''ve got so far: a pile of dead birds and a traveling merchant with a broken neck."


    "How do we know the two are even related?" Fulk asked. He pressed his index finger down hard on the bandages on his cheek, causing himself to wince.


    "The method''s the same," said Mu, the moonlight peering through the window glinting off his dark lenses. "Eyes torn out, broken limbs, and a snapped neck. These aren''t exactly common methods of murder. You should know that."


    Fulk sneered.


    Giradin raised an index finger. "Could the victim... I think Anselet was his name? Does he have any connection to us? Maybe he''s an informant, or Melcher Fitz knows him?"


    Shlomo pointed to Giradin. "I thought of that and asked Fitz about it, but he said no. I asked a few people around town about it too. Barely anyone knew Anselet. The few who did really only knew him because they bought goods from him. He supplied some of the stores nearby."


    Fulk folded his arms. "Then maybe this was all part of a deal gone rotten? Maybe Asslet cheated someone and they killed him for it."


    "Then why all the dead birds?" Giradin asked. "Was that to threaten Anselet? That seems a bit much for a trade deal gone wrong."


    Fulk scratched his chin and furrowed his brow. "You''re right... If someone sold me something worthless I don''t think I''d go to the extreme of killing hundreds of crows to make him nervous, I''d just cut his throat and be done with it. Whoever this was really hated him!"


    "Or maybe he was just a lunatic," said Shlomo with a shrug. "Some men do violence for gain, some for anger, and some because they think it''s fun."


    Mu rested a hand on Shlomo''s shoulder. "I think we''re leaving out one possibility, maybe the killer isn''t human."


    Fulk snorted. "Ripping out someone''s eyes and snapping their limbs and neck aren''t really typical behaviors for vampires or vermin."


    "I know," said Mu. "But there are more horrible things in this world than you can imagine, Fulk. I''ve been to Africa, Asia, and now Europe, and I''ve heard so many terrifying legends, and seen things which would make even your skin crawl. I''ve seen the headless men, whose faces rest in their chests. I''ve seen men with the heads of dogs and wolves. I''ve seen the monopods, who hop on one leg as thick as a tree-trunk. I''ve heard tales of sea beasts big enough to swallow ships, of vengeful spirits who couldn''t let go of hatred, of the fair-folk luring victims into their gardens and putting them to sleep for a hundred years. I even visited a town built upon the ashes of an old, Roman city, which the locals said had been burned to the ground by dragon''s fire."


    Fulk snorted. "If such beasts exist, the plague is the least of our worries."


    Giradin gave Fulk a questioning look. "I thought the Knights Templar were assigned to protect us from monsters when they came back from the crusades."


    Fulk rolled his eyes. "Pfft! Please! The Pope was clearly trying to make the Templars appear like they still had a noble purpose. All they''ve really been doing is running banks and turning a profit. The Church wants to pretend it didn''t just condone usury by allowing the Templars to do as they wish. Tell me you don''t believe all this nonsense about noble crusaders protecting us from monsters?"


    Mu poked Fulk in the chest with his index finger. "Tell me you aren''t so dense as to think vampires and vermin are the only monsters in all the world!"


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    "Don''t you fucking touch me!" Fulk snapped, knocking Mu''s hand away.


    "Grow up, Fulk!" Mu snapped back. "There''s more going on in this world than your tiny mind can grasp."


    Fulk opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again, folded his arms, and slumped back against the nearest wall. "Alright, so our killer might be some kind of monster or spirit or something. So, what do we do with that comforting thought?"


    Mu pointed at the floor in front of Fulk. "You and Giradin are going to stay here and take your medicine, as before. They probably haven''t buried Anselet just yet, so I''m going to see if the sheriff will let me inspect the body. I''ll use the usual excuse, looking for plague. Wraiths and fair-folk usually leave behind some kind of residue on their victims, so I''ll test for that."


    Mu turned his beak to Shlomo. "In the meantime, you keep an eye on this inn, make sure the militiamen don''t come back for Giradin. All too often, when local law can''t solve a crime they want someone to pin it on so they can at least look like they''re doing something."


    Shlomo nodded. "Aye, my lord."


    Mu and Shlomo both chuckled.


    ..........................


    It was late at night when Mu, Shlomo, and Fulk left Giradin''s room, and the stress of the day weighed down on the former cobbler''s eyelids. In spite of all his fears of madmen, monsters, and demons, he knew that staying up all night would not keep him any safer than getting a good night''s sleep would.


    With a chair propped up against the door to keep it shut, and a wooden bar across the window, Giradin laid down to sleep in his bedroll.


    He wasn''t sure how long he''d been away in the realm of dreams when he awoke to the horrible stench of burnt flesh and hair. He gagged and choked on the smell and it stuck to the roof of his mouth.


    His eyes found their way to an orange glow across the room, and he heard the sound of suffering coming from the mass before him.


    The chair still stood, propped against the door, and the bar remained across the window. Yet, a figure in the shape of a man stood across the room from Giradin. With the curtains pulled closed, the only light in the room came from the glowing embers on and inside the man''s body. His skin was gray as ash, and his eyes red as flames.


    Giradin jumped out of his bed and fumbled in the dark for his seax. The blade toppled from its place on the dresser and clattered to the ground.


    While Giradin bent over to pick up his weapon, the ashen man soared across the room and seized him by the throat.


    Giradin yelped as the stranger pinned him to the wall behind him. The seax slipped from his fingers and fell again, so he punched his assailant in the jaw.


    The jaw shattered, spraying ashes across the room. Giradin''s fist moved through hot embers, and he felt the skin on the back of his hand burn.


    The stranger still stood, his lower jaw now gone, though his face was still intact. Where the jaw used to be, Giradin could see down his throat, where flamed danced inside.


    "Help!" Giradin cried out, but the ashen man''s fingers tightened around his throat, choking out his cries.


    Giradin flailed and thrashed in the monster''s grip, but his assailant remained as unmovable as stone. The ashes which had scattered from Giradin''s attack floated through the air and re-formed the shape of the cinder man''s lower jaw.


    The ashen man raised his free hand and inched his fingers toward Giradin''s face, reaching toward his right eye.


    Oh, God!


    Giradin kicked at the monster''s gut, and he heard the sound of ashes and cinders breaking apart.


    The fingers drew closer to Giradin''s face, and the heat from his assailant''s body singed his eyebrows.


    Giradin forced his eye closed in the vain hope that his eyelid would protect him from the monster''s assault.


    The hot fingertips met Giradin''s eyelid, burning away his eyelashes and causing the flesh to bubble and melt. In spite of the chokehold on his throat, Giradin screamed.


    Bang!


    Something crashed into the door, and the chair rattled.


    "Giradin! Open the door!" came Fulk''s voice from the other side.


    Giradin wished so badly he could have cried out to Fulk, but all he could do was scream as the ashen creature burned through his eyelid and seized the eye underneath.


    Sharp, stinging and throbbing pain spread through Giradin''s skull as the monster gripped his right eye between its index finger and thumb.


    Then it started to pull.


    Bang!


    Fulk was trying to break through.


    Giradin''s screams grew so intense the back of his throat bled as the monster jerked its arm back and yanked out his right eye in one swift motion.


    Bang!


    One last crash and Fulk broke the door open and the chair snapped in two.


    Crack!


    Fulk''s mace smashed in the ashen monster''s head, leaving behind dancing flames which rose from the neck.


    Crack!


    Crack!


    Crack!


    Fulk bashed the creature again and again with his mace, until its body collapsed into a pile of ashes and burning embers on the floor. Its grip released Giradin, and he fell on his knees, then on his face.


    Fulk seized Giradin by the arm. "Run!"


    The two of them fled the room, down the stairs, and out the front door of the inn, into the cold, lonely night.

 The Light

    "What the Hell was that?" Fulk spat as he and Giradin fled the inn.


    Giradin might have retorted with something akin to, "I don''t know! I''ve never seen something like that either!" were it not for the shooting pain in his skull from when the ashen man burned his eyelids and yanked his eye from its socket. In that moment, all he could do was groan in pain and clutch his face.


    "Hey! You!" Fulk and Giradin both looked up to see one of the militiamen, a baton in hand, rushing toward them. "What are you doing out past curfew?" On a second glance, Giradin recognized him as Hicks, the shorter militiaman who''d tried to arrest him the previous day.


    Giradin pointed back toward the inn, though he could not even begin to form words to express what had just happened. Fulk also seemed to be at a loss for words, as he simply stammered incoherently while pointing at the inn.


    "Did something happen in there?" Hicks asked. "A burglar? Rats? Spit it out... Oh, God!"


    Giradin turned to see what had made the militiaman''s face go white, though he had a feeling he knew before he beheld it. The ashen man, with flames leaping from his mouth, eyes, and ears, stood outside the inn.


    In an astonishing act of courage and recklessness, Hicks threw himself at the ashen man.


    "No! Wait!" Fulk shouted.


    Hicks'' baton smashed the ashen man''s head, breaking a hole through his temple.


    The ashen man''s hand seized Hicks by the face, his middle and ring fingers digging into the militiaman''s eyes. Giradin froze in horror as smoke rose from Hicks'' face and the ashen man''s fingers sunk into the eye sockets. Hicks cried out in agony, dropped his baton, and thrashed about in a vain attempt to escape.


    The ashen man flung Hicks'' aside as if he were a scarecrow. The cinders regathered and reformed the ashen man''s head. His burning eyes spied Fulk and Giradin, and he walked toward them.


    "To the church!" Fulk bellowed. "Run!"


    Giradin and Fulk took off, fleeing as fast as their legs could carry them. Giradin could hear the ashen man giving chase, and ahead of him he spied his and Fulk''s terrified shadows in the flames'' orange light. The glow illuminated the houses and buildings all around them, but made the path directly before their feet pitch black with their own shadows.


    In the distance, Giradin saw the church''s steeple, risen above all the other rooftops. That cross, now more than ever, represented salvation, for dark spirits could not set foot on hallowed ground.


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    On the side of Giradin he could not see, he heard Fulk yelp and his body hit the cobblestone street. Giradin turned to look back and saw Fulk collapsed face-first on the ground, then struggling to get back up. The ashen man drew near and reached out for him.


    Without a moment to think, Giradin slammed his shoulder into the ashen man. It was as if he''d just hit a pillar. The ashen man remained upright, and Giradin fell backward onto the street with a hard thud.


    The ashen man''s hand neared Fulk''s face. The murderer struck out with his mace, smashing the cinders to pieces.


    But the stranger''s other hand seized Fulk''s wrist and held it in a vise-like grip. Struggle as he might, Fulk couldn''t get his arm free.


    The ashen man''s grip tightened further, and Giradin heard a popping sound from Fulk''s wrist. Fulk groaned and screwed his eyes shut.


    A string of curses flowed from Fulk''s mouth. He loosed the mace from his fingers, snatched it up with his free hand, and swung at the ashen man''s head.


    But the ashen man''s other hand caught Fulk''s free wrist just before the mace connected with his temple.


    Giradin picked up a stone from the side of the road and launched himself at the ashen man again.


    The ashen man''s leg lifted, planting its foot in the middle of Giradin''s chest. With one hard kick, the spirit sent Giradin sprawling onto the street again, his head smacking the cobblestone.


    The ashen man twisted Fulk''s wrists in his grip, and the popping sound grew louder. Fulk shrieked.


    Giradin couldn''t bring himself to run. He''d fled from danger enough times before, but he couldn''t abandon Fulk to such a horrible death. But neither could he overpower the ashen man.


    With no other recourse, Giradin cast his eyes toward the star-filled heavens above and cried out aloud, "Holy Mary, Mother of God! Help us! Jesus Christ, save us from this wicked spirit!"


    The ashen man hissed, released Fulk, and recoiled away from Giradin.


    A white light illuminated the city street and all the houses around. The ashen man shielded his eyes and stepped back, as if afraid of the light itself. Giradin glanced back and forth, trying to figure out where the light was coming from, but it seemed every time he moved so too did the light.


    Fulk stared up at Giradin with confused eyes. "What the Hell?"


    Is that coming from me?


    Giradin held out his right hand and saw that, indeed, it was his own body which gave off the white glow. Shining rays emanated from his flesh, cutting through the darkness.


    Giradin took a step closer to the ashen man, and the creature backed away from him again, a pained hiss escaping its throat, along with puffs of smoke. Giradin couldn''t explain it, but he was determined to take full advantage of it. He drew nearer to the ashen man, every step forcing the creature back. As he progressed, he grew more and more confident, and started to walk faster. Finally, he broke into a run, charging the spirit.


    Just before his shining fingers could reach the monster, it turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows out of sight.


    With the monster gone, Giradin turned back to Fulk and reached out to help him to his feet. The white glow intensified for a moment as the murderer touched him and Giradin pulled him up. He heard the popping sound again, and Fulk''s wrists filled back out, the bones snapping back into place.


    Fulk and Giradin stared at each other in confusion, both asking silent questions and knowing the other had no answers for them.


    All around, the citizens of Elekvaz emerged from their home, gazing at Giradin with dumbstruck awe.


    "Mother of God..." one of them whispered, "I think he''s a saint!"

 A Creak in the Gates

    Melcher Fitz''s personal journal offered me a more interesting perspective on the next day''s events.


    He awoke that morning to a voice outside his tent. "Master Fitz! Master Fitz! News from the city!"


    Fitz rose up, his head still in a daze. "What is it?"


    "It''s Giradin, master!"


    Fitz''s irritated groan interrupted the messenger. "What has the fool done this time?"


    "The people of Elekvaz say he''s a saint!"


    The messenger may as well have said Giradin had grown five additional heads and gave birth to a cockatrice for how absurd the declaration sounded. Giradin? A saint? The boy was clearly a coward, and his service to the Crows had been mediocre at best.


    Even so, with all the mass hysteria in Elekvaz after the fire, and Giradin''s argument with Fitz the other day, Melcher could imagine the young man making a spectacle of himself and gaining the mob''s favor.


    But Fitz had no idea just how much favor Giradin had gathered until he entered the city with seven other Crows. The streets seemed strangely empty on the way to the church, where he''d been told Giradin was waiting for him. The city was quiet, unsettlingly so, and Fitz''s own boot-steps echoed back to him, along with those of his seven companions.


    After a long, eerie stroll through vacant streets, he found the crowd as he rounded the corner toward the church. It must have been every man, woman, child, and dog in the city what gathered on the steps and in the streets before the church. Fitz had never seen so many people gathered around a church, save at Christmas. But none of them spoke in anything above whispers.


    When Fitz drew close, he saw that there was no clear path to the door. He tapped his cane on the ground thrice to get their attention. A few of the men closer to him turned their heads. "Allow me to pass," Melcher Fitz commanded. "I need to speak to Giradin."


    A burly man in the crowd with a beard pulled down into three braids chuckled and folded his arms. "You''ll have to wait with the rest of us, then. EVERYONE wants to talk to Saint Giradin and Fulk the Blessed."


    Fitz snorted with suppressed laughter at the phrase, "Fulk the Blessed." Under any other circumstances, he might have let his laughter loose at that, but the devotion on these people''s faces when they said it told him this would not endear him to the crowd.


    "The Saint has summoned me by name," Fitz said.


    Many in the crowd turned and gave him skeptical looks.


    "Melcher Fitz," he said.


    A few of them murmured to each other, their voices just low enough that Fitz could not hear them. Finally, one spoke louder than the rest. "Oh! Yes, he did mention that name!"


    With grumbling and rolls of their eyes, the men moved out of Fitz''s way and gently pulled their wives and children out of the way.


    Fitz gave a polite nod and started his way up the stairs, between the masses of people. Dogs barked and snarled at him as he walked by, but their owners pulled on their leashes. The moment brought Fitz''s mind back to Father Hewlett''s death, and he gripped tightly the pommel of his sword. If these swine dared attack him, he''d not hesitate to cut them down.


    Filthy, plague-ridden pigs...


    As he drew near the top of the stairs, Fitz saw the doors were already open, and within the church the candles were lit. More people parted out of his way as he entered the sanctuary and approached the pulpit.


    The local priest stood beside the pulpit, his eyes cast downward. Giradin stood on a lower level, in front of the pulpit. The woman before Giradin knelt and held up her baby to him. Giradin placed his hand on the baby''s forehead, closed his eyes, and appeared to mumble something. The old priest standing above him gave a kind smile and a loving nod of his head.


    What in God''s name?


    On Giradin''s opposite side stood two men in plague doctor uniforms. Fitz assumed they were Shlomo and Mu, whose apparent affection for the former cobbler Fitz would never understand. Where they stood was one of the few spots in the church which wasn''t crowded.


    Just beyond them stood Fulk, his face still wrapped in bandages, with his back to the wall and his arms folded. His hunched shoulders spoke of his skittish disgust as men and women gathered around him, posing all manner of questions.


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    "Master Fitz!" Giradin called out, and Melcher''s attention snapped back to the lad.


    Is he... he''s missing an eye!


    Yet, in spite of the burn scar where the young man''s eye should have been, Giradin wore a smile so genuine, so innocent. Fitz hadn''t seen anyone smile like that in many years. And yet, as his eyes fell on the woman with her baby, he saw that smile again. And again on the face of the next woman in line, who walked with a limp.


    Fitz drew nearer to Giradin, his cane tapping the floor with every step. "They tell me you''ve been chosen by God."


    Giradin nodded. "I''m just as amazed as you are, master, I promise!"


    "Tell the story again!" said one of the children in the crowd.


    Fitz braced himself for what was to come next. True to everything he knew about the young man, and everyone in Fulk''s team, Giradin spun a wild story about vengeful spirits made of ash and fire, desperate prayers when all hope seemed lost, and light emitting from his fingertips to drive back evil. Then, of course, no story about sainthood would be complete without a miracle healing.


    By now Giradin had told it so many times that the people in the crowd were reminding him to include details. Giradin became as animated as a marionette when he retold the tale, his face turning to make eye contact with everyone in his audience. Everyone in the church sanctuary, except his fellow Crows.


    Fitz was certain all of this was nonsense. There was any number of explanations for what these people might and might not have seen to make them believe such grand tales. Yet, the possibility that at least some of it might be true made Melcher''s jugular twitch. If there was any sort of power in this lad, he would have to deal with the matter delicately. The Crows already had enough accusations of witchcraft thrown at them.


    "Is it true, Fulk?" Melcher called out, raising his voice above the crowd. The priest made a gesture for him to keep his voice down. But Melcher knew that the crowd needed to hear this. If the story was false, this needed to be exposed here and now.


    Out of everyone in that particular team, Fulk was the one who''d proven most cynical about wild tales. Even if there had been a supernatural healing he''d be likely to deny it.


    But the look in Fulk''s eyes was one of trembling fear when he met Melcher''s gaze. "Leave it," came Fulk''s firm response.


    Normally, Melcher would have challenged Fulk for his insubordination. Thrashed him with his cane for the subtle threat. It was the look in Fulk''s eye that changed his mind. Fulk was known as a man who had only anger where other men felt fear, but it was clear he was deeply rattled.


    Melcher turned back to Giradin. "Well, if what you say is true, then hail to thee, Saint Giradin." Melcher bent at the waist to give a hint of a bow. "And surely a saint has such honor as to uphold his oath to the Order of St. Ida of Louvain? You are still sworn to the life of a plague doctor, my friend."


    "Indeed I am," said Giradin. "That''s why I summoned you."


    Summoned me? Melcher Fitz clenched his fist tight around the handle of his cane. I am your superior, boy!


    Already, the arrogant lad was acting like he was in control. As if his word was law, and not Melcher''s.


    "As long as we stay in Elekvaz," Giradin continued, "I would like to spend my time healing these poor people as best I can. How much longer does Mujahid''s experiment need to go on?"


    Oh, that''s all we need... him taking credit for a Moor''s medicine... They''ll think it was a miracle if it works, but if it doesn''t they''ll blame the Moor. Damn it, boy! This had better be naivety and not malice! By exposing Mujahid''s name you may have doomed him!


    "I suppose one more week is all we shall need," said Melcher. "And I shall write to the Pope immediately about this glorious news!"


    "Thank you, Master Fitz," said Giradin, his eyes turned back to the people gathered around him. "Please don''t forget to let me know what he has to say."


    You cannot hope to heal the whole world yourself? One person at a time, boy? You''ll never keep up with the spread of the plague! If the Moor''s medicine works we need it...


    "I''m sorry, dear people, but you heard it yourselves," said Giradin to the crowd.


    Melcher''s heart froze.


    Giradin continued, "By my oath I must leave in one week''s time. So, please, give everyone a chance to come to me. I need to heal as many people as I can before I continue the Lord''s work elsewhere."


    Melcher saw the crowd cast their disgust upon his dark mask. His cold, unfeeling mask as contrasted with Giradin''s kind and smiling young face. Their saint was abandoning them, and it was Melcher''s fault.


    "Giradin! Take me with you!" cried out a young man with strong arms and a stubbled jaw.


    "Me too!" cried a much older man with a ragged, white beard.


    Giradin shook his head. "I can''t. Only plague doctors can go where I am going."


    "Then I''ll become a plague doctor!"


    "I shall swear your oath too!"


    "So shall I!"


    And by the dozens, men in the crowd raised their hands to join the plague doctors.


    In the eyes of his superiors, Melcher would have been a fool to refuse so many volunteers. Making a blunder so terrible would surely cost Melcher is job, if not his life. He could already hear the Cardinal''s voice in his ear, screaming at him for his newest mistake. Yet, if he agreed to take on so many volunteers, they would all be loyal to Giradin, his own little army of zealots. Melcher would already be a leader only as long as Giradin decided to follow him.


    "We welcome you all!" said Melcher Fitz, "Surely, with all that we have to face ahead of us we need all the help we can get. But being a plague doctor isn''t just giving people medicine. It''s also burning the bodies of those who died of plague so they cannot spread it anymore. It''s cleaning chamber pots and washing filthy streets. You deal in more muck than medicine. You''ll wade through vomit and pus. Then there are the rats! Are you sure you wish to take on this responsibility?"


    The young man with strong arms threw his fist forward in the air. "We''ll do whatever God wills!"


    The others did the same, though not quite in one voice, "God''s will!"


    "Deus vult!" the old man shouted. Melcher could swear he saw Shlomo, Mu, and Fulk all jump at the phrase.


    "Deus vult!" another man in the crowd cried.


    "Deus vult!"


    "Deus vult!"


    "Deus vult!"


    And on the chanting went, with more and more men, young and old, raising their fists in the air.


    The next note in Melcher''s journal speaks of him pulling Fulk aside to speak to him. When he finally got Fulk to talk, the penitent murderer told him the following:


    I heard a creak in the gates of Heaven and Hell last night...

 Millions May Follow

    Giradin reported to me that on his first day as a saint, he stayed up well into the late night hours, healing and blessing people. As far as he was concerned, he was working on a deadline, and wanted to be sure everyone in Elekvaz had a chance to come before him. Though they saw it as the tremendous kindness and humility of a saint of God, he saw it as pennance for his part in setting part of their city on fire a few days back.


    Exhausted as he was, he did not go to bed as his devotees assumed, but rather called Shlomo, Mujahid, and Fulk to meet with him in the church.


    Upon entering Giradin''s guest quarters in the church, Shlomo turned his lenses to the ceiling and the stained-glass windows. "It''s prettier than your room at the inn. Wish I was a saint." He chuckled.


    "In my eyes, you will always be a saint," said Giradin, who sat on the edge of his bed.


    Fulk gagged and rolled his eyes, but said nothing.


    Mujahid leaned up against the wall furthest from Giradin. "So, your Holiness, why did you send for us?"


    "Please don''t call me that," said Giradin. "That''s the Pope''s title."


    Mu shook his head. "When the Pope starts to glow and heal the sick and injured I''ll start calling him his Holiness. Until then, you deserve the title more than he does." When Giradin opened his mouth to argue again, Mu waved a dismissive hand. "My question remains, why did you call this meeting? Shouldn''t you be resting after all you''ve been through?"


    "I''d love to rest," said Giradin. "But last time I tried to sleep that... creature... the man made of ashes and fire came and did this." He pointed to the burned socket where his eye used to be. "I fear he... or... it may come after me again. Or, worse, that he''ll go after someone else and they won''t escape with their lives. Mu, you said you''ve traveled all over the world. Do you know what this monster is and how we can stop it?"


    Mu nodded. "I do. Based on your description, it''s what we call an aschengeist, or cinder ghost. Cinders are the vengeful spirits of those who''ve been burned to death. They have only the vaguest memory of who or what hurt them and will attack anything that reminds them of their murderers."


    Giradin rubbed his stubbled chin. "So, you think this is the spirit of someone who died in the fire?"


    Mu shrugged. "It could be from Elekvaz, yes. Or from any number of other cities the Crows have burned. Or it could be it''s not after us at all, but someone else wearing black."


    "So, how do we stop it?" Giradin asked. "Fulk smashed it to pieces with his mace. Twice, in fact. And it still came back."


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    Again, Mu shrugged. "I don''t really know. I''ve heard stories about aschengeists, but none of those stories ever had a happy ending."


    Giradin sighed and hung his head. "Well, it recoiled from me. Maybe if we find it again I can banish it."


    When Giradin started to stand Shlomo reached out and held his shoulder, making him sit again. "Your one remaining eye has bags enough for ten. I''d say you''re far too exhausted to go ghost-hunting right now."


    "But what if the aschengeist kills again?" Giradin protested.


    "Melcher Fitz is already writing to the local Templar Knights," said Shlomo. "They specialize in killing monsters and banishing evil spirits. They should be here within a day or two. Maybe less, considering all the people declaring you a saint."


    "But the ghost could kill again tonight!" Giradin tried to force himself to his feet again, but Shlomo pushed him back down.


    Fulk grunted. "Aye, it could kill again tonight. And you could be its victim!"


    "I''m not afraid to die," said Giradin, his face full of confidence.


    Shlomo and Mu both chuckled. Fulk sneered. "Since when? You''ve always been afraid as long as I''ve known you!"


    "I''m not afraid anymore," said Giradin. "Now I know for sure, God is with me! He will protect me from death."


    "And if he does not?" Fulk asked.


    "Then I will see Heaven''s gates," said Giradin, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips.


    "Damn it, boy!" Fulk beat his fist on the wall. "Think beyond yourself for just a moment! You have some kind of power, and that power allows you to heal people. That''s literally all we know for certain right now."


    "This power comes from God," Giradin insisted.


    "Who cares where it comes from?" Fulk threw both his hands up in the air. "My point is, if you can heal my broken wrists good as new, like you did, then you can probably cure the plague. You may be the only one in all of Christendom... no, all the world, who can do this! You can''t go throwing your life away being stupid. If you die, millions may follow!"


    Giradin closed his mouth and sunk down onto the edge of his bed again. Shlomo released his shoulder. Giradin sighed. "You''re right, Fulk... my life''s not something I should be so quick to throw away. I have a purpose now."


    "If it makes you feel better," said Mu, "I can go on patrol tonight. I''ll take some Holy Water and a silver dagger with me. Maybe one of those will work."


    "Don''t go alone," Giradin warned, his face expressing a suppressed dread.


    "Of course not," said Mu. "I''ll see if I can take a militiaman or one of the other doctors with me. Don''t worry about me, my holy friend." Mu patted Giradin''s knee, then turned and left the room. Fulk followed.


    Shlomo gently closed the door, pulled up a stool, and sat close to Giradin''s bed. "There''s something I need to talk to you about."


    Giradin''s smile faded at the dire tone in Shlomo''s voice. "What is it?"


    "The Catholic Church is going to send someone to see if you really are a saint." Shlomo wrung his hands. "I hope you understand what this means. If they decide you are not a saint, for any reason, they''ll burn you at the stake for witchcraft."


    "I thank you for your concern," said Giradin. "But I''m confident God is watching out for me."


    "He may be," said Shlomo. "You may very well be a saint, Giradin. I don''t know. But, what I do know is this: even if the Church does declare you a saint you won''t be safe."


    "And why is that?" asked Giradin.


    "Most saints were also martyrs, and the Catholic Church uses their remains as magical relics. Think about it."

 If You Look for Evil

    It took a little convincing, but I did get Shlomo to talk to me about that night, after they left Giradin in the church''s guest room.


    According to Shlomo, he, Mu, and Fulk were silent when they walked away. Their walk through the sanctuary was unsettlingly quiet, save for the snoring of those who''d decided to stay the night as close to the saint as they could. And the occasional cry of an infant whose mother sat in a pew, rocking her to sleep.


    When they finally felt the cool night air blowing into their sleeves as they left through the front doors, Mu broke the silence with a chuckle. "I''m not sure which of us belonged in there the least."


    Shlomo nudged Mu. "Hey, if the saint says we''re welcome who am I to argue with the Christians'' God? He seems to be making all the rules these days anyway..."


    Both men exchanged another chuckle, but Mu''s posture soon grew serious. "I''d better get to my patrol. The aschengeist could be out there right now."


    Shlomo tilted his head to one side. "You weren''t just saying that to pacify him? You really intend to go out there without knowing how to kill it."


    "Don''t be an idiot," Fulk muttered.


    "He speaks!" Mu raised his hands comically. "Hallelujah! Alert the Pope! Fulk the Blessed speaks."


    "Piss off..." Fulk grumbled and folded his arms.


    Shlomo patted Fulk on the back, but the murderer jerked his shoulder away. "Come now, don''t say that. We''re all we''ve got. What really happened last night? You still haven''t told us."


    Fulk shook his head. "Leave it."


    "Don''t be that way, my friend!" Shlomo playfully chided. "We''re like family and we''re here--"


    "Will you people be quiet!" came a hiss from the shadows.


    Shlomo jumped at the voice, only now noticing the people asleep under the buttresses. "Apologies!"


    Mu wrapped an arm around Shlomo''s shoulder and steered him away from the front of the church. Fulk gave a rude gesture to the man who''d complained about their noise and followed Mu.


    It was a short walk to a spot where they seemed more secluded. They stood behind one of the taller houses in Elekvaz, obscured from the moonlight.


    "You don''t want to know," Fulk said. "You don''t want to know what fucking happened that night."


    "Then why are you bringing it up?" Shlomo asked.


    Mu pointed to Shlomo. "That''s no secret. He desperately wants to talk about it."


    "Of course I want to talk about it!" Fulk hissed. "But you don''t really want to know."


    "We''re here for you, brother," said Shlomo in a sympathetic tone. "You don''t need to carry this burden alone."


    By the look on Fulk''s face, he mistook Shlomo''s genuine sympathy for either pity or mockery. "That night, I heard Giradin screaming for help, so I ran to his room. The door wouldn''t open, so I started to break it down. On the other side, I could hear Giradin crying in pain. I was so sure he''d be dead by the time I broke through, but I at least wanted revenge on the shit who made him suffer like that."


    When Fulk stopped, Shlomo motioned with his hand for him to go on. "And when you broke through the door?"


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    "It was a... an assenbitch or whatever they''re called. A cinder ghost, like Giradin said." Fulk paused while Mu let out a sigh of relief. Shlomo could only assume he was relieved that Giradin wasn''t making that part up at least. Maybe there was truth in the tale after all.


    Fulk continued, "It had ripped out his eye, so I smashed it and grabbed him. We ran, but the ashen... the damn ghost chased us. I tried to fight it off, but it broke my wrists, and I knew we were dead. I was so sure it was over. Then I hear Giradin mumbling something."


    Fulk shuddered as he recalled the moment and cast his eyes at the ground. "Fuck... that voice... It wasn''t Giradin''s voice. It sounded like a thousand voices all at once. Children''s voices, elders'' voices, women, men, even crows. You ever hear a crow talk?"


    Shlomo shook his head.


    "It''s creepy. It''s like death talking to you. Anyway, so, it was this choir of voices speaking from Giradin''s throat, and they said some weird words I''ve never heard before. Then Giradin just... he bursts into flames! Hot, red flames, like... out of the pits of Hell."


    Shlomo felt a chill wash over him.


    Fulk looked up at Shlomo with a look like a child telling tales of the monster outside his bedroom window. His hands trembled and his knees shook. "The evil spirit... it bowed its head to him, and then it started backing away. Giradin stepped toward it, and... I swear, the thing looked like it was trying to apologize to him. And he kept walking toward it. And it ran away."


    Shlomo and Mujahid exchanged looks with one another. A practice which Shlomo always felt was a little silly, considering neither of them could see each other''s faces under those masks. Shlomo turned back to Fulk. "You said it broke your wrists, though, right?"


    "Aye."


    "So, did Giradin really heal you? Or did you magically heal yourself?"


    Fulk said, "Oh, Giradin definitely healed me. He grabbed my wrists, and I felt heat burn through me. For a moment, it felt like every vein in my body was on fire, but I was totally paralyzed. I couldn''t even cry out, or pull away. I couldn''t tell him he was hurting me. Then he took his fingers away, and the pain was gone. My wrists weren''t broken anymore."


    "Well... at least you''re better now..."


    Fulk rolled back his sleeve, revealing that every vein under the skin in his forearm had turned black. "Am I? The bones aren''t broken anymore, but I... I can feel something inside me. I taste bitterness on my tongue, and it feels like... like worms under my flesh where my veins should be..." Fulk shivered again, and Shlomo swears he saw tears in the murderer''s eyes. "I constantly feel like I''m about to vomit... but I can''t. I haven''t eaten in over a day, yet I''m not hungry. I''ve been awake since that incident, but I don''t feel tired. Shit... what the Hell is happening to me?"


    Fulk clawed at his own temples through the bandages and groaned. "Gaaaah! What the Hell did he do to me? What the Hell? What the Hell? Shit!" He beat his fist against the nearest wall. "I don''t feel right at all! I just want to leave this place! When can we go back to the monastery? I want to go home! Oh, God, I want to go home!"


    Shlomo raised his hands to calm Fulk down. "We can fix this... We''ll use some leeches, get the bad blood out..."


    "It''s beyond leeches!" Fulk cried. "You think I''m just sick? No, I''m cursed! He put something evil in me. It''s not just bad blood, it''s some kind of demonic... something... No, we need to talk to someone who knows about this sort of thing."


    "Aha!" Shlomo cried. "I knew you let that witch live!"


    "Aye! I''d''ve been stupid not to!" Fulk retorted. "Levanna told us how to kill the strik... the strig... the vampire. She told us how to kill the vampire. Someone like that was sure to be useful in the future. Now''s a better time than any. I need to find her. Maybe she can explain what''s happening with Giradin. Maybe he''s possessed or something."


    "If you think he''s possessed wait for the Templars," said Mu. "They specialize in dealing with problems like this."


    Shlomo nodded. "And at least let me try the leeches before you go running off to a witch in the woods."


    "That''s all we need..." Fulk muttered, "Demon leeches. No, you''re not doing bloodletting. For all we know, that''ll make whatever''s in me stronger."


    Shlomo laughed. "Funny... you think modern medicine will make the curse in you worse, but going to see a witch? No, that can''t possibly go wrong!"


    "Levanna''s the only one who can help me," Fulk insisted one more time before turning to walk away.


    "Fulk! You can''t leave! The city''s locked down, remember?"


    Fulk gave Shlomo a rude gesture and continued on his way.


    Shlomo turned to Mu again. "This is just... too strange. You heard what the people of Elekvaz said about Giradin. They saw white, glowing light and felt peaceful in his presence. But Fulk''s describing something completely different."


    Mu shrugged. "Maybe it''s because Fulk always tries to see the evil in things."


    Shlomo chuckled. "Oh, he''s just too miserable to allow himself to be happy, is he?"


    Mu laughed back. "Is it so hard to believe? If you look hard enough for evil, you''ll find it, even in the most unlikely places. But if you look for good, you''ll find that too, even when it''s all but gone."

 The Templars Arrive ?

    That morning Melcher Fitz saw another rude awakening. The gentle bird-songs slowly introducing him to morning''s warmth were torn asunder by a trumpet blast.


    Under his breath he cursed Elekvaz, Giradin, and what was sure to be the Templars arriving to meet him. Those crusaders always felt the need to make a big show about everything they did. The great heroes who protected the people from monsters and demons.


    Mujahid told me about what you blaggards really did in The Holy Land...


    Melcher Fitz dressed quickly, throwing on his dark coat and mask. He''d no time to stuff the beak with herbs, but he didn''t plan on going into the city anyway. The uniform was just for appearances'' sake.


    By the time a messenger arrived at his tent, Melcher was already, by all appearances, in uniform, with his long-sword at his hip and his fingers on the pommel.


    "The Templars are here, master," said the messenger from outside his tent.


    Melcher exited the tent and strode out with his shoulders pulled back and head held high with dignity. Down the hill, he spied his three guests arriving on horseback. They wore white tabards over chain-mail armor, and emblazoned across the front of their tabards, where a family crest might have been, was a blood-red cross. Each hid his face and covered his head with a steel great-helm with a golden cross on the face.


    Melcher always thought their helmets looked like buckets into which they''d cut little eye-holes, and the sight made him chuckle.


    One of the three Templars saw Melcher and rode his horse over to him at a slow trot. He pulled the reins just as he drew near. "I am known as Sir Emeric of the Winter," said the knight, his voice off-puttingly kind behind that cold helm.


    "Melcher Fitz," the Crow replied.


    "Fitz?" said the Templar. "A bastard name, isn''t it?"


    Melcher grunted. Though the Templar''s tone betrayed no ill-intent, this was clearly meant as an insult to cut down his pride.


    "Which lord is your father?" asked Sir Emeric. "It''s possible I met him on pilgrimage."


    "Count Bernhart Ackner," Fitz replied.


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    Sir Emeric glanced upward and to his right, as if trying to remember something. "Hmm... no, sorry. That one doesn''t sound familiar. Do you know if he ever made it to Jerusalem?"


    Melcher shook his head. "Wish you''d told me you meant pilgrimage to Jerusalem specifically when you said ''pilgrimage.'' No. Lord Ackner did not have the pleasure of visiting the place where Christ died."


    Sir Emeric gestured toward the walls of Elekvaz. "How fortunate for you, then, that you have seen an actual saint in your lifetime."


    Melcher''s fist tightened in his leather gauntlet and he gritted his teeth behind his mask. "Yes. How fortunate. If it''s true, of course. Which is why you''re here."


    Sir Emeric held up both hands. "Not so fast. They sent three of us for a reason. Your letter mentioned claims of a wicked spirit in the city." Sir Emeric gestured to the two other Templars as they approached. "Sirs Philip and Cristoff shall deal with the ghost. Who can they speak to about that?"


    "They''ll have to talk to Giradin about that too," said Melcher. "He''s the only one who saw it up close and is willing to talk about it. Though... I think I heard something about a militiaman who saw the monster, just before it tore his eyes out."


    Sir Emeric leaned in closer. "Has the Saint been able to heal his eyes?"


    Melcher paused at the question. He didn''t know if Giradin had healed the militiaman''s eyes, or if there really had been an injured militiaman at all. But he knew Giradin hadn''t even been able to heal his own eye. Was this potential proof that he wasn''t really a saint?


    "No," said Melcher. "That seems to be beyond his abilities."


    "Well, that''s good, then," said Sir Emeric. "Only Christ is powerful enough to restore the human eye. If he''d managed to give the man his eye back he''d have to be in league with the creature that stole them in the first place."


    "Wait..." Melcher tilted his head to one side. "The fact that he didn''t heal his eye makes it more likely he''s a saint?


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "I didn''t say that. I just meant it''s more likely we can rule out demons as the cause of this." He turned toward Elekvaz, then to the other two knights. "Sir Philip, Sir Cristoff, you will accompany me to the city. Try not to get too close to the citizens there as they may have the plague."


    The Templar reached into his saddlebag and lifted a string of onions and garlic. With his other hand he took a knife and cut pieces off of each one until the combined stench of both filled the air. The other two knights did the same, and all three of them wrapped the strings over their shoulders, to hang the stinking vegetables down onto their chests.


    "Where can we find this lad... Giradin, is it?"


    "Yes, Giradin," said Melcher. "You''ll find him in the church, surrounded by people who are already convinced he''s a true saint."


    Sir Emeric turned his horse to face the gates of Elekvaz. "The truth will come out soon enough, Fitz. There''s no need to worry. God''s will shall be done here, whatever the outcome."


    Without another word, the three Templars rode off for Elekvaz, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.


    No questions for me? None at all? I''m the leader of this chapter of plague doctors. You don''t think I might know something worth knowing?


    Melcher shook his head at the foolish men in white tabards as they disappeared into the city.

 The Templar Investigation ?

    According to Sir Emeric''s reports, when he, Sir Philip, and Sir Cristoff drew near the church, they found the steps crowded with the faithful. Having responded mostly to stories of monsters, ghouls, and demons, Sir Emeric reported that it was refreshing to see so many hopeful faces, for once.


    "Please allow us entry," said Sir Emeric in a loud, commanding voice. With a gentle gauntlet on the shoulder of the nearest Elekvaz citizen, he brushed one man aside and the others followed, bowing their heads as the three Templars passed.


    The sanctuary was just as crowded. On one side, Sir Emeric saw a long line of people, some with injuries or maladies, others clearly sick, and some holding babes in their arms. All craned their necks to peer over the shoulders of those in front of them to catch a glimpse of the saint. On the other side, Sir Emeric saw a line of people shuffling back out of the church, all of them with satisfied grins, some with tears of joy in their eyes.


    The Templars strode up the middle aisle, and soon they saw him. He was a young man, barely more than a boy, with one eye missing. Sir Emeric noted the genuine, serene smile on the young man''s face as he prayed a blessing over a baby held out to him. Whether there were miracles or not, Sir Emeric could hardly imagine this young man being sinister in any way.


    The young man looked up at Sir Emeric as he drew close, and the line of people backed away to give them room. Sir Emeric stood far taller than the suspected saint, but the young man showed no sign of the usual fear people had when encountering a Templar knight whose face lay hidden behind a helm.


    "Are you Giradin?" Sir Emeric asked.


    The young man nodded. "I am."


    "I am called Sir Emeric. This is Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff, my brothers at arms. However this turns out, it is a pleasure to meet you, Giradin."


    "Ummm... thank you," said Giradin.


    Sir Emeric paused a moment, then removed his helmet. According to a number of sources, Sir Emeric had long, red hair which fell down in waves over his shoulders. His skin was rough, and a short, scarlet beard hugged his square jaw. His cheekbones were pronounced, and he had eyes as green as a field after a rainy season. The people of Elekvaz said Sir Emeric was the most handsome man they had ever seen.


    Sir Emeric asked, "Why don''t you tell me how this all started, Giradin? Tell me how it was you discovered that God favors you."


    Giradin proceeded to tell Sir Emeric a tale about a cinder ghost, a dear friend who came to his rescue, and an answered prayer just when all hope seemed lost. Most of the story sounded like a fairly typical encounter with a vengeful spirit, up until the moment Giradin began to glow with a heavenly light and the spirit recoiled from him. Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff asked a few questions about the details to confirm that this was, in fact, an aschengeist and not a demon of some sort.


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    But Sir Emeric asked what he thought were the far more important questions. A ghost was a nuisance to deal with, but a saint had the power to change the world. "And you are a Christian, yes?"


    "I am," said Giradin.


    "Have you ever studied to become a clergyman?" asked Sir Emeric.


    "No," said Giradin. "I''m afraid not. I was a cobbler''s apprentice before Melcher Fitz conscripted me into the Crows."


    Sir Emeric knowingly nodded his head. "Has a miracle occurred immediately after you prayed before?"


    Giradin hesitated for a moment, then said, "Well, a few days ago there was a fire here in the city, and everyone was in a panic, even me. When I finally got a hold of myself, I stopped and prayed for deliverance, and it started pouring rain. The rain put out the fires and calmed everyone down. That might be a miracle."


    Sir Emeric nodded again. "Do not doubt, lad. That was a miracle. Now, how do you feel? In general, I mean."


    "I feel good," said Giradin. "Ever since Melcher Fitz conscripted me I''ve been afraid almost all the time, but now I don''t feel afraid of anything anymore. I just feel... good inside. I don''t know how to describe it."


    Sir Emeric laughed and patted Giradin''s shoulder. "Well, that''s good. I hope you continue to feel that way."


    "So, does this mean... you know... that it''s true?" Giradin asked. "Am I a saint?"


    Sir Emeric shrugged. "I can''t say for sure. So far, it sounds like it''s true, but I still need to speak with a few more people. Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff, in the meantime, will find and banish the aschengeist. You''ve nothing to fear." The Templar gave a dismissing gesture to his fellows. They bowed and walked off to do their duty.


    After Sir Emeric left the church, he interviewed many others in Elekvaz whom Giradin had blessed.


    A man with a weak right leg said strength returned to his thigh after all these years.


    A woman who''d been sick claimed she''d been cured.


    A boy who''d been suffering from sleep terrors every night said he was finally free of whatever demon sought to disturb his dreams.


    And there were those who saw Giradin repel the aschengeist. Every witness reported the same thing: a beautiful choir of voices, like all the angels in Heaven speaking at once in a language beyond human understanding. Then white light emanated from Giradin''s body, and the aschengeist fled from him.


    But the report which stood out to Sir Emeric the most was one he received from a young man with unusually strong arms and shoulders. A young man named Tebbe.


    "I came to the saint to request a blessing. He laid his hand on my chest and I felt something fill me, something both warm and cool at the same time." Tebbe undid his tunic''s laces over his chest and bared his strong breast to Sir Emeric. The Templar gasped at the sight. Tebbe''s veins were aglow with a golden light, illuminating his skin.


    Tebbe continued, "Since the saint laid his hands on me, I''ve not felt tired or hungry. There''s a constant taste in my mouth like the sweetest honey and the most succulent meat at the same time. Everything I see looks beautiful, and every sound I hear is like music. Giradin''s blessing is the best thing that ever happened to me. Wherever he goes I want to be there too."

 Pride

    Mujahid said of that day that the sight of the approaching Templars was far more terrifying than the aschengeist ever was. The moment he laid eyes on those red crosses on white tabards, memories flooded back to the forefront of his mind. He could hear the screams again, and smell the smoke from the burning cities.


    He was thankful to be wearing his plague doctor mask, under which they could not see that he was a moor.


    The two Templars were nigh identical in their uniforms, their faces hidden behind steel visors. Only the slightest height difference gave away that these were two different men.


    The Templars approached Mu and Shlomo as they directed the other doctors to pack up the medicines for the night and wrap up the day. Mu couldn''t be sure, but he thought he saw a hint of trembling in Shlomo''s hands as the Templars drew near.


    One of the Templars offered his hand to shake Mu''s when he approached. "My good man," he said in a velvet voice, "young Giradin tells me that two doctors named Mu and Shlomo were the ones who''ve been trying to banish the ghost haunting Elekvaz. You two appear to be in charge, so I''m guessing you are they?"


    "Aye," Mu said, trying to mask his accent. He shook the Templar''s hand, noting the unusually firm grip the former crusader had. "I am Mu. This is Shlomo."


    Shlomo tipped his hat. "How do you do."


    "I am Sir Cristoff," said the velvet-voice Templar who shook Mu''s hand. "And this is Sir Philip."


    Sir Philip gave a nod of his head and said nothing.


    "Shlomo is a Jewish name, yes?" said Sir Cristoff.


    Shlomo nodded. "Indeed."


    Mu wished he could read Sir Cristoff''s face under that helmet to know if he harbored any judgment against Jews, but it was impossible to know.


    "And, Mu... is that short for something?" asked Sir Cristoff.


    Mu clasped his hands tightly together to prevent them from shaking. "No," he lied, masking his accent again. "My parents just had... an interesting sense of humor." He forced a smile, only afterward realizing how futile such an action was under a mask.


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    Sir Cristoff chuckled. "Well, it''s good that we should have a sense of humor about ourselves, isn''t that right? My name is Cristoff, which I suppose is the opposite of Crist-on?"


    Mu gave a nervous laugh at the Templar''s joke, though he found no humor in the poorly-constructed pun.


    When the laughter, both feigned and otherwise, died down, Sir Cristoff said, "So, we need to work together to slay this aschengeist."


    "What do you need us for?" asked Shlomo. "You two are the trained Templars. You fight evil spirits all the time. We''re just doctors."


    "According to what Giradin told us," said Sir Cristoff, "the aschengeist''s attack have a pattern: it''s after plague doctors and anything that reminds it of plague doctors. The pile of dead crows, the man in the black cloak, Giradin himself... all of this was clearly to attack people like you. That''s why we need your help. To lure it out."


    Mu snorted. "You intend to use us as bait?"


    Sir Cristoff reached out and rested a heavy hand on Mu''s shoulder. "Yes, I know that''s a terrible thing to ask, but I wouldn''t ask that of anyone who I thought couldn''t fight back and survive. When Giradin spoke of your involvement in all of this, he seemed to have a high opinion of your abilities and your courage."


    Mu shook his head. "Sure, I''m as brave as a lion, but a lion doesn''t dangle himself in front of predators. A lion is brave specifically because he has no predators."


    Sir Cristoff paused a moment, then reached up and lifted the helmet off. His head was shaven close to bald, with hints of black hair poking up. His face looked young, but on his right cheek were four scars like claw marks. A patch covered where his right eye used to be, and his left eye was a soft shade of blue. The gentle expression he gave was disarming, and Mu hated it.


    "You want to talk about lions?" Sir Cristoff asked. "Then I''ll tell you this; lions generally don''t hunt. The male lions you see out hunting for themselves? Those are the ones banished from their prides, ones who will never mate and have to survive by bullying smaller, weaker animals. A lion in a pride protects the cubs while the lionesses hunt together. When working together, lionesses are so courageous they can take down any beast, no matter how big and fearsome that beast is." Sir Cristoff smiled at Mu. "You don''t have the courage of a lion, Mu. Giradin would have never spoken so highly of you if you were a bully. No, you have the courage of a lioness. So, I ask you, will you help us trap and slay this fearsome beast? If not, I can find someone else, and you can stay here to look after the cubs."


    Mu stammered for a moment, "I... I... that is..."


    Sir Cristoff chuckled. "I understand if you''re too afraid. Truly, I do. If that''s the case, I''m sure we can find something else for you to do that would still help. But I think you have more courage than that. I believe I can rely on you for this. What say you, Mujahid?"

 Prey for the Aschengeist

    A worm on a hook.


    This was Mu''s job that night, as Sir Cristoff, Sir Philip, and Shlomo all prepared to deal with the aschengeist so it would no longer haunt Elekvaz. They''d assured him that the instant he was in trouble, they''d rush out of hiding to help him.


    Can anyone trust a crusader?


    Mu stood in the streets of Elekvaz when night had covered the city in darkness. He held his scimitar in one hand. The weapon would never kill the aschengeist, but if what Fulk said about his encounter with the creature was true he could at least slow it down and get away.


    Dressed in all black in the middle of the night, Mu wondered how the aschengeist was even going to find him. The moon was waning, and Mu was certain he blended in with the shadows.


    This plan is silly. He''ll never find me. The Templars should have me wear white instead.


    Oh come, now, Mujahid, you know you''re just being a coward. The aschengeist will only come if you''re wearing all black. If you have no trust in the Templars, have a little faith in Allah for once!


    Mujahid believed in Allah and the words of the Koran. "There is but one God, Allah, and Muhammed is his prophet." He''d said the words over and over again, but he could never honestly call himself a man of faith. In truth, he didn''t pray five times a day. He didn''t even pray five times a month. Much as he wanted to be just as faithful as his parents were before him, he was a man who believed in what he''d seen, nothing more. And for all the monsters, ghosts, and demons he''d seen, he''d never seen any sign of a God watching over all of this.


    A shriek pierced the night.


    Mu jumped at the sound and shined his lantern at the source, his shaking hands causing dark shadows to dance all around the city.


    The beating of great wings and a gray shape moving in the dark told Mu it was just a bird of prey, probably an owl, snatching up its nightly meal. Some poor rabbit, no doubt, had failed to hear its hunter''s arrival.


    Mu breathed a sigh of relief and turned away, to face a mass of gray cinders and orange flames which had been standing behind him.


    Scorching hot fingers wrapped around his throat before he could call out for help. He kicked and thrashed as the monster lifted him off the ground, the scimitar and lantern slipping from his fingers.


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    The flames in the aschengeist''s eye sockets spoke to Mu of the pure hatred within this beast''s core. This soul had been consumed in rage, just as his body had been consumed in the blazes.


    The aschengeist''s fingers grasped the beak of Fulk''s mask and held it fast. Mu felt heat travel up the steel, and where it met his forehead and jaw his flesh started to burn. The tip of the beak in the ghost''s fingers glowed red, and the herbs inside scorched. Smoke filled Mu''s mask and stung his eyes.


    Shink!


    Mu couldn''t see a thing, but the ghost''s grip on his throat loosened, and his knees hit the cobblestone streets.


    Shink!


    Another sound of a blade passing through cinders. An inhuman shriek followed, which Mu could only assume was the ashengeist.


    "Stay down!" came Sir Cristoff''s voice. "We have this!"


    The sound of a bag bursting, followed by a splash. Mu felt fluid wash over him, which sizzled when it touched his red-hot beak.


    That inhuman shriek again, this time louder.


    Mu turned and crawled, deciding the best course of action at this moment was to get away from the fight.


    Crack!


    Pain shot through Mu''s hand when a boot stomped down on his fingers. He cried out under the mask and pulled his injured hand away.


    "Shlomo, get him out of here!" Sir Cristoff called. "I don''t think he can see... die, you fiend!"


    The repeated sounds of stabbing and slashing.


    Then a hand on Mu''s shoulder. Shlomo''s voice called out, "Come on! Let''s get you out of here!"


    Mu followed as Shlomo pulled him up to his feet and away from the sounds of the fight.


    "It''s not working!" Sir Cristoff called out. "Hold him back! I''ll exorcise him!"


    More sounds of a struggle, and a groan of pain from a voice Mu did not recognize. Sir Philip''s in trouble?


    Sir Cristoff began his chant, "¨ªmperat t¨ªbi D¨¦us Pater; ¨ªmperat t¨ªbi Deus F¨ªlius; ¨ªmperat t¨ªbi D¨¦us Sp¨ªritus S¨¢nctus."


    Mu undid the straps holding his mask in place, letting the smoke flee from his eyes into the night air. After a few blinks, he could make out the glowing shape of the aschengeist and the two men in white fighting against it.


    "¨ªmperat t¨ªbi maj¨¦stas Chr¨ªsti, aet¨¦rnum Dei V¨¦rbum c¨¢ro factum, qui pro sal¨²te g¨¦neris n¨®stri tua inv¨ªdia p¨¦rditi..."


    Mu''s eyes adjusted a little more, and he spotted the glint of his scimitar on the ground. More importantly, he saw that the aschengeist held Sir Philip''s wrist in its hand and was slowly crushing it in its grip. Sir Philip stabbed into the ghost wildly with his dagger.


    "..humili¨¢vit semet¨ªpsum f¨¢ctus ob¨¦diens ¨²sque ad m¨®rtem qui Eccl¨¦siam s¨²am aedific¨¢vit s¨²pra f¨ªrmam p¨¦tram..."


    Mu rushed in, snatched his scimitar off the ground, and chopped through the arm which held Sir Philip''s wrist.


    "...et p¨®rtas ¨ªnferi adv¨¦rsus eam n¨²mquam esse praevalit¨²ras ed¨ªxit, cum ea ipse permans¨²rus ¨®mnibus di¨¦bus ¨²sque ad consummati¨®nem sa¨¦culi!"


    On the last word, the aschengeist let out another cry of anguish and the flames within it fizzled. In seconds, the ghost turned dark, and its ashes crumbled into the street in a pile.


    Mu stood over the pile of ashes with Sir Cristoff, Sir Philip, and Shlomo, all of them completely silent for several moments.


    Until finally Sir Cristoff patted Mu on the shoulder. "You came back to help us! Thank you! Now this wicked spirit is gone forever. May God have mercy on his soul."

 The Crow and the Cross

    "He''s true."


    The simple sentence hit Melcher Fitz like a brick to the forehead. "Giradin, the cobbler, really is a saint?" he reiterated the Templar''s point, hoping that even by saying it out loud Sir Emeric would realize how ridiculous it sounded.


    Sir Emeric shrugged. "Saint Joseph was a carpenter. Saint David a shepherd. You think he cannot be a saint because he comes from humble origins. I say he is a saint precisely because of his humble origins."


    The two men met in Melcher''s private tent outside the city of Elekvaz. While Sir Emeric had removed his helmet, revealing his impossibly-well-kept hair, Melcher kept his mask on for formality''s sake. Also, because Sir Emeric had been inside Elekvaz recently without a plague doctor suit, and there was that chance that during his brief visit he''d contracted something.


    Melcher Fitz leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a candle trimmer. "So, what happens now? I should remind you, Giradin belongs to me."


    "He does not belong to you, he belongs to God," Sir Emeric said, firmly. "He is sworn to serve the Order of St. Ida of Louvain and prevent the Black Death, but ultimately only God owns Giradin, just as only God owns you." The Templar gestured to the tent''s opening. "When your business in Elekvaz concludes, the other Templars and I will take Giradin with us to the Vatican to meet the Pope. Once his Holiness has seen in him what we have, he will declare him a saint, and Giradin will return to your service. I suspect that I, too, shall accompany him wherever he goes from now on."


    Melcher''s stomach turned at the thought of the Templars taking over his chapter of plague doctors. The Crows had learned long ago, and Melcher had made sure the lesson was never forgotten, that questions of good and evil were not as important as questions of life or death. The plague doctors did things which would make any person of Christian morals cringe, but they did it because it needed to be done.


    The Black Death hung over all of Christendom like a Damocles, ready to fall at any moment. Only the Crows and their methods stood in its way. People who fought for a holy cause, as the Templars did, could never understand what the plague doctors had to do. Even the morals of Sir Bertran, who''d been a knight hospitaller, had proven a nuisance to Melcher Fitz on occasion. He could only imagine what it would be like to have Sir Emeric around.


    The more Melcher thought about it, the less he wanted to give Giradin up, but the more he realized that keeping Giradin as far from him as possible might keep the Templars away too.


    "Perhaps I was being too hasty," Melcher said at last. "Yes, Giradin is sworn to serve the plague doctors, but perhaps he''d be wasted in my service. Might it make more sense for him to be leader of his own chapter rather than serving in mine?"


    Sir Emeric smiled at the idea and brushed back some of his red hair behind his ear. "That does sound like a smart idea, I won''t deny that. Thank you, Melcher Fitz. I''ll bring it before his Holiness and see what he has to say."


    So, the idea was to be brought before the Pope. Well, that was better than outright refusal. If Giradin had his own chapter he could recruit whoever he wanted, get the Templars involved as much as he desired. And he could do so far away from Melcher.


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    "I''m surprised you haven''t asked me yet about the aschengeist in Elekvaz," said Sir Emeric.


    Melcher bit his lip to hold in a cynical outburst of laughter. What? Should I ask you about the goblins and ghouls as well? But despite his gut reaction to the statement, Melcher kept his thoughts to himself and merely nodded to Sir Emeric as a signal for him to continue.


    "Sir Cristoff banished the vengeful spirit," said Sir Emeric. "With Sir Philip, Shlomo, and Mujahid''s help, mind you." His eyes turned harsh and his brow furrowed. "Yes, I know about Mujahid."


    Melcher clenched his fist, but loosened it again. "His Holiness has approved working with Moors and Jews in our efforts to combat the plague, so long as we do not practice witchcraft."


    "Aye, indeed," said Sir Emeric. "And, normally I would not disapprove of Mujahid at all. But both you and he seem to have tried to hide his existence and his nature from us, and that is highly suspicious. Sir Cristoff even gave him a chance to tell the truth about being a Moor and he did not do so."


    Melcher bowed his head. "I apologize, Sir Emeric, but please try to understand this from our point of view. Most of the Order of the Knights Templar fought in the Crusades against Saracens and Moors. Surely you can understand why Mujahid might fear that you would turn against him because of his dark skin and his faith."


    Sir Emeric leaned back in his chair. "I understand your fear. When I was in the Holy Land, I often fought and slew many a Mohammedan, and saw them commit terrible atrocities. But, do you know who it was who often treated the wounded? Who cooked our meals? Who proved to be steadfast friends? Mohammedans. I fought against some, and I lived beside others. Every Crusader learned, whether he wanted to admit it or not, that there is good and bad among the Saracens and Moors, just as there is good and bad among us. But we found that you could tell the bad ones from the good ones based on what they were willing to lie about. Would you say Mujahid is a good man?"


    It was a question Melcher had not thought to ask about anyone in many years. The query had not proven important to the duties of plague doctors. But Melcher knew he could not even hesitate to say, "Yes."


    "And I''m sure part of what makes him good is his faith in his God," said Sir Emeric, "Misguided as that might be. But he lied about his faith and his God when pressed. Considering your own efforts to keep this from me, I can''t help but think you might have had something to do with that."


    Melcher''s fist clenched again. "Are you accusing me of something, Sir Emeric? Let''s have it out, then."


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "I am not accusing you of anything. Yet. Just know that I find your dishonesty concerning, and I will report this to his Holiness."


    Melcher fantasized about an axe falling and splitting the Templar''s head in two. For a fleeting moment, he considered whether he could best him in a fight, and whether he could get away with it. For the moment, he stayed his hand.


    "I trust you will present my side fairly?" asked Melcher. "You will inform his Holiness that my decision to withhold that information from you was born out of fear, not malice?"


    Sir Emeric nodded, his face still as stern as ever. "I will tell his Holiness you said as much."


    Melcher''s fingers gripped tightly his chair''s armrest. "Thank you," he said, through gritted teeth.


    Sir Emeric rose to his feet and picked up his helmet. "How much longer until your people leave Elekvaz?"


    "The experiment should be over by tomorrow," said Melcher.


    "Good." Sir Emeric carried his helmet under his arm. "Then we shall leave with Giradin sooner than I thought. Oh! And, one more thing. In the interest of being honest with each other, I thought I should tell you that one of your doctors is missing."


    "Which?" Melcher asked.


    "I believe he is called ''Fulk,''" said Sir Emeric. "''Fulk the Blessed,'' as the people of Elekvaz call him. He was the first person to receive Giradin''s healing, so I wanted to question him as well. But Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff have searched the city for him and couldn''t find him. Even Mujahid and Shlomo don''t know where he is, or so they claim."


    Melcher Fitz groaned. That was all he needed, the murderer running loose. For all he knew, Fulk had regressed to his old ways once again, but he dare not tell Sir Emeric that. "I''ll send some people to search for him. If he''s a deserter, then he will be dealt with accordingly."

 Travelers to the Vatican

    "St. Giradin?"


    The voice forced Giradin awake from his bed in the church guest room. He moved to rise from his rest, but his feet tangled in the bedsheets and he fell to the ground in a heap with a loud thud.


    "St. Giradin?" came the voice from the other side of the door again. This time he recognized it as Sir Emeric''s. "Are you hurt? Say something."


    Giradin cleared the bubble from the back of his throat and called out, "Just fell out of bed. I''m not hurt."


    "Are you decent? May I come in?"


    Giradin struggled with the tangled bedsheets and rose to his feet. He looked down at himself, briefly, to find the answer to Sir Emeric''s question. He was clad in a long, white sleeping gown which hung down just past his knees. "Decent enough. You may."


    The door creaked open and Sir Emeric stepped in. He wore his armor and tabard, but no helmet. He closed the door behind him and turned to look at Giradin. "Oh... Well... you and I may have slightly different definitions of ''decent,'' but... no matter." Sir Emeric averted his wide, mint-colored eyes to the stained-glass window on the far wall.


    Giradin felt his cheeks grow hot. "I''m sorry..."


    Sir Emeric shook his head, his soft, crimson locks waving back and forth. "Don''t be. I should have been more specific. Anyway, I came here to tell you to get dressed and gather your things, because today the experiment is over and we leave Elekvaz for the Vatican."


    "The Vatican?" Giradin repeated. "Then... I''m going to see the Pope?"


    Sir Emeric kept his glassy eyes cast away from Giradin as he spoke. "Aye, and I believe the Pope will come to the same conclusion that I have about you. You are, indeed, a saint, chosen by God to do great things in this world."


    "I hope you''re right," said Giradin.


    Sir Emeric turned to the door again. "As I said, get dressed and meet me outside shortly. We shall have a quick breakfast, and then we shall be on our way." The Templar left the room and closed the door behind him.


    Giradin threw off his sleeping gown and dressed in the new clothes which had been donated to him. The local tailor had come by bearing gifts for Giradin, hoping that by giving him new garments he might gain extra blessings from God. When Giradin slipped on the white tunic, blue vest, and black trousers, he felt as if he were wearing the raiments of a nobleman. Even the shoes which had come with the outfit were well-made, and more comfortable on his feet than any shoes he''d previously worn, even as a cobbler''s apprentice.


    Once he was dressed, he tied his seax to his belt, gathered up what few belongings he had, and started on his way out the door.


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    Outside the church, he spied the three Templars sitting on the steps, along with a tall young man with strong arms and one of the plague doctors in full uniform. Sir Emeric passed around strips of burnt bacon. Only the plague doctor turned it down.


    Must be Shlomo, Giradin thought.


    He drew near the group of them and plopped down on the steps beside Sir Emeric. Though he was clad in cold, steel armor, the red-haired Templar gave off a warmth which Giradin longed to be near.


    Sir Emeric held out a strip of bacon to Giradin, who took and ate it. As he chewed, Sir Emeric said, "Shlomo and Tebbe have decided to join us in the journey."


    Giradin looked up at the strong-armed young man, guessing that this was Tebbe. He gave Tebbe a friendly smile, and spoke with a full mouth, "Thank you."


    Tebbe said. "No, thank you for allowing it! How many people can really say they traveled with a saint?"


    "If Moses counts," Shlomo began, "At least a million." He chuckled.


    Sir Emeric gestured toward the road leading away from the church, toward the city gates. "Melcher Fitz says you cannot take the horse you''ve been using as it is one of his horses. Shlomo cannot take his either, and Tebbe doesn''t have one, so each of you will have to ride on the same horse as one of us."


    "Can I ride with you?" Giradin blurted out.


    Sir Emeric gave Giradin a warm smile. "It would be a great honor. Thank you." He turned to Shlomo and Tebbe. "Shlomo, you will ride with Sir Cristoff. Tebbe, that leaves you with Sir Philip."


    Sir Cristoff had removed his helmet, revealing his scarred face. Sir Philip''s visage remained hidden behind his visor.


    "How long will this journey be?" Giradin asked.


    "A few months, I would guess," said Sir Emeric as he produced boiled eggs from his satchel and passed them around to the others. "But we should arrive before the winter months."


    Giradin looked over the group of men again. "I''m surprised Fulk isn''t coming."


    Sir Emeric turned his shining, green eyes to Giradin. "You mean you haven''t heard?"


    Giradin paused and shook his head.


    "Fulk''s disappeared," said Shlomo. "No one knows where he went."


    "I would prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt," said Sir Emeric, "And assume that he has made a pilgrimage so he may pray and gather his thoughts."


    Shlomo snorted. "That''s right... you never met Fulk, did you?"


    Giradin bit his lip to force his own chuckle into hiding.


    Sir Emeric''s face turned stern when he looked at Shlomo. "Like I said, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt, as I do for most other men. Let us take you as an example; it is far better that I assume that you wish to accompany us to the Vatican because of your loyalty and love for your friend, Giradin, rather than because you wish to mock our beliefs. Or worse, because you hold vendetta against the Pope."


    Shlomo shrunk back from Sir Emeric and raised both his hands apologetically. "I meant no offense by it, sir, honest! I''m sorry... I''m just the sort who likes to jest often. Because life''s often too hard to approach without a sense of humor."


    Sir Emeric''s expression softened. "I suppose there is truth in that. But, remember, when you travel with us you will assume the best in people, not the worst. Just as life is far too difficult without a sense of humor, it becomes impossible if you fail to have faith in the good God has put in people. Sin is everywhere, but so is virtue."


    Shlomo paused a moment, then merely shrugged. "I''ll make sure to follow your lead while we travel together."


    "That is all I can ask," said Sir Emeric.


    Once breakfast was done, the six of them set out on horseback, riding on the southern road. Giradin held tight around the waist of Sir Emeric, feeling truly safe for the first time in a long long while.

 The Nature of Spirits

    I never got Fulk''s words directly regarding what happened in those days, but I was able to interview Levanna, before she was taken off to the stake.


    Levanna''s home was only a day''s ride from Isselhan and hidden away in the woods. Charms hung in the trees, the spells upon which would fill any unwelcome guest with dread if they started to draw too near to Levanna''s hut.


    The day started out like so many others. Levanna awoke to the sun shining in upon her face. She cast aside her fur blankets and rose from her bed to don a loose-fitting dress. From her pantry she took dried meat for her breakfast, tearing way the strips of venison with her teeth.


    As usual, when she headed to the front door, she saw that one of her cats had left a decapitated rat in the entryway. Levanna assumed the same cat who left her this delightfully morbid little present was the one rubbing against her bare calf. She reached down and petted her little feline friend. "Good boy."


    The rats remains she soon gathered up and shoved into a jar, one filled with a fluid which would preserve it''s body until she had a use for it.


    Once outside, Levanna took in the sounds of the crows'' cawing all around her. The black birds were believed by many to be an ill-omen, which comforted her in the certainty that no one would go deep enough into this forest to find her.


    She walked amidst a garden of herbs, spices, and mushrooms to her well. With several turns of the crank, she brought up a bucket full of water and poured it into a trough running along her house''s walls. The water ran through the trough, then leaked through holes in the bottom to soak the soil in which she''d planted her herbs.


    Crouching down, the witch saw that some of the nettles were almost fully grown, but the lavender was struggling.


    I''m in for a few sleepless nights this fall, she thought.


    The fluttering of the crows'' wings as they fled the trees let her know that an intruder drew near. Someone had braved the dread charms and all the other terrors of the forest to get this far. In times long past, she might have gone for her dagger, but she''d long since learned that if something actually came this far into the forest a knife was of little use to her.


    A snapped twig, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. A bipedal creature. One wearing boots. Human or a headless man? No, not a headless man. This individual walked on his own. Levanna sniffed the air, and caught a strong, masculine scent.


    "Dashiel," she said as she turned to face the intruder.


    His plague doctor mask was long gone, and his face was now covered in bandages. This man with a heart as black as hers drew near, fierce determination in his eyes as he seized Levanna''s throat and pushed her back against the outer wall of her house.


    Though he had her trachea in his fingers, he did not squeeze.


    Levanna grinned at the intruder and gently caressed his forearm. "As strong as ever, I see."


    "I told you," said he, "that if you ever said that name again I''d kill you."


    "Is that why you''ve come all this way, Fulk?" said Levanna. "To kill me? I can''t imagine seeing me dead is worth all that."


    Fulk released her and sneered. "No. I need to ask you something, and you''re going to be helpful this time, you know why?"


    Levanna barely suppressed a giggle. "No, why?"


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    "Because no one''s here to stop me from flaying you if you don''t help me," said Fulk.


    "I do like a man who knows what he wants and how to get it," said Levanna. She could tell that for as fierce as Fulk tried to act, her smile was unnerving him. But, more than that, something much deeper had this man spooked. "Why don''t you come in and we''ll talk?" Levanna turned to the door and walked back in the house, with three cats scattering out of her way.


    Fulk entered as he was bid, ducking in the doorway as he came in.


    Levanna took a seat on a stool and crossed her legs, giving Fulk a brief view up her skirts. A view he pretended not to have noticed. "Sit down. Tell me what troubles you."


    Fulk hesitated for a moment, but eventually sat down on a stool opposite from the witch. He rolled back his sleeve. "Ever see something like this?" When he exposed his forearm to her, Levanna saw that the skin had turned pale and the veins showed black on his arms and seemed to squirm just a little under his skin.


    "You poor man," she said, giving the first sincere hint of sympathy since she''d met Fulk. "Looks to me like the beginnings of a possession. What sorts of spirits have you been trafficking with?"


    "God," Fulk said, flatly. "Or, at least, that''s what everyone else seems to believe."


    Fulk recounted to her a tale about a vengeful spirit and a young man, barely more than a boy, whose body burst into flames without burning. Fulk said he spoke with a choir of horrible voices and healed his wrists, but put something evil inside him.


    When he was done, Levanna said, "Have you considered the possibility that Giradin really is a saint?"


    "If he''s really a saint, why did this happen to me?" Fulk pointed to his wrist and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "This is clearly the power of Devil at work!"


    Levanna laughed. "Oh, you Christians and your--"


    "I am no Christian," Fulk interrupted.


    "Yes you are," said Levanna. "You speak of God, the Devil, saints, Heaven, Hell... you may not be a very good Christian, but you are a Christian nonetheless."


    Fulk opened his mouth to argue again, but this time it was Levanna who interrupted.


    "You have a simplistic view of the spirit realm. One that''s black and white. You divide spirits up into such categories as gods, angels, demons, ghosts, fairies... in truth, the nature of spirits is a lot harder to determine."


    Levanna leaned forward and pointed the claw-like nail on the end of her index finger at Fulk''s chest. "But I have studied them all my life, and let me tell you, a spirit is a spirit. They may have certain titles we give them, and they may even demand to be called by certain titles, but they are all just spirits, and they all want something. You have often heard of the fires of Hell, have you not?"


    "Of course I have," Fulk grunted.


    "Did you know that the passageway to Heaven is also full of fire?"


    "Who says?"


    Levanna smiled. "The Bible." She laughed again at Fulk''s confused look. "See, this is why the priests don''t want commoners learning how to read, they do as I do and start asking too many questions. Why does the Christian God say we cannot have other gods if the other gods don''t exist? What is the difference between being filled with the Holy Spirit and being possessed?"


    "So... you''re saying I''m possessed... by the Holy Spirit?" asked Fulk.


    "More or less," said Levanna. "At least, that''s what it sounds like. Spirits are all about how we perceive them. If a spirit you fear appears to you, then it will appear fearsome. If, however, it is a spirit you worship and adore then it will appear beautiful. Therefore, whatever spirit possessed Giradin that night was one that he and the rest of Elekvaz love, but you fear and hate."


    Fulk looked down at his arm, a hint of concern on his face. "I see... so what happens now?"


    "The spirit within you will continue to spread," said Levanna. "Eventually, it will start to fill your mind with certain... impulses. If you ignore those impulses it will make you suffer, but if you give in then it will reward you with bliss and take stronger control over your mind and body. If you give in for long enough, you will no longer be you, but merely a vessel for the spirit. If you continue to refuse it for too long, then eventually it will kill you."


    "But... you know an exorcism, right?" Fulk asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. "You must! You can''t just let me die!"


    "Why can''t I?" Levanna asked.


    Fulk started up from the stool, kicking it aside as he did so. "Because if you don''t help me I''ll kill you!"


    Levanna rose to her feet as well, her hungry eyes meeting his sunken, wrathful gaze. "That''s the Fulk I like to see. The man who isn''t afraid to be strong and take what he wants. I do know an exorcism that we might try, but if it doesn''t work then the only way to save you will be to kill the first vessel."


    "First vessel?" Fulk repeated. "You mean Giradin?"


    Levanna nodded. "If I fail to exorcise the spirit within you, the only way to be free is for Giradin to die before the spirit can either kill you or take full control over you."

 Around the Campfire

    Giradin had lost track of the days he''d been on the road with Sir Emeric and the others.


    During the day, they rode as hard as the horses would allow, but as soon as the horizon turned gold they set up camp, determined to have a fire going before night fell.


    Each night, they''d sit around the campfire, exchanging stories. Giradin had expected the Templars to share stories from their days in the crusades, but they only ever spoke of saints long past. After a while of listening to these tales Giradin realized that something Shlomo had told him was right, saints'' tales often ended in martyrdom.


    After the sun had disappeared over the horizon, Giradin sat staring into the dancing flames. His ears caught the sounds of bugs, owls, and the distant howling of wolves.


    "You look so nervous," Sir Emeric said, leaning toward Giradin. "Relax. God already protected you from the aschengeist and the plague. Do you really think He''ll let you get eaten by wolves now?"


    Giradin laughed. "You''re right. It is silly. I just... haven''t camped quite this much before. Even when I was on the road with the Crows we usually found an inn... or even a barn to sleep in." Giradin''s eyes scanned the edges of darkness all around him, which shifted with the dancing flames. "Just... not used to being this... exposed."


    "You feel exposed?" Sir Emeric said with a chuckle.


    Giradin couldn''t understand why, but his face burned at the Templar''s question.


    Sir Emeric stood from his spot on the ground and walked over to his horse, the reins of which were tied to the branch of a tree. From the saddle, he produced a wool blanket. He unrolled the blanket, revealing the Templar symbol on it, and wrapped it around Giradin''s shoulders. The wool embraced Giradin, giving him a sense of security he''d not felt in a long while.


    Having wrapped Giradin, Sir Emeric returned to his spot beside the fire. "You know of Emperor Constantine''s vision one-thousand years ago? ''By this sign you shall conquer,'' said the Lord. Well, if the Holy Cross will aid conquerers, then it will certainly protect you from whatever''s out there."


    Shlomo snorted. "Come now, we both know Emperor Constantine''s vision wasn''t that literal. Otherwise no crusader would have ever fallen in battle." The plague doctor had removed his mask, for once, revealing the black, tangled curls of his hair and his beard.


    Sir Emeric shot Shlomo a piercing look. "No crusader was ever a saint."


    Shlomo chuckled. "Fair enough. But, Giradin, here''s another reason you have nothing to fear from wolves, and it''s quite simple, really. Animals are afraid of fire. That''s why God gave us fire in the first place."


    Giradin nodded to Shlomo. "I''ll be fine. I''m not really all that frightened. I''ve got three Templars and a good friend watching over me."


    "Good friend..." Shlomo repeated with a satisfied grin.


    Sir Emeric drank from a waterskin, then held it out for Giradin to sip. "So, I think all of us have shared stories except for Giradin. And Sir Philip, who never speaks anyway."


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    Sir Philip, his face still hidden behind his helm, grunted in displeasure and shook his head.


    Sir Emeric patted Shlomo on the shoulder. "That one you told about the holy miser was a great one. I really didn''t expect that ending."


    Shlomo smiled at Sir Emeric, but said nothing.


    The starry-eyed Templar turned back to Giradin. "So, Saint Giradin, care to tell us a story?"


    "I... I don''t really know any," said Giradin with a shrug.


    Sir Emeric chuckled. "Of course you do! Maybe not any war stories, and perhaps you don''t want to talk about what you''ve done as a plague doctor, but you must have something from your life worth telling."


    Giradin thought for a moment. "There is one thing... I don''t know, it might not be all that interesting."


    "Tell us," Sir Emeric insisted.


    "Yes," said Sir Cristoff. "It''s your turn to entertain tonight."


    Giradin took another sip from the waterskin and handed it back to Sir Emeric. "Very well, then. If this is terrible, just know that you asked for it."


    He cleared his throat and began the story. "I don''t think any of you know this, but my mother was a... you know... a harlot."


    All three uncovered faces gave Giradin shocked expressions, but Sir Emeric''s surprise soon faded into tenderness. "Go on," he said.


    "Well, so, I never knew my father, and I suspect my mother didn''t know which of several men he was either. I was never lonely growing up, I had many other children to play with, all sons and daughters of the women working at the brothel. But my mother... I could tell she was lonely. She''d talk with the other women working there, but none of them were ever really all that kind to her. I guess... umm... they all saw each other as competition, you know? And she used to tell me I was the only good man in her life when she tucked me in."


    Giradin dared to look up at his audience, expecting to see their judging eyes. These were, after all, deeply pious men. But his eyes met Sir Emeric''s, and he saw affection there.


    So, Giradin continued. "So, one day, there was a merchant caravan coming through our town, and I saw a necklace that they were selling. I don''t know what it was made of, but it was pretty, with a little crystal in the middle. And over the years I''d been getting money however I could. I''d collect coins that people dropped and forgot, I''d do odd jobs for people in town... whatever I could, and I kept the money in a little box I''d hidden away in a closet."


    "So," Giradin went on, "when I saw... you know, the pretty necklace, I brought out my savings box and approached the merchant. I told him I wanted to buy the necklace for my mother, and I showed him all the money I''d gathered to ask if it was enough. I''ll never forget the way he laughed at first. ''Some of those are buttons!'' He said. And when I realized he was right I was so embarrassed."


    "But then he said, ''Wait... so this is all you have, isn''t it?'' And I told him he was right. He asked me why I wasn''t spending the money on something for myself, and I said, ''Because my mother doesn''t have anyone else to buy pretty things for her.'' And he told me that in exchange for every button in the box he''d give me the necklace."


    Sir Emeric''s serene smile at the story warmed Giradin''s heart. "That''s beautiful," said the Templar. "Did your mother like the necklace?"


    "Oh, yes!" said Giradin. "She wore it every day, up to the day I left to become a cobbler''s apprentice."


    "Does she know that you became a plague doctor?" asked Sir Emeric. "More importantly, does she know that you''re a saint?"


    Giradin''s heart sank at the question. "No... no, I don''t think she does. I''ve not had a chance to go back there."


    "And it''s not as if you can write to her," said Sir Emeric. "So, how about this, after we''re done in the Vatican we''ll stop by your hometown and pay your mother a visit together. I''ll tell her all about what a great young man her boy grew up to be."


    "Really?" And, again, Giradin''s heart soared. "Thank you so much, Sir Emeric! I love that idea!"


    Shlomo chuckled. "That''s sure to be a wondrous day."


    "Then that''s what we''ll do," said Sir Emeric.


    The group of them talked into the long hours of the night. Giradin wasn''t sure just how late they stayed up after that, but at some point he recalled feeling a hand pull the blanket up over his shoulders again. He never saw who did it, but he felt certain it was Sir Emeric.


    The next morning, Giradin awoke to the sound of a deep drumbeat. When he looked up from his spot on the ground, he saw the three Templars and Shlomo already on their feet, weapons drawn.


    "Headless men..." Sir Emeric said. "I pray we don''t have to shed blood this day..."

 A Battle With Headless Men

    Giradin had never seen a headless man, but he''d heard the stories. Every tale ever told about these monsters spoke of fearsome cannibals who delighted in violence.


    The three Templars each stood in a circle around the campfire, their longswords drawn. Shlomo stood and joined them, his blade out and ready.


    Giradin rose to his feet as well and drew his seax.


    "Stay back!" Sir Emeric commanded. "It is our job to protect you, as the saint."


    "What sort of saint would I be if I proved myself a coward?" Giradin asked.


    "I agree with Giradin," said Shlomo. "He''s fought enough--"


    "Shh!" Sir Cristoff interrupted. "Here they come!"


    Through the trees, Giradin spotted pale flesh. The headless men approached, naked as the day they were born, and when the first one came into view Giradin''s breath caught in his throat.


    Each of them stood taller even than Sir Emeric, but where their heads and necks should have been sat tufts of wispy hair. Their arms were strong, and in either hand each one held a club carved from a single piece of stone. Most unsettling of all, their faces rested in the middle of their chests, with eyes looking back at Giradin and the others from just below the collar-bone. Every headless man''s jagged teeth were exposed in either a twisted smile or a fierce snarl.


    "Back!" Sir Emeric aimed the tip of his sword at the nearest headless man as he shouted. "Get back! I''ll slay you all if I have to!"


    Giradin saw more of the headless men emerging from behind the trees. There appeared to be at least a dozen of them by now.


    "Meat!" bellowed one of the headless men.


    "Meat!" another repeated.


    And soon they all started to chant.


    "Meat!"


    "Meat!"


    "Meat!"


    They marched in closer, moving to surround Giradin''s group, all the while keeping up their cruel chant.


    "Meat!"


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    "Meat!"


    Meat!"


    Sir Emeric adjusted his stance, his foot lightly kicking Giradin''s out of his way as he did so. Giradin stepped aside so Sir Emeric could take the lead.


    The seax trembled in Giradin''s hand, but when he looked over at Sir Emeric''s fearless visage the dread in his heart melted away. He snapped his eyes back to the headless men before them, who now had them surrounded.


    "Don''t break formation!" Sir Emeric shouted. "They want to pick us off. We''re stronger if we stick together!"


    One of the headless men howled at Giradin and snapped his jagged teeth. Another slipped out his long tongue and waved at him. Giradin stood firm, as Sir Emeric commanded.


    "Come on, you blaggards..." Sir Emeric muttered. "Make the first move..."


    One of the headless men arched his back, aiming his face at the sky, and bellowed, just before charging at Sir Emeric.


    The Templar used the flat of his blade to push away the headless man''s club, then ran him through at the bridge of the nose. Crimson sprayed over Sir Emeric and Giradin gagged at the rusty stench.


    All at once, the other headless men charged in, swinging their stone clubs.


    Giradin ducked low and thrust his seax forward. The blade sunk into a headless man''s upper thigh. Giradin yanked it out in an arc, severing the monster''s sinews and arteries.


    A knee struck Giradin in the face and he toppled backwards onto the ground.


    A flurry of red mist and shadows made the battle a chaotic mess.


    Stone smacked metal.


    Blades sliced through flesh.


    Men cried out in agony before they fell.


    A stone club hit the ground at Giradin''s feet, and he grasped it in his fingers.


    When Giradin looked up, warm, sticky blood sprayed across his face, forcing his eyes to shut. Blindly, he rose to his feet again and swung the stone club.


    The weapon proved heavier than he expected, and it slipped from his fingers just as it arced out. Though he didn''t see where it landed, he heard the sound of bones breaking and someone crying out in death throes.


    Another flick of a blade splattered viscera onto Giradin''s face. His mouth being open at the time, a piece landed on his tongue. He gagged at the sour, bitter flavor and spat out the mushy lumps.


    A fleshy body crashed into Giradin, and he felt his face crushed into a soft, warm, hairy stomach. He stabbed wildly with his seax, causing warm fluid to flow over his fingers. The taller body collapsed on him, forcing him onto the ground once more under its weight.


    "They''re running away!" Sir Emeric called out. "Ha! Yes! Flee back to your holes, you fiends!"


    Giradin felt the corpse''s weight lift off his body and he jumped to his feet again, trying to wipe away the blood from his eyes with his hands. This proved especially difficult, given that his hands were just as soaked.


    When he got his eyes clear, he peered around their camping spot to see seven dead headless men on the ground in a scarlet pond. The Templars'' white tabards were splashed red, and their blades dripped.


    Sir Emeric, his face just as messy as Giradin''s, grabbed the back of the saint''s head and made him meet his eyes. "Are you hurt?" he asked.


    "I don''t think so," said Giradin.


    Sir Emeric sighed with relief. "Good... God has been gracious this day, allowing us to triumph over our enemies."


    Giradin felt another sticky lump in his mouth and spat it out. "Praise God!"


    Behind him, Sir Philip grunted and stumbled down to one knee.


    Sir Emeric looked up. "Sir Philip? Are you hurt?"


    Sir Philip grunted in the affirmative and nodded his head.


    Sir Emeric looked to Giradin and pointed at the injured Templar. "See to the wounded."


    "Yes, sir!" said Giradin.

 The Templars Confession ?

    Voices whispering through the walls? Or merely wind howling through the cracks?


    Giradin awoke in the cold night with the feeling that someone was watching him. When his eyes beheld rafters over his head, he took a moment to recall where they were. After three blinks, the memories came back to him.


    They''d stopped in the town of Salasa and paid for a room at the inn. The snoring all around reminded Giradin that all five of them lay in bedrolls together. On the far end of the room, under the window, lay Sir Cristoff. Sir Philip lay in front of the door. Shlomo lay perpendicular with Giradin''s feet, and Sir Emeric lay close by Giradin''s side.


    Or, at least, he had been there. When Giradin turned to look at Sir Emeric he saw only the Templar''s empty bedroll. A quick look around the room told Giradin that Sir Emeric was no longer there with them, and Giradin grew curious. The only ways out of this room were through the door, which Sir Philip guarded, and through the window, under which Sir Cristoff slept. If Sir Emeric had gotten up and left without waking either of them, as it seemed, Giradin felt less confident about these Templars'' protection.


    Giradin arose from his bed, the cold night air creeping up his sleeping gown and chilling his thighs.The inn creaked in another blast of wind, and Giradin glanced out the window to see the branches bowing to the wind, as if begging that they would not be broken in its fury.


    Determined to discover what had happened to Sir Emeric, Giradin tiptoed across the room toward the door. He gingerly stepped over Sir Philip and lightly pressed his palm on the handle to push the door open as quietly as he could.


    Sir Philip snorted in his sleep.


    Giradin''s heart stopped, and he held his breath.


    But the Templar merely turned over onto his side and sputtered for a few moments, the cloth mask he wore fluttering.


    Relieved, Giradin pushed on the door again, until it opened enough for him to slip through.


    Down the hall from their room, Giradin spotted Sir Emeric in the dining area of the inn, sitting at one of the tables. The red-haired knight had both his hands folded on the table in front of him, and his eyes were glassy.


    When Giradin drew near, Sir Emeric looked up and smiled. "Having trouble sleeping?" the Templar asked.


    Giradin shook his head. "No. Well, yes, but... not really."


    Sir Emeric chuckled. "Yes, no, not really. Well, which is it, my friend?"


    Giradin took a seat across from Sir Emeric. "I woke up and you weren''t there, so I... well, I was worried."


    "Worried? About me?" Sir Emeric raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, Giradin. It''s good to know someone cares."


    "What are you doing up?"


    Sir Emeric bit his lower lip and furrowed his brow. His eyes averted themselves, as if his own hands had suddenly become the most interesting things in the room. "There are... certain things which keep me awake some nights."


    "Nightmares?" Giradin asked.


    Sir Emeric''s emerald eyes met Giradin''s face and he nodded.


    "I''m here if you want to talk," said Giradin with a sympathetic pat on Sir Emeric''s hands.


    "How is it that you''ve not had nightmares, after all you''ve been through?" Sir Emeric asked. "You''ve purged towns infected with plague. You''ve fought monsters. You''ve encountered witches. Didn''t you tell me you saw a priest torn limb from limb by vicious dogs? How is your mind any less troubled than mine?"


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    "It''s not," said Giradin with a shake of his head. "I''ve had many nightmares since I joined the Crows."


    "But none of them have kept you up at night?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "They have," said Giradin. "Just... not since I met you."


    The two stared in silence for a moment, the Templar''s gaze softening the longer they remained quiet. Finally, Sir Emeric scratched the back of his head, his red locks rolling between his fingers. "I guess... I''m glad I make you feel safe."


    "I''d like to return the favor," said Giradin. "Please, tell me what''s troubling you. If I can heal the body, maybe I can heal the soul too."


    Sir Emeric smirked. "My burdens are heavy, my friend. Are you sure you want them?"


    "Absolutely."


    "Very well," Sir Emeric shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "When I fought in the crusades, there was a young priest I knew named Father Baynard. It was... well, it was strange calling someone five years my junior ''father.'' But he was one of the priests in the chuch in Jerusalem, and I always went to him for confession because his words were always comforting. We became friends... best friends..."


    "Was he killed by the Saracens?" Giradin asked.


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "No. I''ve had many friends killed by Saracens, and they still haunt my nightmares, but Baynard was not one of them. What happened to him was far worse. He..." Sir Emeric paused a moment, then reached out and clasped Giradin''s hand. "This must stay between us." The Templar''s gaze was intense, focused. There was a hint of a threat in it, but it was insincere. Clearly, Sir Emeric meant to make Giradin think he would do him harm, but the threat was empty. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone I will consider it the deepest of betrayals."


    Giradin nodded vigorously. "You have my word. As a man and as a saint."


    Sir Emeric released Giradin''s hand and continued. "One day, I met with Father Baynard for supper, as we sometimes did. As usual, we talked and laughed... and then... he told me he was in love with me."


    Giradin gasped at Sir Emeric''s confession, but forced his mouth shut again.


    Sir Emeric grunted and shook his head. "Such a foolish thing to say. We were both sworn to chastity. Nevermind what an abomination such a love is anyway... He asked me if I loved him too and... well... I don''t like to lie, so I remained silent instead. He took my silence for a confession, and then suggested we leave Jerusalem and start a new life together, somewhere far away. Maybe as far as Hodu..."


    "Hodu?" Giradin repeated and gave a confused look.


    "It''s a land east of the Saracen empire. South of China," said Sir Emeric.


    "So, what did you do?" asked Giradin.


    "I politely refused," said Sir Emeric. "Regardless of how we felt, it would be in defiance of God and everything we stood for were we to run away to be together. I told him that regardless of how I felt, I loved God and the Church more than I loved anyone else. He..." The Templar hesitated, his eyes leaving Giradin''s face again to glance down at the table. "He started to beg and plead with me, said he couldn''t live without me. I told him he wouldn''t have to, we''d always be friends. But he wept and he... ugh... it was terrible." Sir Emeric shuddered. "I''ve never seen a man so broken before or since."


    Giradin considered reaching out and holding Sir Emeric''s hand for comfort, but, given the nature of the Templar''s story, he decided it best not to touch him.


    "That wasn''t the end of it," said Sir Emeric. "After that, whenever he found an opportunity to catch me alone he brought up his proposal again, and each time I refused. Finally, I stopped meeting him for supper. Then I started confessing to a different priest. Then I started avoiding him. I''d see him drawing near and would immediately flee." The Templar gave a weak chuckle. "I''ve never fled from any foe, unless ordered to do so, but from that young, amorous priest I ran like a coward."


    Giradin opened his mouth to speak when the Templar paused, but he could think of nothing to say to comfort him.


    "One day, he caught me off-guard and cornered me. Alone." Sir Emeric bit his lip and hung his head. "I''d had enough, and I lied to him. I told him I didn''t love him anymore. I said I hated him and never wanted to see him again. When he called me a liar, I... I slapped him in the face... twice."


    The Templar leaned back on the bench and cast his eyes up at the rafters. "The next morning, they found him dead in the streets. As far as they could tell, he''d climbed to the top of one of the highest towers in Jerusalem and..."


    When Sir Emeric fought with the words, but silence had prevailed over his tongue, Giradin said, "He jumped?"


    Sir Emeric nodded. "And... and that''s still not the worst of it. Baynard became... he was the first vampire I ever had to slay."


    "My God!" Giradin breathed, his eyes wide with horror.


    Sir Emeric hung his head and covered his eyes with his hand. "Such a cruel fate... Father Baynard was a good man, a virtuous man. But when I saw his corpse crouched over that beggar, drinking his blood... I knew his soul was... was in Hell!"


    Giradin rose from his seat and rounded the table, pulling Sir Emeric into a gentle embrace while the Templar sobbed. Giradin held a hand to the back of Sir Emeric''s head and gently rocked him.


    There were no words of comfort to offer him. Nothing Giradin could think to say would have lessened this Templar''s suffering. He''d kept these horrors bottled up inside so long that there wasn''t a force on earth that could alleviate his heart.


    So, Giradin prayed, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, please heal your loyal servant''s wounded heart."

 Loose the Hounds

    "Inconclusive."


    The word was a curse in Melcher Fitz''s ears. Back at the plague doctors'' monastery, he sat in his office and listened to Mujahid''s report about what had happened in Elekvaz. As Melcher had suspected, the results of the experiment had been quite promising, until Giradin started performing miracle cures.


    Melcher beat his fist on the desk, causing Mujahid to jump. "Damn it! We may have been on the verge of a breakthrough..."


    Mujahid raised both his hands in a calming gesture. "Master, I''m not sure I agree with you that this is purely a bad thing. We may not know the exact reason why, but by the time we left Elekvaz there were no more citizens there with signs of plague. Frankly, whatever the cause, I think we should celebrate that."


    Melcher rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, you may organize that party. By all means, eat, drink, and be merry, like Shlomo always says. Then, when it''s over, prepare for the next experiment."


    "The next experiment?" Mujahid repeated. "Do we know of a city that--"


    "We''ll find one!" Melcher snapped. "There''s always some fool somewhere who realizes he''s got plague and thinks, ''I can beat this. I''m strong,'' or ''God will heal me because of my great faith.''" He pointed an accusing finger out the stained-glass window behind him. "I tell you, with people like Giradin going around with their little miracles, making everyone think magic and prayer will solve all their problems... God!" He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. "No one appreciates all we do, all we go through, to keep this world from tumbling into the abyss! Idiots like Giradin will fill their heads with idealism and false hopes. Meanwhile, we look little better than demons because we don''t have the luxury of magical remedies and are forced to kill and burn the infected so others won''t be doomed to die!"


    "Master..." Mujahid''s yellowed, bulbous eyes met Melcher''s. "I don''t believe in the Christian God, but I do believe in Giradin. He knows what''s right, and he knows what we are often forced to do. He''ll argue our case before others. He''ll help people understand our methods. If he can do as we did for so long and then become a saint, then we can''t be that far off from the righteous path, can we?"


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    "He became a saint shortly after questioning my authority," Melcher grunted. "Oh... don''t you remember that?" His every word dripped with venom, as if he were mocking a child. "After Fulk set Elekvaz on fire and we did everything we could to keep the infected from leaving the city, Giradin accused me of going too far. He questioned my authority, and suggested there was another way. Days later, he becomes a saint. And he... he summons me to the church." Fitz turned and beat his fist on the stained-glass window. "He''s so sure he has the right answer, and now he has no reason to doubt himself. Damn it!" Melcher swept his arm across his desktop, smashing his inkwell on the ground and scattering papers.


    Mujahid backed toward the door, obviously eager for an excuse to leave. "Well... let me get to work, then. I''ll see what I can find about a city we can use for the next experiment."


    "No." Melcher shook his head. "I have other people working on that. I want you to look for Fulk."


    "Master?"


    Melcher snorted and folded his arms. "We haven''t seen Fulk since the Templars arrived in Elekvaz. Sounds to me like he''s deserted. For what purpose, I don''t know. But it doesn''t matter. We have strict rules about how to deal with deserters. Were it anyone else, there might not be a need to hunt him down, but Fulk is a murderer. If he kills again that blood is on our heads. So, I''ll send you with a small team. You find Fulk, and when you do you kill him."


    Mujahid stammered a moment before finally forming the words, "You don''t want him brought back here for trial? What if he didn''t desert? Or... if he is, wouldn''t you prefer a public execution?"


    Melcher shook his head. "Before he became a plague doctor, Fulk evaded and escaped capture for five years. If you try to take him in for a trial he''ll just escape again, and probably kill a few people in the process. No, Fulk must die while being taken into custody." His nostrils curled in disgust and his furious eyes met Mujahid''s. "Don''t think, even for a second, that just because you''ve been working with him the past couple of years he''ll show you any sympathy. Fulk is a ruthless killer. He cares for no one but himself. Father Hewlett thought if given the chance he might redeem himself, but he hasn''t changed at all since he''s been here. When you find him, run him through. Make it look like he tried to escape if you need to."

 His Holiness Pope Benedict XII

    The Vatican. A shining beacon of light in a dark and troubled world.


    When Giradin entered those streets for the first time, riding on the back of Sir Emeric''s horse among the cathedrals, monasteries, and other ecclesiastical buildings towering over him, he found himself in complete awe that such a place could exist. To him, the sheer majesty of this city within Rome was a piece of Heaven on Earth. A sign that God''s glory could shine through more brightly than he ever thought possible in a world so fallen and broken.


    He could hear the monks singing in latin, their deep voices all joined together in perfect unity.


    Along the streets walked priests and bishops in their traditional attire. When Giradin spotted a group of men in red cassocks, he realized he''d just seen cardinals for the first time.


    Over his shoulder, Giradin spotted Shlomo, in his plague doctor uniform and mask, glancing about as if he were a nervous canary.


    Sir Emeric rode up to the courtyard before a building with tall, rounded pillars, each with the statue at the top. Whether these were statues of saints, previous popes, or Biblical figures, Giradin could not be sure.


    The Templar gave Giradin a gentle nudge, and both men dismounted from the horse. Attendants immediately arrived to take the reins and lead the steed away to the stables. Sir Emeric turned to Giradin. "Nervous?"


    Giradin shook his head. "Umm... not really. Just... in awe! This place is amazing!"


    Sir Emeric chuckled and patted Giradin on the shoulder. "I wish I had your perfect faith. To not be nervous the first time one meets the Pope himself?"


    The other Templars dismounted as well, as did Shlomo, who had been completely silent since they entered the city.


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    The front doors of the palace which lay before them swung open, and an entourage of men in chainmail armor with tabards on which were pictured crossed golden keys. Each man held in his hand a war hammer. These soldiers poured out, marching in time with each other. Their faces were each stern as stone, more so than the statues above the palace pillars.


    "His Holiness, Pope Benedict XII!" called a herald from within the palace.


    Giradin caught his breath as a man in elaborate robes embroidered with gold threads strolled out through the open doors. A tall, conical hat made of silver, bedecked with gold crosses, rested upon his head. His eyes were half-lidded and glossy, but when they turned to Giradin they conveyed both great compassion and complete judgment. As if on a glance he had seen Giradin''s soul, and both loved everything good and condemned everything wrong.


    The Templars dropped to one knee first, and Giradin followed. Shlomo hesitated for a moment, then did the same.


    The Pope drew near to Sir Emeric and gave a smile one gives an old friend. "Sir Emeric!" he said, his voice scratchy.


    "Your Holiness," said Sir Emeric


    The Pope held out his hand to the Templar, upon which was a ring with a large, red jewel. Sir Emeric kissed the ring, and the other Templars did the same.


    "You wrote to me about a potential saint," said the Pope. He gestured to Giradin. "I take it this is he?"


    "Yes, your Holiness," said Sir Emeric. "This is Giradin, a former cobbler''s apprentice who became a plague doctor. He has performed wonderful miracles, your Holiness, and has a pure heart."


    The Pope faced Giradin and grinned. "Rise."


    Giradin did as he was bid, not sure if he should keep his gaze fixed on the Pope''s eyes or if he needed to avert them.


    The Pope looked him over. "Well, we shall have many questions for you, I''m sure. If it is true, and you are a saint chosen by God, then we will need to ensure that you are well-protected."


    "Sir Emeric has been a wonderful protector so far," said Giradin.


    "I''m sure he has," said the Pope, glancing up to Sir Emeric with what appeared to be a hint of suspicion. "Come in, all of you, we have much to discuss..." he turned to Shlomo and shook his head. "Remove your mask." The command was stern, but not forceful. There was no threat behind it, but merely an understanding that it was to be obeyed.


    Shlomo sighed and unlatched the leather straps, removing his plague doctor mask to reveal his tangled black curls.


    The Pope gave a look of recognition and both his eyebrows raised. "Thank you," he said. "As I said, all of you, come inside." He gestured with both hands, his billowing sleeves swaying, and turned to walk back inside the Apostolic Palace.

 The Voice of Christ on Earth

    At the Pope''s call, Sir Emeric met with his Holiness in one of his private offices in the Papal Palace.


    The Papal Guard opened the door for Sir Emeric and ushered him inside. The walls inside were lined with shelves full of scrolls and leather-bound books, some of them older than the palace itself by the looks of them. The Pope stood on the far end of the office, his hat resting on his desk.


    "There you are," said the Pope as Sir Emeric entered. He fiddled with a letter opener in his hands, the sharp point pressing against the tip of his index finger.


    Sir Emeric bowed his head. "You wanted to see me, your Holiness?"


    "Indeed I did," said the Pope. "I thought you would like to know that the inquisitors have questioned Giradin at length and have found no sign of heresy or witchcraft." Sir Emeric sighed with relief, but his heart jumped when the Pope continued. "Nevertheless, there are a few things they have told me which seem to be... unsettling."


    "This is about his mother, yes?" asked Sir Emeric.


    The Pope nodded. "You know the stories of the saints. How many of them came from the wombs of whores?"


    "St. Mary of Egypt was a whore," said Sir Emeric. "And St. Dismas was a thief."


    The Pope''s eyes narrowed. "You haven''t answered my question. But, no matter. The point stands that while some saints have come from lowly and sinful origins, they are extremely rare cases. I would like to say that the forgiveness of God means that one''s origins don''t matter, but I know that''s not the case, for Christ was born of the Blessed Virgin."


    "I understand your misgivings," said Sir Emeric, "But I think they are misplaced." He shook his head. "Giradin is a pure soul, far purer than anyone born the son of a whore and working as a plague doctor should have. His virtue alone is miraculous. Then there are the healings. I personally witnessed some of his healings, and Sir Philip received one. I''ve seen witches heal people before, and it didn''t look at all like this."


    "You''re quick to defend him," said the Pope. "And that''s good, unless he''s a replacement for Father Baynard."


    Sir Emeric''s pulse beat like a drum in his temples, and his skin went cold. "Your Holiness?"


    The Pope pointed an accusing finger at Sir Emeric. "You listen here! Listen! I stood up for you back then, when you and many other Templars were being accused of Sodomy I personally vouched for your character. I told them that you would never break your vows of chastity, not under any circumstances, even if it was true love. Do you know how much I risked for you?"


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    "I do," said Sir Emeric. "And you were elected Pope nonetheless."


    "I could have easily lost everything that day!" The Pope beat his fist on the desk. "So, tell me truly, is this young man a replacement for Father Baynard."


    "No one can replace Father Baynard," said Sir Emeric, holding a hand over his chest. "There''s still a hole in my heart from losing him. He was not my lover, as many have accused, but he was a dear friend."


    The Pope''s furious face softened and his brow turned from anger to sympathy. "I suppose my question wasn''t entirely fair. Very well, let me rephrase. Are you in love with Giradin?"


    Sir Emeric opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and bit the inside of his lip.


    "That''s what I thought," said the Pope with a painful groan. "So, tell me truly, do you defend him, his virtue, and his sainthood because of your love for him?"


    "His virtue is precisely why I love him," said Sir Emeric. "But you need not worry about me or what I may do. I love God and the Church far more than I could ever love any mortal, even one of God''s own saints."


    The Pope folded his arms. "You would never lie to protect him?"


    "I would never lie to you to protect him," said Sir Emeric. "But, if we were captured by Saracens or Cathar heretics, and it somehow became necessary to lie to save him..."


    The Pope rolled his eyes. "Yes, I''m well aware of the exceptions to your oath of honesty. Your obedience to the Church comes before any feelings or loyalty you have for him?"


    "Yes, your Holiness," said Sir Emeric, firmly.


    "Good," said the Pope. "Because soon he will undergo a Trial by Ordeal in order to prove his sainthood. You are not to interfere?"


    Trial by Ordeal?


    The Templar''s heart raced at the sound of that. They were going to put Giradin in some manner of life-threatening situation, one from which only God Himself could save him.


    "The Church cannot lead the people astray!" said the Pope. "Imagine what would happen if the Church declared someone a saint, but then that person was discovered to be in league with Satan. Many would say that the Church was also in league with Satan, and the Church would be split in two over who was following the true God. We need to be absolutely sure. If Giradin is a saint, then he will survive the Trial by Ordeal. If he is not, then he will die, and we will have our answer."


    "But, your Holiness..." Sir Emeric bowed his head again, "I do not mean to argue, but... it''s not as if saints cannot be killed. Many saints died martyrs'' deaths. Christ Himself even died at the hands of people in charge of His Holy Temple. Would it not harm the Church and Christendom far more if the Church was seen to have killed a saint?"


    The Pope sneered at Sir Emeric. "It''s time for you to drop this. Yes, there are risks in every course of action, but I have already weighed those risks, and as the Voice of Christ on Earth you need to trust my judgment in this matter. Are we clear?"


    Sir Emeric sighed. "Yes, your Holiness."


    "Good. Giradin will undergo his Trial by Ordeal tomorrow. You will observe, and you will not interfere."

 The Walls of the Coliseum ?

    A chance to prove himself. Giradin was overjoyed to hear the news. Sure, he would have preferred that his miracles and virtue spoke for themselves, but the idea of performing miracles before the College of Cardinals, dozens of Templars, and the Pope himself felt like a golden opportunity.


    "I... I just can''t contain myself!" he told Sir Emeric as they rode through the streets of Rome.


    Yet, Sir Emeric''s voice and body language were as dour as ever. Though Giradin could not see his face, as he rode behind him on the same horse, he could tell Sir Emeric was far from happy about this. "Yes... well, they don''t call this a ''Trial by Ordeal'' for nothing."


    The sun beat down on them. It was an unusually hot day in the city of Rome, especially for Autumn.


    "Yes, but God has proven faithful to His saints over and over again, hasn''t He?"


    A brief pause, after which Sir Emeric said, "Aye."


    "Then I''ve nothing to worry about."


    Another brief pause, and Sir Emeric said, "I guess that''s why you''re the saint, not I. Your boundless faith and courage."


    Ahead of them, Giradin spotted the Coliseum. While in every story he''d ever heard about that grand arena it had been described as a structure so massive it was hard to believe human hands built it, the actual sight of the marvel of the Romans far surpassed his expectations.


    To think, such a thing was built by a people now long gone...


    "That''s where your trial by ordeal will be held," said Sir Emeric, a hint of distaste in his tone. "The place where the Romans fed Christians to lions and pitted prisoners in battles to the death against each other. The Coliseum is steeped in blood, both of the innocent and of the guilty. Then, about a hundred years ago, the Frangipani family took control of it and made it their castle. Until they found the place far too haunted to hold. Only Golgotha, where Christ was crucified, is a more cursed and blessed place than this. Which means it is full of vengeful spirits."


    Giradin''s blood ran cold at the words. He might have expected that the College of Cardinals and the Pope would have him face one wicked spirit, maybe two, but Sir Emeric made it sound like there was an army of hateful ghosts in that place.


    "I''m going to give you my sword," said Sir Emeric. As the horse trotted, he untied the scabbard from his belt and held the weapon back for Giradin to take. "The edges are silver, and the blade itself was quenched in holy water. It may give you the extra edge you need in order to survive the night."


    Giradin took the sword and looked over the leather scabbard. "Are you sure? If I die in there, you may never get this back."


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    Sir Emeric turned his head slightly, so he could peer at Giradin over his shoulder. "You are far more valuable than anything a man can possess in this world. Don''t let anyone ever tell you different."


    With no further argument, Giradin tied the scabbard to his own belt, just above his seax.


    Sir Emeric slowed his horse down as they approached the gathering of cardinals, priests, Templars, and papal guards outside the Coliseum, all surrounding the Pope, who greeted Giradin with a solemn expression. When the horse came to a stop, Sir Emeric climbed off his horse and reached up to help Giradin down.


    "Giradin of Elekvaz!" the Pope called out. Part of Giradin wanted to correct him and explain that he was not actually from Elekvaz, but he decided it best not to argue with his Holiness, especially in front of his subordinates. "It is believed by many that you are a saint, chosen by God Himself to guide us in His ways and lead us to a better future. We here wish to prove that this is so, and thus we have devised this Trial by Ordeal."


    The Pope turned and gestured toward the Coliseum. "You will spend one day and one night here, in this place where blessed martyrs and wicked criminals alike were slain. Saint Ignatius himself was torn asunder by wild beasts in this place. But, if God favors you, then He will not allow you to die a death that has no meaning. Come forth and kneel before me, Giradin of Elekvaz."


    Giradin swallowed the stone-hard lump in his throat and approached the Pope, kneeling before him.


    The Pope placed his hand upon Giradin''s head. "Blessed Mary, Mother of God, we ask that you will intercede on this young man''s behalf. If Giradin be truly a saint blessed by the Father, then may God''s hand of protection be upon him as he delves into this den of evil spirits. Shield him with your grace and mercy so that he may be proven innocent of any wrongdoing. But, if he is not innocent, if this young man has practiced witchcraft and is in league with Anti-Christ, may he be consumed by the spirits in this place, who will welcome him into Hell where he belongs. We only ask that his death be quick and painless, for there will be plenty enough suffering in the life to come. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."


    "Amen," the cardinals and priests repeated.


    Giradin''s heart sank as the Pope''s final words hit him. He knew he should feel no fear going into this, for he was innocent, he was sure of it. Even so, he started to feel the slightest doubt about himself. When they''d met the witch in Kinhan, he''d gazed upon her lustfully. Could he truly be sure that she had not used those moments to conjure some sort of unholy spirit into him? Could he be certain that the power burning within his bosom was of God and not of the Devil?


    His mind raced back to his sins, many as they were. He remembered when, in a panic, he listened to Fulk''s orders and took a family hostage. On that day he''d even killed a woman, and the memory had haunted his dreams almost every night since then, until that night in Elekvaz. Then there were all the purges he''d taken part in, where he''d slaughtered innocent people and burned their bodies merely because they were sick.


    How could a man with so much innocent blood on his hands be a saint?


    For a moment, he considered running. Maybe he could get back to Sir Emeric''s horse and ride away, disappear into the wilderness. No, he''d never make it. The Templars and the papal guard would surely catch him, and if they did not then others would hunt him down and burn him at the stake.


    He peered up at the walls of the Coliseum and imagined the voices of a mob of Romans within, cheering for the gladiators to arrive and fight to the death. Terrible as it seemed, facing the ghosts of the Coliseum''s violent history seemed his best chance for survival.


    He glanced back at Sir Emeric, who, in spite of his fears, gave an encouraging smile and comforting eyes.


    Giradin took three deep breaths, releasing each one slowly, and then started walking towards the arena''s entrance.

 Giradins First Prophecy

    The air was hot as Giradin entered the Coliseum, and given that it was only morning, he knew it would grow hotter still. Typically, on a morning that hot, a brief, passing gust of cold air would be a comfort, but Giradin knew better. The ghosts of the dead walked this ancient monument to man''s love for violence. Here, the Roman people worshiped the gods of carnage and bloodshed so long ago, and it was hard to imagine that those dark gods of old were truly gone.


    Giradin knew he''d have to make it through the day, and then through the night, not only on his own but without food or water. Even the fast was part of his trial by ordeal. After all, if Christ could fast for 40 days, then surely a day long fast was the least Giradin could do, if he truly was a saint.


    He couldn''t be sure if it was his imagination or if it was the memories of those who died here, but the horrible stenches of rotting meat and copper filled his nostrils as he wandered the vast expanse of the arena floor, pillars many stories tall standing all around him.


    His feet kicked a pile of sand, and the grains fell through a grate in the floor, through which he could see the underbelly of the Coliseum. For a moment, when he saw that it was dark down below, he considered retreating down there to escape the scorching light of the sun, but he soon remembered that he was not alone, and the fearsome apparitions were far more likely to appear in the darkness than in the light.


    Who ever heard of dead who walk in daylight?


    Giradin jumped at the sound of a snarling beast to his immediate left, but when he turned his head there was no beast. Upon peering down at the ground, he spied a long chain lying there in the sand, with the final link twisted and broken.


    Off to his right, he saw a wooden staircase leading up from the sand of the arena to the stands, where the patrons would sit to watch the gladiatorial games. A slight roof above provided shade for those spots, though did not cast them in so much darkness that Giradin expected to see any ghosts there. Knowing that standing in the hot sun without any water to drink was sure to be dangerous, Giradin made his way up the stairs and into the stands. From there, he spotted the box where the emperors of Rome used to sit, and decided this would be the most comfortable place to stay.


    Having climbed up into the emperor''s box, he sat in the cushioned chair left behind there. At first, he was excited at the prospect of sitting in the same chair where the Caesars of old sat, but he soon realized this was likely a replacement planted here by that family the Pope mentioned who had made this place their castle some years ago. Dust rose as Giradin flopped into the chair, but it was not the dust of one-thousand years.


    From where he sat now, the Coliseum seemed so quiet and peaceful. He still knew that this was a place steeped in blood and violence, but in the emperor''s former box, all of that seemed a distant memory. There were no more crowds cheering for the slaughter of prisoners and Christians, no more beasts roaring before sinking their teeth and claws into the flesh of their prey. Now there was the slight whisper of wind, and the cooing of pigeons.


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    Why should I fear? For Thou art with me.


    Giradin''s fingers closed around the hilt of Sir Emeric''s sword, and a soothing calm came over him. Feeling utterly at peace, Giradin drifted off to sleep.


    He dreamt in the daylight. Most of his dreams were only brief flashes of suffering and violence. For a moment, he saw 12 men crucified upside-down. Then, in another flash, he saw a man in white robes and a long beard torn apart by 3 lions. For a brief second, the man became Father Hewlett, just before his limbs were torn from their sockets.


    Next, he peered over the Coliseum walls, toward the city of Rome outside. On either side of him stood an army of men wearing armor, uniforms he did not recognize, and each man held a longbow in his hand. They all nocked arrows and peered down at the city below. Giradin heard countless hisses and snarls, and so he dared bring himself to peer down at the source of the noise.


    The streets of Rome were littered with corpses whose skin had turned black, and legions of Vermin marched over the dead, with spiked clubs and rusty swords in hand. The Vermin raised their weapons high and hissed, before charging at the Coliseum. Beyond them, thousands of headless men followed, each wielding stone-carved clubs.


    The archers atop the Coliseum walls drew back their bowstrings and took aim at the oncoming army of rat-men. Giradin heard a voice shout an order in a tongue he did not know, and the archers loosed a volley of arrows into the Vermin and headless men.


    The instant the arrows struck their targets, the scene disappeared, and Giradin stood before the monastery which served as headquarters for the Crows. But now the roof had collapsed, every window was broken, the front doors had been splintered, and smoke rose from every gap in the monastery''s design. Vermin scurried past Giradin and crawled into the monastery through every smoking gap. Giradin walked closer. He trembled with fear, but his curiosity outweighed his fear for the moment.


    A Vermin emerged from within the monastery, carrying in its paws a human head. Other Vermin gathered around the first one as it used its fingers to move the jaw up and down while he muttered the strange noises these rat-men made. The other Vermin tittered with laughter and pointed their claws at the head.


    Giradin cautiously walked around on one side, not certain why the Vermin could not see him, but not desiring to alert them to his presence either. Upon seeing the face upon the disembodied head the Vermin held, he recognized it as belonging to Melcher Fitz.


    The shock awoke Giradin from his sleep, his brow covered in sweat and his pulse pounding in his ears like wardrums. In the skies above, he saw the multitude of stars stretched out. For only a moment, seeing a clear sky brought him comfort.


    Until he remembered where he was, and what came out at night.


    He peered down into the sand of the arena below, which, at first, appeared empty. But as he stared, several figures like men soaked in blood and viscera stood in the sand, all of them staring up at him with hate in their eyes.


    Giradin jumped at the sound of footseps behind him, and when he turned his head the red curtain behind him parted aside, and in walked a shape which only vaguely resembled a man, but seemed to be entirely made out of blood and rotting meat. The stench was overwhelming, and Giradin choked and retched.


    Weakened as he was by nausea, he drew Sir Emeric''s sword and pointed the blade at the advancing spirit. "I am a saint of God Almighty. I carry the sword of the heroic Templar Sir Emeric. This night, I will send you all back to the Abyss, where you belong!"

 Practical Applications of Psalm 91

    The spirit of gore charged at Giradin, tearing down the red curtains behind it.


    Giradin roared as he thrust Sir Emeric''s sword forth and ran the spirit through. A red fountain sprayed Giradin''s face, filling his mouth and lungs with the vile odor of death.


    Even so, the blessed blade caused the ghost''s form to crumble into a pile of ashes on the ground.


    A surge of fearless courage arose in Giradin''s heart as he saw the spirit fade. With this sword in his hand, he felt as if a part of Sir Emeric was there with him, helping fend off these wicked creatures.


    He turned back to the others, in the arena, but there were none to be seen.


    Where have they gone?


    Giradin gripped the hilt of Sir Emeric''s blessed long-sword in both hands. His eyes darted around to the stands surrounding the emperor''s box.


    A hint of movement by one of the seats caught the corner of his eye, but when he looked nothing was there.


    Footsteps approaching from below, up the stairs leading to the emperor''s box. Giradin widened his stance, as he''d seen the Templars do before a battle, and he prepared himself to face his foes.


    A swarm of ashen-colored spirits, each resembling men with various mortal wounds charged up the stairs toward him, a horrible rattling noise emitting from the backs of their throats. Some had lower jaws missing, with their tongues hanging against their necks. Others'' heads hung from a severed neck by only a thread of sinew. Others still had their skin peeled from their bodies. The sight of these horrific wounds struck Giradin''s heart with fear, and he staggered back a moment.


    Just as the spirits reached the top of the staircase, Giradin chopped wildly with the long-sword, as if it were an axe and he were trying to cut down many trees at once.


    The spirits cried out in agony as the blade split them apart.


    One covered in teeth and claw marks lunged past the blessed sword and stabbed Giradin in the gut with its gladius. Giradin yelped and spun his body to lop off the spirit''s head.


    A rattling noise behind Giradin caugh his ear, and he whirled around to stab at the source. His blade pierced the forehead of a spirit climbing up the wall into the box, just as its fingers reached the balcony''s edge.


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    Another rattle from behind him again, and Giradin flailed about to strike down the spirit approaching from the other side.


    Too late, another gladius pierced his stomach.


    Giradin avenged himself by slaying the spirit who''d attacked him, then stumbled backward growing increasingly dizzy.


    More vengeful spirits coming up the stairs.


    And more climbing up the wall to slink over the balcony.


    He was surrounded. Trapped in the emperor''s box with nowhere to go.


    Jump.


    Giradin wasn''t sure if he''d actually heard the voice or if it was merely in his head.


    Jump now!


    This time he was sure he''d actually heard it, but the command seemed absurd. From this height the fall would surely kill him.


    No time! Jump!


    The spirits had nearly reached the top, and wounded as he was Giradin knew he couldn''t keep up this fight forever. At this point, he would surely die without a miracle. But was the voice from Heaven, encouraging him to take a leap of faith, or from Hell, luring him to his death? A suicide which would secure his place in the Abyss?


    A swarm of vengeful spirits reached the top of the stairs, and one peeked its head over the edge of the balcony. Giradin split the climber''s head in two and leapt from the box.


    Bright, golden light surrounded Giradin, and he felt a rush of warm, soothing wind. The light blinded him, but he felt hands grasp his arms. His fall slowed, and he descended on a gentle breeze until he felt the ground under his feet.


    The light dimmed, now only emitting from his own body. He saw the golden rays shining from his hands, as before, and when he looked down at his wounds, the blood had all been wiped away, leaving raised scars in his flesh under his torn robes.


    A lion''s roar erupted from Sir Emeric''s sword, and white flames surrounded the blade. Words appeared on the fuller, and though Giradin could not read, he understood their meaning.


    "You will tread upon the lion and the cobra;


    you will trample the great lion and the serpent."


    From where he stood, in the middle of the arena, his heels digging into the sand, he saw the innumerable spirits on the walls leading up to the box leap from their perches. The moment their feet touched the sand they charged Giradin once more.


    Heed my instructions and you will not fall this night.


    The voice had not steered him wrong so far. Whether God or the Devil, the voice seemed to have Giradin''s survival in mind, so he put his faith in it.


    Prepare yourself. They will surround you again. Let me guide your hand.


    The spirits, still at a full run, spread out in their charge, forming a circle around Giradin before closing in.


    Giradin closed his eyes and tried to feel the voice''s guiding hand. When there was a slight twitch of his wrist, he followed the pull, swinging the flaming blade out in a wide arc. When he opened his eyes again, he beheld the incineration of a swath of foul specters.


    The force pulled him along to spin the other way and swing low. The heat from the flames turned the sand to glass around him, and even the grains caught aflame and burned away the vile apparitions.


    A ghost leapt onto Giradin''s back and thrust its blade between his ribs.


    Giradin reached up and closed his fingers around its face. The spirit screamed as it burned away and its ashes poured down Giradin''s back.


    The white flames formed a ring around Giradin, and the remaining vengeful spirits turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows.


    Put your trust in me, said the voice, And you shall see greater miracles than this.


    I am the Lord your God.

 Claims of Royalty

    A tip from a harlot led Melcher Fitz to the city of Segasti. At the brothel there, he learned that his target had moved on to Zimnira. Then to Myrdiach.


    Melcher had his subordinates block off each of the city''s gates while he rode in alone, confident that he could apprehend this traveler without issue. The whores had described his target as small and frail, someone they only knew for sure was a man after he took off his clothes, and even then there''d been some speculation that he was still just a boy.


    Whether boy or man, he''d infected every harlot he''d touched with the plague.


    If he was ignorant of his own crimes, Melcher Fitz would give him poison for a quick and painless death. If, however, he was doing this on purpose, Fitz would make a show of burning him alive in a place where everyone in Myrdiach could see.


    The common rabble scrambled out of Fitz''s way as he passed through, no doubt frightened at the sight of his uniform. This fear allowed him to move freely through the otherwise crowded streets. The peasants even gently pulled their dogs away, though the canines barked furiously at the strange, giant bird walking through the city streets.


    Melcher could see the brothel ahead, as evidenced by the wretches leaning over the balcony rails and speaking obscene offers to the men passing below. It was a wonder to Melcher that in such times, with a plague looming over all their heads, that local law did nothing to put a stop to these houses of disease and filth. If even one whore in that brothel caught plague, then they would all have plague within a fortnight, and so too would every traveler or local who had joined them in their wretched beds.


    Fitz stormed the front doors of the brothel, drew his sword, and pressed it against the tip of the madam''s nose. The madam raised both her hands in nervous surrender. The prostitutes and patrons alike who''d been lounging in the entryway now shrieked and fled from the intruder.


    "A frail, short traveler arrived here," Fitz said, twisting the blade. "Is he still here?"


    "Y-yes!" the madam cried. "Yes, he''s still here!"


    "What room?" Fitz asked.


    The madam stammered for a moment.


    "SPEAK, WHORE! WHAT ROOM?" Fitz bellowed and pressed the blade against her nose.


    A line of blood dripped from where the point met her flesh and the madam pointed upstairs. "Fourth room on the left," she said. "Please, don''t hurt my girls!"


    Fitz withdrew his weapon from her face. "If all goes well, your harlot will not be harmed. But I cannot make promises." With his sword still in hand, Fitz stomped up the stairs, shoving brothel patrons out of his way as he passed.


    Fourth room on the left.


    Fitz counted the doors in the hallway as he closed in on his destination. On the other side of each door, he could hear the typical, exaggerated moaning of the vile wretches inside practicing their abominable craft. If he were not alreay on a far more serious mission, he might have kicked in each door he passed, just to startle those inside and remind them of the risks they were not only taking but also forcing upon others.


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    When he arrived at the fourth door, Fitz raised his boot and kicked the door open with a thunderous snap.


    The woman inside screamed and yanked the bedsheets over to cover her bosom. Her patron found himself without anything to cover his loins.


    The young man (or, perhaps, boy) fit the description Fitz had heard at every brothel he''d visited for this investigation. He had red, wispy hair in a mop atop his head, and flesh so white it would make snow appear dun by comparison. His jaw held no hair, except for a lone, long strand hanging from his chin. His limbs were rail-thin, and Fitz watched his ribcage rise and fall as he breathed.


    Fitz crossed the room, seized the young man''s arm, and twisted it behind his back to force him onto his knees. The frail man yelped, and Fitz snapped his beak at the harlot. "Did he stick it in you yet?"


    She stammered for a moment, feigning confusion.


    "Answer me, whore!"


    Her face contorted into hideous bawling and she said, "No!"


    "Don''t lie to me, whore!" Fitz snapped. "God damns all liars!"


    "No!" she insisted. "We didn''t get that far!"


    Fitz''s attention whipped back to the frail man. "Everywhere you''ve gone, harlots you bedded caught plague. Did you know you have plague?"


    "Ah!"


    A groan of pain was the young man''s only response.


    "Lad, I will twist your arm out of its socket if you don''t tell me!" Fitz demanded.


    "I don''t have plague!" the frail man yelped.


    "I''ll break you, boy!" Fitz shouted as he twisted the frail man''s arm a little further. He was a little surprised the bone hadn''t snapped already. "You have the plague, and have given it to five whores so far."


    Fitz turned his mask to the prostitute hiding her body behind the bedsheets. "Don''t feel sorry for him. He almost killed you."


    "I didn''t know!" the frail man cried.


    "Swear to God you didn''t know!" Fitz demanded.


    "Unhand me!" the frail man shouted back. "I''m a prince of Bohemia! Unhand me!"


    Fitz snorted. "A prince of Bohemia? Traveling without bodyguards to small-town brothels? I think not." Fitz pulled the frail man up, forcing him to his feet. "That''s one lie too many. You go to the pyre."


    "No!" the frail man cried out.


    Fitz ignored his pathetic pleas for mercy and dragged him out of the brothel, naked as the day he was born.


    "What''s going on here?" came a demanding voice from nearby. A tall man with broad shoulders approached, a pitchfork in his hands.


    Fitz kept him back with the point of his sword, still dragging the frail man along. "Stay back! This man has plague!"


    "He doesn''t look sick to me," the peasant replied, following Fitz.


    "Oh, he doesn''t?" Fitz spat back in a condescending tone. "Pray tell, at what university did you study medicine?"


    The tall peasant stopped in his tracks and blinked twice. "I... I didn''t attend university..."


    "Oh, so you''re not a physician?" Fitz grunted. "Then leave the diagnosis to the doctors! This man is sick."


    "Help me!" the frail lad cried.


    Fitz kicked him in the back. "Enough out of you!" The frail lad yelped in pain again. Fitz forced both of the lad''s wrists together behind his back and clapped manacles over them. "Whoever you are, I sentence you to die for the crime of intentionally spreading the plague. May God have mercy on your soul."


    "You can''t do this!" the frail lad shouted. "I''m a prince of Bohemia! My name is Gabek... I''m a Prince of Bohemia!"


    "One more word and I''ll cut your tongue out!" Fitz bellowed.


    The citizens of Myrdiach watched from the sides of the streets with pity and fear, but none of them dared draw near. With no one standing in his way, Fitz dragged the frail lad to the gates of the city, where three other plague doctors immediately rushed in to take hold of him.


    "He knew what he was doing," said Melcher Fitz. "Don''t listen to his filthy lies. He goes to the stake to burn."

 The Witchs Exorcism

    According to Levanna, she and Fulk narrowly evaded Mujahid''s search party.


    Garlic, onions, frogs, wormwood, safflower, mugwort, yarrow, fresh placenta, and a blood sacrifice to strengthen the spell. Fulk sat tied to a chair in a circle in the center, with countless symbols and runes from different cultures and magical traditions painted in the sacrifice''s blood as Levanna chanted for hours on end, day after day.


    Fulk was denied water to drink, until the thirst became unbearable. Against even his own will, he struggled and fought against the bonds on his wrists, ankles, and waist. His face turned red and he roared with rage each time Levanna began chanting again. He shouted threats at her, to tear her limb from limb and cast her into the pits of Hell. The ropes rubbed his wrists raw, until he bled.


    "Witch!" He screamed, in voices clearly not his own. "Your black magic shall be your undoing! Your soul is black as sack-cloth, and shall be cast into the Abyss for what you''ve done! See not the innocent blood you spill? See not the harm you do? You cannot claim innocence, for your heart is hard as stone!"


    Levanna would typically respond to these insults by striking Fulk''s cheek with a thorny branch. Let the spirit experience pain and it might decide that it doesn''t want human existence anymore.


    In response to her efforts, blood poured like tears from Fulk''s eyes, and black bile spewed forth from his mouth.


    "Dashiel!" Levanna roared as she raised her staff high overhead. "If you are in there and can hear me, I need your help! Cast out the spirit which has taken hold of your long-time home and take back your rightful place in the heart of he who sold himself to your service!"


    The response came back as a croak from Fulk''s throat, "I cannot."


    Damn it all!


    Levanna cursed her luck. Whatever spirit Giradin had implanted in Fulk was far too strong even for other spirits to drive out. Even ones who had been there for years.


    Seeing that she could neither overpower the spirit nor gain effective help from any other spirits, Levanna resorted to a spell she''d not used in many years. I''m sorry to say that I will not share with you the details of the spell. I dare not even think about those details, because the very thought that a human being could do this and speak about it as boldly and proudly as she did on the day that I interviewed her has been the source of countless nightmares. God forbid that anyone find this witch''s grimoire and try the terrible things of which Levanna has written there, and I shall not make this account as a second grimoire in which one may learn the secrets of blackest magic.


    I recall the witch''s haunting laughter, sounding more like a hyena than a woman, as she mocked my disgusted face. "Oh, dear Christian," she said to me, "Surely your hands are not clean of any sin. In the Holy Land I''m sure you did many terrible things. What was that woman''s name again? Yulia? Do the others know about what you did to her? Tell me truly, is what you did to her any better than what I did? Will you not spend countless sleepless nights contemplating your sin, and wondering how a God who is good could possibly forgive such a thing?"


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    Regardless of the details of the spell she cast upon Fulk that day, the result is the important part for the sake of continuing the story.


    When Fulk awoke, he lay naked upon Levanna''s bed, still bound by his wrists and ankles.


    Levanna approached him and untied the bonds. "Good. You''re finally awake," she said.


    "What happened?" he asked, rubbing his forehead and running his fingers along the cuts Levanna''s failed exorcism had left behind.


    "The exorcism failed again," said the witch, bringing him a cup of water to drink. As he eagerly gulped down the water, she continued, "So, I cast a different spell, one to make all spirits within you dormant."


    "All spirits?" Fulk asked with a raised eyebrow.


    "Yes," she said, "All spirits. Fulk, when I peered into the depths of your soul I saw that there was not just one spirit within you, but many. Some are weak, and have hidden themselves away in the darkest recesses. One is strong, and has been within you for many years now. Then there is one more, far more powerful than all the others, who reigns over you now and has been slowly choking them out. My guess is there used to be many many more spirits within you."


    "If it weren''t for all I''ve seen recently, I''d call that bullshit," said Fulk. "But since I met you, things have just been too bizarre..."


    Levanna shrugged. "The world is far darker when one lives with eyes open. Any light we carry within cannot chase away all the shadows around us."


    Fulk rolled his eyes. "Yes, your philosophy is very cute. So, what the Hell do we do now?"


    "You know what we do now," said Levanna.


    Fulk stared blankly at her for a moment. "Is there no other way?"


    Levanna smirked. "You can be so sweet sometimes, you know that? No. There is no other way. He must die."


    Fulk groaned and held his head in both hands. "But the kid''s innocent... Giradin never meant to hurt anyone. If you just spend five minutes with the boy you''ll know he''s good. A rare beacon of goodness in a rotten world."


    "Beacons are nothing more than false hope, Fulk," said Levanna. "You feel around in the darkness, trying to find your way. Ahead you see a beacon of light, and you think it''s your salvation. But as you run toward it, you feel the fields of briar bushes rising up to your waist, and the thorns tear your flesh. Even so, you keep struggling to reach the light, only to suffer greater and greater pain. Finally, just as the beacon seems within reach, you fall into the endless pit which the beacon itself has lured you into."


    "I don''t give a damn about your theology," Fulk hissed.


    "Well, if you truly believe that Giradin is good, then why aren''t you by his side, protecting him?"


    "You know why!" Fulk snarled and pointed to the black veins in his wrist, which appeared to be writhing under his skin like snakes. "Because of this!"


    "Then, might I suggest this?" Levanna said. "You go to his side and I go with you, but we travel always in plague doctor uniforms, with masks and all. We speak to no one who would recongize our voices. You watch Giradin. If his work appears to be good, then you protect him. But if you see that he is creating false hope for the damned, then strike him down and free yourself from the spirit which possesses you."


    Before Fulk could argue further, both he and the witch heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats and voices.


    "Goodness! Who lives out here?"


    "I told you, the witch who took Fulk," came a low-voiced reply.


    Fulk crept over to the nearest window and peered outside. "That''s Mujahid... what''s he doing here?"


    "He''s been told to kill you as a deserter," said Levanna. "Quick! With me... I''ve got a back way out they''ll never find."

 No Rest for the Righteous

    "That''s long enough. Go get him."


    Sir Emeric thought he''d never hear words quite that kind. At long last, the Trial by Ordeal was over. Giradin could come out of the Coliseum. Ever since they closed those doors the previous day, Sir Emeric had waited there, listening to the quiet within for any hint of what was happening to Giradin. At first, he thought the utter silence within a good sign, because it meant there was no screaming. After a time, it made him suspicious of what might have happened to Giradin. Many times he considered ignoring what the Pope said and going in to see what had happened, but he knew he''d only doom Giradin if he did, so he continued to wait.


    Now he had permission. He dismounted from his horse and walked through the front doors of the Coliseum. In the early morning light, shade cast over the sand of the arena, but even in those shadows he saw piles of ash and dust which he was almost certain had not been there before.


    And there lay Giradin. Peaceful. Asleep. In the emperor''s box, nay, in the emperor''s seat. If the heathen gods of Rome ever truly existed they must have been furious that a Christian saint had taken the chair which once belonged to the Caesars before him.


    Sir Emeric ascended the stairs to the balcony where Giradin slept. In previous visits to this place, he''d felt cold spots in the air, the feeling that he was being watched, and heard the faint cries of those in agony long ago. Now, the Coliseum was silent and the air warm. He could only assume this meant that Giradin had driven away the evil spirits from this place.


    At the top of the staircase, Sir Emeric approached Giradin''s sleeping body. Giradin lay askew in the chair, his head leaning back and his mouth hanging open. His hair hung in his face, a look Sir Emeric found strangely endearing.


    Sir Emeric reached out to brush the hair from Giradin''s face, only for Giradin''s one good eye to snap open as he snatched Sir Emeric''s wrist. Giradin''s breath was heavy, sounding panicked. The peaceful expression while he slept had been an unintentional facade.


    Giradin stared up at Sir Emeric, wide-eyed. "The Vermin!" he shook Sir Emeric''s arm. "I had a vision... I saw Vermin, more than I could count!"


    "Easy..." Sir Emeric said, gently leaning him forward and patting his back. "I know it must have seemed very real, but was it a vision or merely a dream?"


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    "I''m certain it was a vision!" Giradin said. "I can feel it in my bones... I saw the Vermin attack this Coliseum, and then I saw them destroy the Crows'' monastery. One of them held Melcher Fitz''s head... we''ve got to do something!" Giradin tried to force himself up from the chair.


    Sir Emeric gently pressed down on his chest to keep him sitting. "Easy... easy... Alright, let''s go talk to the Pope about your vision."


    Sir Emeric escorted Giradin out of the Coliseum. The Cardinals, the Templars, the Pope, and Shlomo all greeted them with thunderous applause and wide smiles. Neither Sir Emeric nor Giradin really remembered the words said there, except that the Pope declared Giradin a saint that day, and that very fact was how they were able to get him to sit down with them and listen to Giradin''s description of his vision.


    The Pope, the Cardinals, the Templars, Giradin, Sir Emeric, and Shlomo gathered in a meeting hall in the Papal Palace. Giradin recounted everything he saw in copious detail, from the uniforms the men defending the Coliseum wore to the horrifying destruction of the Crows by Vermin and headless men.


    Once he was finished, the Pope scratched his own chin in consideration of his words. "The first part of your vision sounds like something from the past. During the Justinian Plague, Vermin overran much of Rome. Everyone who couldn''t escape the city holed up in the Coliseum. Roman legionnaires and gladiators held off the Vermin hordes. Did you know anything about the Justinian Plague?"


    Giradin smirked. "With all due respect, your Holiness, I was trained as a cobbler''s apprentice before I became a Crow. History wasn''t part of my education."


    The Pope gave an approving nod. "Fair enough. So, this was likely a revelation, not something buried deep in your mind bubbling to the surface. Even most who know about the Justinian Plague don''t know about the Vermin''s involvement. So, next you saw the destruction of the monastery where you were trained... and Melcher Fitz was killed. Are you sure it was the same monastery? Are you sure that was Melcher Fitz''s face? How often do you even see his face?"


    "Often enough to know it was him," said Giradin. "I don''t know when, but the Vermin are going to attack the monastery soon, and unless we do something they will slaughter everyone inside."


    The Pope nodded to Giradin and grinned. "Then, don''t look so dour. You had this vision for a reason, and that''s so we can stop it before it happens. Like Saint Ida of Louvain, you have saved us from the machinations of evil." He turned to Sir Emeric. "Take Giradin and fifty Templars with you to the monastery. Ride out as soon as you are able, and prepare for the worst. If necessary, conscript able-bodied men you meet on the road. God has told us this disaster is about to fall, so we must do as we can to pre-empt it."


    Sir Emeric bowed to the Pope. "Deus vult!"


    "Deus vult!" the Pope responded.


    "Deus vult!" others in the room all called out in unison.

 St. Idas Prophecy

    Few have actually read the words of St. Ida of Louvain''s prophecy about the Plague. But the Pope in Avignon has decided to grant me access to the original records concerning St. Ida''s Vision. Below is a word for word account of all she said as best I could translate it from the original Aramaic.


    As I held the Infant Savior in my arms last evening, the babe opened his lips and spoke to me. He told me that a great Plague is to sweep through Christendom, one which will put the plagues of the Egyptians to shame.


    "For the wickedness of Christendom has become a stench in my nose."


    "Woe to those who have treated my people worse than they would treat beasts! In this time, as in the time of the Exodus from Egypt, the sons of Jacob and those who heed their warnings shall be all who survive the coming Plague. Among those who spurn the least of these, men will bury their infant sons. Mothers shall weep and rend their hair."


    "Men without heads, who think of nothing but their hunger, shall walk the earth, and they will prey upon the flesh of their fellows."


    "Rats shall walk as men, and they shall carry death as a black cloud to blot out the light of all hope for them."


    "In that day, many shall cry out to me ''Lord! Lord!'' and I shall not hear their cries. I shall turn away my eyes and withhold my mercy."


    "For they have abused the foreigner, spat upon the children, and murdered their brothers. They have stolen virgins from their beds and have known them despite their cries. Wormwood has turned their waters bitter. They have ignored my commandments and filled their streets with refuse. They have neglected the widow and the orphan. They have not destroyed the idols of their fathers. They have slain me in their hearts and claim that my blood, and not my will, is their salvation."


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    "The people shall wear their nations'' sins upon their bodies, and their flesh shall turn as black as soot. Their families and their neighbors shall turn away from them, for if they do not they too shall bear their sins on their flesh."


    "Kings shall lose their sons as they lay with harlots, and their wives as they embrace babes."


    "But when the people of Christendom show sorrow in their wicked ways, then I shall raise up a deliverer among them. He shall bring healing upon all who know him. But the wicked shall spurn his help and plot evil against him. For before he came to them, they did not see how sick they were. Through his eyes they shall understand that they are as writhing snakes, and so they will seek to spill his blood."


    "Woe to the whole of Christendom should they prove as wicked as Jacob in the days of the prophets, or the Romans in the days when I walked the Earth. For if they have not learned from the mistakes of their forefathers, then they shall suffer a fate far worse."


    "The dead of Sodom and Gomorrah will look upon them with pity. In every city I shall leave only one family alive. In every village one child."


    "But if they will heed my call to repent, then, like Nineveh before them, they shall be spared."


    "I will lead them to an era of peace and healing. They will understand that all children are precious in my sight. The foreigner shall be friend to them, and their enemies long gone."


    "Thus sayeth the Lord: prepare for the coming days, Christendom, when you shall be tested. Heed my warnings and you will be saved from the Black Death that awaits you."


    And when Christ was finished speaking, behold! I saw a man with the face of a bird, and he smelled of pleasant fragrances. He wore a coat of black, and carried a scythe in his hands. Wherever his feet tread the land was black, and a dark cloud was always with him.


    After that, the Infant Christ allowed me to play with him so that I might be comforted.

 The Murderers Return

    St. Giradin awoke before the sun had yet peeked over the horizon. The embers of the campfire still gave off a faint, orange glow, and the birds had not yet begun their songs. He rose from his bedroll and peered up at Sir Emeric, who stood on the edges of the camp with his sword in hand.


    St. Giradin glanced back at Sir Cristoff, Sir Philip, and Shlomo, who were all still asleep, then whispered to Sir Emeric, "What is it?"


    Sir Emeric briefly looked over his shoulder at St. Giradin, his glassy eyes conveying both affection and concern. "We''re being watched," he whispered back.


    St. Giradin rose to his feet and picked up his seax from the ground. "By who?"


    Sir Emeric''s eyelids narrowed as he scanned beyond the trees. "I saw a plague doctor mask... And there''s someone else..."


    "What if it''s Melcher Fitz''s men coming to greet us?" Giradin asked, his eyes straining to see what Sir Emeric had spotted.


    Sir Emeric shook his head. His emerald eyes darting around the forest. "No. If Melcher Fitz sent people to meet us they wouldn''t be hiding in the woods on their approach. Also, he''d probably send more than two."


    A groan from behind St. Giradin startled him, and he turned to see Shlomo and Sir Cristoff both rising from their bedrolls. Both men reached for their weapons as they arose.


    "S''goin'' on?" Shlomo grumbled as he rubbed his eyes.


    "There''s a stranger in the woods watching us," St. Giradin said. "Someone with a plague doctor mask."


    For a brief moment, St. Giradin could swear he saw a knowing look on Shlomo''s face. As if he had his suspicions as to who this intruder might be.


    "You can put the weapons away!" called out a familiar voice. "If I wanted to hurt you, you''d never see me."


    "Fulk!" St. Giradin called out, joy in his voice at the imminent reunion.


    When St. Giradin made a move to run out to Fulk, Sir Emeric held out his hand to the saint''s chest to stop him. "Let him come to us," he whispered darkly.


    Fulk emerged from behind the trees, dressed in his plague doctor uniform. In his hands he held a long rope, and at the end of that rope was a woman with bound wrists, a blindfold, and a gag over her mouth.


    Is that... Levanna?


    Fulk drew near the group, but Sir Emeric stepped between him and St. Giradin. Fulk yanked on the rope in his hands, causing the witch to stumble forward. "You Templars know how to deal with witches, right?"


    "Aye..." said Sir Emeric.


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    "You can have this one," said Fulk, holding out the end of the rope to Sir Emeric. "She''s been filling my head with all manner of nonsense. Trying to get me to kill Giradin and join her in the pits of Hell. I can''t claim to be a good man, but killing someone like Giradin is a step too far."


    "Because he''s a saint?" Sir Emeric asked.


    Fulk''s head tilted to one side. "Oh? Is that official now? No, I just meant because he''s pathetic. If I was going to kill him I may as well drown kittens while I''m at it."


    Sir Emeric grunted at Fulk''s insult.


    St. Giradin laughed. "You may find that a lot of things are different now, my friend. I am weak, but the God whose spirit dwells within me is strong."


    Fulk stared for a moment, his face unreadable behind that steel mask, then nodded. "He certainly is. Templar, are you going to take the witch or not?"


    Sir Emeric grasped the end of the rope and gently led Levanna closer to himself. "What proof do you have that she''s a witch?"


    Fulk snorted. "Well, when a woman has a cauldron and mixes in it such ingredients as the liver of a newborn babe..."


    Sir Emeric rolled his eyes. "Yes, that tends to make it rather obvious. How did you find her?"


    "Does it matter?" Fulk asked with a shrug.


    Sir Emeric''s brow furrowed. "Maybe."


    Fulk hesitated a moment, then said, "Damn... alright, then." He reached up to the straps behind his mask and started to undo them. "Giradin, back when you healed my wrists something went wrong. I had... I don''t know... some kind of bad reaction." He slipped off the mask, and all present gasped at the sight. His skin had turned a bright shade of yellow, and every vein under his flesh was black and writhing. His irises had turned blood red, and his pupils white.


    Sir Emeric raised his blade and touched the tip to Fulk''s Adam''s apple.


    "Don''t hurt him!" St. Giradin cried.


    "He''s possessed," Sir Emeric said. "I''ve seen this only once before. This is what happens when spirits within a person''s soul are at war with one another."


    Fulk raised both his hands in surrender. "And sticking me with your poker''s gonna keep you safe from demons, is it?"


    Shlomo chuckled.


    "Safe from you," Sir Emeric grunted. "St. Giradin will protect us from the demons."


    "Just give me a chance to explain myself," Fulk said. "After that, you can be as murderous as pleases your little, righteous heart."


    St. Giradin placed a hand on Sir Emeric''s forearm, an action which caused the Templar to slowly withdraw his blade from Fulk''s throat. "I want to hear what he has to say," said St. Giradin. "Fulk''s saved my life many times. I owe him at least this much."


    Sir Emeric''s sword lowered to rest at his side, his fingers still gripping the hilt. "Fine."


    Fulk breathed a sigh of relief. "After Giradin healed me in Elekvaz, something was wrong with me, so I went to see this witch, thinking she could help."


    "Why didn''t you turn to us for help?" Sir Emeric snapped. "Rather than turning to this... this devil-worshiper?"


    Fulk shrugged. "Old habits. Besides, I figured you might just kill me to be safe rather than try to help. So, I went to her, and she... well, she did things to me. Terrible things..." Fulk shuddered. "She said I was possessed and that she''d try to cast the spirit out, but I think she conjured more into me instead. My dreams have been..." Fulk shook his head. "This bitch really messed me up."


    Sir Cristoff tapped the flat of his blade on Levanna''s shoulder. "Would it please you if we killed her?"


    "It would," said Fulk.


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "She deserves at least a trial. We''ll find a judge and try her for witchcraft. Right now, all we have is this man''s word."


    Fulk smirked. "And the word of a murderer is worth spit, of course." He returned his gaze to St. Giradin. "I came back to you for two reasons. One was so you could deal with the witch, the other was because Fitz is pissed off at me for leaving. He already sent men to hunt me down. Hell, he sent Mujahid after me. The only way I can go back to the monastery and expect to live is if you pardon me and I arrive with you."


    St. Giradin nodded. "That sounds fair. Stay close with us and I''ll make sure Fitz doesn''t harm you."

 Fulks Road to Freedom

    On the road back to the monastery, St. Giradin''s traveling companions stopped in a small town called Tenera. There, the local priest put them up for the night, but Fulk refused the Father''s hospitality, instead electing to stay at the local inn. St. Giradin simply couldn''t resist telling the church Father who and what he was, with support from the Templars in his midst. The Templars took turns standing guard over St. Giradin while the people of Tenera brought him their sick, their ailing, and their babes for his blessings.


    Were it not for the potential suspicions it might have raised, Sir Emeric might have stayed by St. Giradin''s side the entire time. But he decided he would trust the other Templars with the saint''s care, and even should they fail he knew Shlomo had time and again proven a loyal enough friend to take care of him, even if he didn''t follow St. Giradin''s God.


    With time to himself, Sir Emeric found a quiet place on the outskirts of town, a grove surrounded by apple trees and filled with wild-flowers. There he sat upon a rock to contemplate life and pray.


    His peace and quiet was interrupted when Fulk staggered into the grove, with a mostly-empty liquor bottle in his hand. Sir Emeric thought he had never before seen, nor would ever see again, a man so ugly as Fulk. His face was scarred from burns, cuts, and any number of other injuries. His flesh had turned yellow, and the veins under his skin were black and writhed around.


    Far worse was Fulk''s attitude. From what St. Giradin had told Sir Emeric, the man was a murderer who became a Crow to make his penance, but he hardly seemed grateful for the opportunity. He''d fled his duties to seek the help of a witch. Sir Emeric could think of few worse ways to spit in the eye of those who cared about his soul.


    "Hey! Templar!" Fulk bellowed as he stumbled closer. Sir Emeric tried to ignore him, hoping he might forget whatever he was about to say and go away. "Hey! What''s yer name?"


    "Sir Emeric," the Templar replied. There was only so much ignoring he could do before it became rude, and Sir Emeric would always be a man of manners.


    "Fulk," said the murderer, tapping a fist to his chest. "So..." Fulk staggered forward and plopped down on the grass in front of Sir Emeric. "You''ve done an exorcism or two, right? That''s what Templars do?"


    "It is a small part of what I do," said Sir Emeric. "But I think I already know where this is going. You want me to exorcise the demons from you, correct?"


    "Aye!" slurred Fulk. "Wouldn''tchoo wan'' them cast out if it was you?"


    Sir Emeric folded his hands on his lap. "I would. But I''m afraid you''ve come to the wrong man, Fulk. What you''re dealing with appears to be a deep possession. At least one of those demons has been within you a very long time. There''s a big difference between banishing the spirits of the dead when they walk among the living and exorcising demons from a human body they''ve inhabited for years."


    "...Shit..."


    Sir Emeric couldn''t help but snicker at Fulk''s response. "Indeed. I think that word sums it up fair enough."


    "There nothing you can do?" Fulk asked, one eyelid drooping over his pupil.


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    "There might be something you can do," said Sir Emeric.


    "Whassat?"


    "Well, in order to tell you that, first I need a few details. Do you know when the first demon entered your soul?"


    Fulk bit hard on his upper lip and looked away. "I didn''t think it was real at the time... thought it was a dream..."


    "So, you do remember," said Sir Emeric. "Tell me." It was a command, but there was no hint of threat behind it.


    "Firs'' time I was ''rrested," Fulk said. "They threw me in the jail to await essecution. You know... because I was a killer. It was dark in that jail, but a voice spoke to me." Fulk shivered and his eyes flew wide open as he spoke the name, "Dashiel. That''s who he said he was. He said he could get me away from the nooshe."


    "I''m sorry... the what?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "The nooshe..." Fulk tilted his head to one side and his tongue drooped out while he made a gesture as if he were pulling on a rope around his own neck.


    "Ah. I see. Continue."


    "I agreed to his terms."


    "What terms?" Sir Emeric interrupted.


    Fulk looked confused. "The terms in esschange for helping me ''scape."


    "Which were?"


    Fulk shrugged. "Shit. I don''t remember. Next thing I remember I was running through a grassy field... people were chasing me. Later, I heard I killed one of the guards and took his keess."


    "I see..." said Sir Emeric. "Sounds like you sold your soul for a way out of prison. How long ago was that?"


    Fulk shrugged and rolled his eyes. "I don''t know. Don''t keep much track of the calendar when you''re on the run. Fifteen years, maybe?"


    Sir Emeric sighed. "Fifteen years with this spirit inside you." He shook his head. "The Scripture tells us that when demons enter a human soul, they bring with them seven of their friends."


    "If I been possessed for that long... How come I wasn''t acting all..." Fulk pantomimed a person more violently possessed. Someone rabid and out of control.


    "Because some demons appreciate subtlety," said Sir Emeric. "They know they can remain in a host for years, tormenting him to their hearts content, if they just keep him calm enough."


    "Bastards..." Fulk grunted with a shake of his head. "So, who can cast them out of me?"


    "The Lord can," said Sir Emeric.


    "Which lord?" said Fulk.


    Sir Emeric chuckled. "THE Lord."


    "Well... shit... what''s he waiting for?"


    "Are you sure you want to hear this?" Sir Emeric asked.


    Fulk nodded.


    "I suspect the Lord''s already trying to free your soul," said Sir Emeric. "But you have to put in your part too. God gives us all free will. Driving out demons you want within you would be a violation of your free will."


    "I don''t want them in me!" Fulk protested.


    "Yes, you do," said Sir Emeric. "Think about it. What do you think the demons within you want you to do? Things which will hurt you, right? Drinking excessively, setting yourself on fire, consulting witches. These are all things that demons often drive their hosts to do. When you did those things, were the demons controlling you?"


    "I... I don''t think sho..."


    "Then you''re listening to them," said Sir Emeric. "You''re taking their suggestions as wisdom rather than dismissing them as wicked foolishness. When people tell you to do something, are you more likely to listen to your friends or your enemies?"


    Fulk sighed and hung his head. "...My friends... when I do listen."


    "That means you see these demons as your friends." Sir Emeric gave a sympathetic half-grin. "Even though you''ve realized they are poor friends, you see them as friends nonetheless. While the Lord may struggle against them within you, He won''t drive them out until you agree with Him that they are your enemies."


    "I do agree..." said Fulk.


    Sir Emeric stood from the rock. "Apparently, not enough. Start behaving righteously, Fulk. Ignore the demons'' advice, resist their temptations, and the Lord shall do the rest. You will be free of all this, Fulk. You just have to put in your part, and stop looking to others to do the work for you. You decide what sort of person you want to be. One aligned with Heaven, or one condemned to Hell."

 Reaching Dubbar

    The journey back to the monastery seemed to St. Giradin like it was taking far longer than the journey to the Vatican had been, though he knew this was unlikely as they were taking the same roads.


    At least, they had been taking the same roads, until a pile of collapsed trees in their path forced them to divert to a different route just southeast of Elekvaz.


    It was easy to tell that they were reaching the lands St. Giradin was familiar with because the once blue sky, with a hot sun bearing down upon them, soon turned to a light gray. A wet chill swept through the air, biting St. Giradin with its cold no matter how tightly he bundled his cloak or held onto Sir Emeric.


    "There''s a town ahead!" Sir Cristoff called out.


    "Finally!" said Sir Emeric. "Which one?"


    "According to the map..." Sir Cristoff looked over the map in his hands, squinting at it. He sighed and shook his head. "Whoever wrote this had atrocious hand-writing. It looks like it says ''Dubbar.''"


    "Dubbar used to be a Jewish town," Shlomo called out.


    Sir Emeric peered back at him. "Should we avoid it, then? The Jews tend to be nervous when large groups of Christians come to visit."


    "Some even turn violent," Sir Cristoff muttered.


    Shlomo shook his head. "No need. I said it used to be a Jewish town. There was a pogrom a few years back. Gentiles moved in afterward."


    Sir Emeric gave a sympathetic grimace. "I''m sorry to hear that."


    Shlomo shrugged. "Such is life."


    "It shouldn''t have to be," said St. Giradin.


    Sir Emeric looked forward, up the road toward the town of Dubbar. The path there was a steep incline, and the road grew rockier on the approach. The trees on either side of the road were dead and dried out, their branches all broken off to make kindling for the many people who camped along the way.


    "Well, let''s move," Sir Emeric said. "We should set ourselves up in Dubbar before nightfall."


    "Do you think they''ll have enough rooms at the inn for so many?" asked St. Giradin.


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "Most certainly not. But there are sure to be enough barns, sheds, and guestrooms. Not to mention space in the church. We can at least sleep with roofs over our heads tonight."


    St. Giradin''s entourage rode up the path toward Dubbar, the horses struggling with the uneven path. Sir Emeric''s horse whinnied and whipped her head about. "Easy there, girl," he said, before gently patting her neck and feeding her an extra helping of oats. "You can rest soon."


    "How does it feel, witch?" one of the Templars taunted Levanna, who was still bound, gagged, and blindfolded. "Once we get to Dubbar they''ll try you, convict you, and burn you. I guess the burning of this life will make the transition to Hell that much easier."


    Sir Emeric turned to the junior Templar and pointed an accusing finger at him. "None of that!"


    "What? It''s true!" the Templar protested.


    Sir Emeric narrowed his eyes to slits. "It may be, but there''s no reason to revel in it. Christ would wish that not a single soul were lost, but you clearly celebrate this misguided woman''s damnation. You will stop immediately."


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    "Or what?" the Templar snorted.


    "Do not test me, boy," Sir Emeric growled.


    The junior Templar shrunk away and fell silent.


    At the top of the hill they finally spotted the town below. It was a quiet little place with wattle and daub homes and a church with a tall steeple in the center.


    But the moment Sir Emeric laid eyes on the place he noticed no smoke coming from the chimneys, though it was a cold day. No people walked the streets, neither were there loose animals about. In fact, when he looked upon the place, it seemed there wasn''t a soul there. Yet, as he and the others drew closer, he noticed that the buildings were all intact and well-kept, as if someone had been there recently.


    "Hold up!" he called out, raising his fist as a signal to halt. Everyone came to a stop at his command. "None of this looks right... it looks abandoned."


    Sir Cristoff looked back at Shlomo. "Do you think plague took this place?"


    Shlomo shook his head. "I''ve come across towns wiped out by plague before. They have bodies littering the streets, dogs wandering, animals loose..."


    Sir Cristoff turned to Sir Emeric. "What say you? What do we do here?"


    "Well..." Sir Emeric scratched his stubbled beard as he considered the options, "If this place is truly abandoned, then we have a place to stay. Assuming the reason why it''s abandoned isn''t reason to avoid it." The Templar dismounted from his horse and drew his sword. "Sir Cristoff, Sir Philip, you two come with me and we''ll check it out. The rest of you, stay here. If you see any sign of trouble blow a horn."


    St. Giradin reached out and grasped Sir Emeric''s arm. "Let me come with you."


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "No. You''re far too valuable to risk here."


    "I have to take risks eventually," said St. Giradin. "If the town is haunted then you''ll need me."


    Sir Emeric considered it for a moment, then gently pushed St. Giradin''s hand away. "No. Vengeful spirits are dangerous, but the plague is far more so. You are the only cure for plague that we know of."


    "With all due respect," Shlomo interjected, "Giradin here has faced many a danger far greater than anything you''re likely to find in that town, and he''s come out alive every time. I daresay, by now he''s probably as experienced a warrior as you are, Sir Emeric."


    The Templar sighed, reached up, and helped St. Giradin down. "Fine. Stay close to me, understand? And if I tell you to run you do so. Do I make myself clear?"


    "Yes, sir," said St. Giradin with a nod.


    "One more thing." Sir Emeric reached into his saddlebag and produced a plague doctor mask. He held it out to St. Giradin and said, "Just in case."


    St. Giradin nodded and donned the mask, tying the straps to the back of his head. He took his rolled-up coat from the back of Sir Emeric''s saddle and dressed himself in it, slipping on the waxed-leather gauntlets.


    The three Templars and the plague doctor saint walked into town together, their weapons drawn in case they should run into any trouble. Sir Emeric peered up at the hills and cliffs on all sides of the town of Dubbar, noting that if he were planning an assault on such a town he would likely launch his ambush from there.


    A squeak made Sir Emeric jump, and he pointed his blade at the source.


    A brown rat ran by, stopped in the middle of the road, and groomed its fur with its paws.


    "Filthy creatures..." Sir Cristoff muttered before running it through with his blade.


    The four of them continued on, peering at every window in the homes all around them. There was no sign of movement in any of the houses. No lit candles. No lanterns. Only darkness and silence.


    "Do you sense any spirits?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "No," said St. Giradin. "I don''t sense anything at all."


    Sir Emeric sighed. "We need to investigate these buildings. Let''s start with the church. In times of trouble, common folk usually run to the church for shelter."


    The four of them made their way to the front doors of the church. The stained-glass windows prevented them from peering inside before opening the door. Sir Emeric made a gesture for the other three to stand back as he drew close to the front door.


    His trembling hand reached out for the door handles. The hinges screeched as he pulled the door open. What little sunlight shone through the gray clouds above illuminated the inside of the sanctuary.


    "Mary!" Sir Emeric cried.


    "Sweet Christ!" Sir Cristoff breathed.


    Bones piled in the center of the sanctuary, so high that they touched the ceiling. For a brief moment, Sir Emeric hoped that they were not human.


    But the skulls proved otherwise.


    A horn blast from behind them.


    Sir Emeric turned his eyes to the hills, where he saw countless Vermin cresting the tops with rusty weapons in their hands. They had the town surrounded. Swarms of rats rushed down the hills first, like a flood moving in to wash the town away. The Vermin followed, a horde beyond numbering.


    There was no use running away. They''d never make it to the edge of town.


    "Into the church! Quick!" Sir Emeric shouted.

 The Shelter of the Church

    St. Giradin and the Templars fell back into Dubbar''s church. Sir Cristoff seized a femur from the mound of bones and slipped it in the handles of the front doors, barring the way.


    "Windows too!" Sir Emeric shouted. He and Sir Philip rushed to a broken pew, lifted it, and propped it against the nearest stained-glass window.


    "Giradin! Help me with this!" Sir Cristoff bellowed. St. Giradin rushed over to help Sir Cristoff lift another broken pew and prop it against a stained-glass window on the other side.


    Bang!


    The Vermin outside the church crashed into the front door. The femur held firm against their attack. Through the gap, St. Giradin could hear the beasts snarling and hissing on the other side. The wet noses of rats poked under the door as the rodents attempted to squeeze underneath.


    Sir Cristoff and Sir Philip stomped on the rats'' noses, crushing their snouts.


    Smash!


    Vermin shattered the stained-glass windows, pouring broken shards of red and blue into the sanctuary.


    "To the belltower!" Sir Emeric cried.


    St. Giradin and the Templars abandoned the sanctuary just as Vermin started climbing in through the windows they''d not yet had a chance to barricade. The saint and Templars ran to the door beside the pulpit and scurried up the spiral staircase.


    Once at the top, Sir Emeric commanded everyone, "Get back!" and they backed to the edges around the gap in the middle, where the bell hung. Sir Emeric took hold of the bell''s rope and pulled it taut. The bell''s voice cried out through Dubbar, telling everyone in ear-shot where St. Giradin and the Templars had holed up. The Vermin would know where to find them, but so would the other Templars, Shlomo, and Fulk, if rescue was a possibility.


    "Giradin! Cristoff!" Sir Emeric called out to his fellows. "When I tell you, cut the rope!"


    The door at the bottom of the spiral staircase burst open. A swarm of rats poured in, followed by Vermin. The filthy creatures stared their ascent up toward the top of the belltower, wielding their rusty weapons and brandishing their dagger-like front teeth.


    St. Giradin readied his seax, standing as close to the rope as he could, leaning over the abyssal fall below.


    Vermin and rats drew closer, making their way around the spiral staircase.


    St. Giradin''s eyes darted to Sir Emeric, asking the silent question whether or not it was time.


    "Steady..." said Sir Emeric, adjusting his grip on the rope.


    Sir Philip stepped behind Sir Emeric and took hold of the rope with him, keeping it taut and ready for when the moment came.


    The Vermin made another revolution around the staircase. Their foul stench rose to St. Giradin''s nostrils and he shook his head in a vain attempt to rid himself of the odor. Even his mask, it seemed, could not fully block out that miasma.


    "Hold!" Sir Emeric cried.


    The rats screeched and squealed in their ascent. The Vermin glanced up, ferocity in their eyes, and hissed at St. Giradin.


    "Hold!"


    The Vermin drew close enough to swing their rusty weapons at St. Giradin''s feet. St. Giradin and the Templars danced to keep out of reach.


    "NOW!" Sir Emeric cried.


    St. Giradin brought down his seax on the rope with all his might, slicing through most of the cords but leaving a few behind.


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    Sir Cristoff''s long-sword immediately followed, severing the rope the rest of the way.


    The brass bell fell, breaking the wooden staircase and crushing the Vermin and rats in its way on the way down. The whole staircase collapsed beneath the Templars, and the bell landed at the bottom with a resounding clang which shook the tower and rattled St. Giradin''s skull.


    More Vermin poured in the door, climbing over the rubble and their crushed fellows. They leered up at St. Giradin and the Templars, waving their rusted blades and hissing.


    St. Giradin breathed a sigh of relief, knowing they were outside the beasts'' reach.


    "I''m afraid it''s not over yet," said Sir Emeric. "But we''ve bought a little more time. They will find a way up here eventually."


    "What do we do?" asked St. Giradin.


    Sir Emeric tilted his head to one side. "I might ask you the same thing."


    "Pardon?"


    "You survived a night in the Coliseum, amidst countless vengeful spirits. That was bound to be more dangerous than this."


    Below them, the Vermin attempted to climb the walls in the bell-tower, using the gaps between the bricks as footholds. They had not risen that far before they lost their grip and fell back down to the bottom. Sounds somewhere between hisses and cursing in some language St. Giradin did not know called from their throats.


    "How did you survive the Trial by Ordeal?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "I''m not sure..." St. Giradin said. "It wasn''t something I did on purpose. The Spirit filled me and I just started fighting back... my every swing, every step was guided by God."


    "Well, then call for His help now," said Sir Emeric. "Pray, sing, chant... whatever you have to do."


    St. Giradin sheathed his weapon and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands together. "St. Mary, pray for us, for we need a miracle," he pleaded aloud. "Save us from the unclean creatures coming to slay us. May we be spared from their violence."


    The sound of wood dragging outside the church. Sir Emeric peered outside the bell-tower and saw Vermin gathering piles of crates and barrels against the outer wall to the south. Once the pile was high enough, the Vermin started climbing up onto the shingled roof.


    Sir Emeric looked off into the distance, hoping to see the other Templars approaching. But they were out of sight. When Sir Emeric gave it another thought, he realized that even fifty Templars would be no match for a Vermin horde this enormous.


    More and more Vermin climbed up onto the roof, ascending toward the bell-tower. Soon, they surrounded the bell-tower on all sides.


    Sir Emeric readied his sword to stab the Vermin when they drew close enough. It was clear that there were far too many to fight off in this fashion forever, but he could at least slow their ascent, provide more time for a miracle.


    St. Giradin continued his prayers, his voice growing more and more desperate.


    Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff followed Sir Emeric''s example, each taking a spot in the bell-tower best situated to fight off the creatures.


    One of the Vermin got within reach, and Sir Emeric ran him through the eye. The beast slipped off his blade and rolled down the shingled roof. Other Vermin struggled to hang on as the body toppled over them.


    A cool breeze blew through the bell-tower.


    Sir Cristoff ran another through just as it got within reach.


    Sir Philip another.


    Soon all three Templars stabbed wildly as the Vermin ascended. Crimson sprayed up onto their helmets, some of it leaking through the eye-holes.


    The Vermin below held up their fallen fellows'' bodies as flesh and bone shields against the Templars'' attacks. Sir Emeric thrust his blade over and over, trying as many angles as he could think of to try to get around the meat shields to the still-living Vermin beneath.


    The pittering of rain on church''s roof added to all the chaotic noise within the bell-tower.


    One Vermin slipped past Sir Philip''s blade and rolled into the bell-tower. The creature drew its rusty weapon and slashed at Sir Philip''s torso. The blade sliced through his tabbard, and shards of rust broke off against his chain-mail. Sir Philip kicked the Vermin in the chest, sending it toppling down the gap in the middle of the spire with a horrible crunch at the bottom.


    The rain grew heavier, and some of the Vermin started to slip on the shingles, struggling to keep their grip.


    Two Vermin gave the dead body of one of their fallen comrades a hard shove and the corpse hit Sir Philip on the chest. The Templar lost his balance and started to tumble backward.


    Sir Cristoff reached out and snatched his hand, preventing his fall.


    But two Vermin leapt into the bell-tower. One jumped on Sir Philip''s chest, the extra weight causing Sir Cristoff to lose his grip. The other attacked Sir Cristoff, forcing him to parry and defend himself.


    Sir Philip fell through the gap and crashed onto the pile of splinters at the bottom. Motionless.


    Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain turned white.


    No.


    It wasn''t rain.


    Hail fell from the heavens.


    First tiny drops.


    Then they grew bigger.


    And bigger, until they were fist-sized balls of ice raining down from the sky.


    The roar of the falling ice on the church roof was deafening. Shingles broke off the roof and the Vermin fell with them. Hailstones cracked the Vermin''s skulls, and their bodies poured down off the church in piles.


    Those Vermin who had not yet attempted the climb scattered, fleeing every way they could to escape the falling hailstones.

 Losing His Grip

    Melcher Fitz spoke before a gathering of the plague doctors in his chapter. All of them congregated in the monastery''s meeting hall to hear his words.


    Before him stood a sea of men in gray robes, many of them new faces who had joined the plague doctors because of the stories they''d heard about Giradin.


    "We have a new threat," Melcher Fitz called out. "The young Duke of Orleans, Philip. According to servants in his home, the Duke of Orleans has shown symptoms of plague. Many of them have left his service for fear of the disease, but this causes a different sort of problem. He is constantly hiring new servants to replace those who are quitting on him. This is a potential fountain of miasma which could bubble over and spread across Chistendom if we do not stamp it out! Now, I know that an assault upon a duke is beyond our power, but if we work together we can find a way to--"


    The doors to the meeting hall burst open and in rushed one of the doctors who''d been on guard duty. "Giradin''s back! And there''s an army of Templars with him!"


    "Giradin?" came the cry from the croud. All those present rushed from their seats and clustered at the door, trying to leave the meeting hall as quickly as they could. Some shoved their fellows aside or cut each other off for a chance to be among the first who saw the saint''s return.


    Fitz''s fingers clenched tight around the handle of his sword and his eyes narrowed to slits. "Giradin..." he muttered. If that cowardly ne''er-do-well had returned it could only mean that the Pope had failed to see through his deceptions and had declared the worthless boy a saint. Now more than ever he would be difficult to deal with.


    Fitz exited the monastery at the tail-end of the crowd, using his cane to brush aside those who stood in his way.


    Giradin dismounted from the horse at the front of the entourage. The Templar with red hair gave Giradin a proud smile as he made his way toward the crowd.


    The doctors were abuzz with questions, especially the new recruits. They filled his ears with the stories of the horrible things Fitz had made them do while Giradin was absent, and sung his praises as their great hope to start curing people rather than burning them. Fitz was sure he''d heard a few say "that Moor''s medicine was poison," which made Fitz glad he''d sent Mujahid away.


    Giradin addressed the crowd, "Please! Please! Quiet down! I have a few matters I need to address. After that, I will try to meet with you each individually, if we have the time. First, I must speak with Melcher."


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    Calling me by my first name? Presumptuous wretch!


    Giradin drew closer to Fitz, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea for Moses. Fitz rested on his cane and kept a stern face, trying to remain as unreadable as possible.


    Giradin looked up at Fitz with sad eyes. "I have had a vision most terrible, and you were in it." Fitz considered reaching for his sword if Giradin was about to accuse him of anything wrong. He hated how easily this liar could turn the crowd on him if he wanted to. All it would take would be a few words and they''d lynch him. Giradin continued, "In my vision, you died at the hands of a horde of Vermin. I have returned here with these Templars to prevent that vision from coming true."


    "Very kind of you to try to keep me safe," Fitz said, flatly. The claim was ridiculous. As if Fitz was supposed to believe that this army Giradin had brought with him was to protect him and not force Giradin''s will on the Crows.


    "And, there is something else you must know," said Giradin, turning his head to face his entourage. "Fulk! Will you come here please?"


    Fitz''s blood boiled at the mere mention of the traitor''s name. When he saw the criminal approach, still wearing a plague doctor uniform as if he''d never abandoned them, it took all the willpower he had not to demand the crowd slay him immediately.


    When Fulk drew close enough, Giradin wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "Let us always remember," Giradin called out, "that Christ calls us to repentance, not merely righteousness. As much as God smiles on those who do right, He rejoices far more in those who return to the right path. Fulk left the Crows for a time because he needed to seek out the solution to a personal problem. He returned to us with a witch in tow, showing that he had fully repented of his ways when he turned her over to the Templars. Sadly, the witch escaped when we were ambushed by Vermin, but she will be found and brought to justice."


    Giradin released Fulk''s shoulder and stood before him, making the gesture of a cross in front of his face. "I hereby pardon Fulk of his sins. Of breaking his oath to the Crows, of consorting with witches, and of the murder for which he has spent the past several years making pennance. Let him rejoin his brethren, the plague doctors, with honor."


    "Just a moment!" Fitz bellowed. "You may have forgotten this, boy, but I am still the leader of the Crows. His oath was to me, not to you."


    "All oaths are to God," said Giradin. "If an oath be not to God, then it is no oath at all."


    "You cannot simply excuse his crimes without my say-so!" shouted Fitz.


    The crowd murmured, and cast furious eyes on the leader of the Crows.


    "Giradin is God''s voice on earth," said Sir Emeric, his brow furrowed with anger. "He has the Papal blessing and the right to pardon any crimes. With all due respect, Master Fitz, if you have a problem with what Giradin has proclaimed, you may pray about it and see if God changes His mind."


    Defeated, Fitz remained silent. He scanned the crowd, taking note of whose faces showed him the most vitriol. He would need to know who his enemies were from here forward. Giradin warned of a war with the Vermin, but Fitz suspected the real war would be between him and this obviously false saint.


    "Let us make preparations," Giradin called out. "For the Vermin hordes are on the move, and we must be ready to face them in battle. If we have any allies, now would be the time to call upon them."

 The Last Time

    Mujahid and the plague doctors who''d gone with him to hunt Fulk returned to the monastery, having completely lost track of Fulk''s trail long ago. They''d asked at every town near the witch''s hut, but no one had seen a badly-burned man and a darkly beautiful woman traveling together. Or, if they had, no one was willing to say anything.


    Mujahid steeled himself for the tongue-lashing he was sure to receive upon entering the monastery with that news. Melcher Fitz was not the most understanding of men. His years as a plague doctor had made him hard, precise, the sort of man who demanded absolute perfection. And why shouldn''t he? He led a chapter of an order dedicated to saving all of Christendom from a deadly plague. They could not afford mistakes in this endeavor.


    Yet, as Mujahid drew near the monastery, he spotted a figure in gray robes exit the front doors and start on his way toward the outhouse. On a second glace, Mujahid noticed his face was wrapped in bandages, and the familiar way he walked with shoulders back and fists clenched at all times.


    "Fulk!" he called out and spurred his horse to bring him closer.


    The man with the bandaged face looked up at Mujahid as he approached, clearly responding to the name.


    "It is you, Fulk!" Mujahid cried. "What are you doing here? Melcher Fitz sent me to find you."


    "And kill me," said Fulk. "I know. But Giradin pardoned me. He can do that now, being a saint and all."


    Mujahid blinked twice and rattled his head. "Pardon?"


    "Giradin''s back from the Vatican," said Fulk. "And he''s a full-fledged saint. You might want to prepare yourself..." Fulk pointed to the monastery doors. "That place is swarming with Templars now. And Zealots who think Giradin is our only hope to survive the Black Death."


    Mujahid cringed at the thought of entering a place which was abundant in Templars. Though the Templars he''d met in Elekvaz seemed kind enough, despite knowing he was a Moor, he had hear enough stories to know that many Templars held onto prejudices they''d had when they left on Crusade. There was sure to be at least one who would hate Mujahid simply for existing, and one was enough to feel nervous.


    "Thank you for the warning," Mujahid said. He dismounted from his horse and walked over to Fulk, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Let me just say, I''m glad you''ve been pardoned. I wasn''t looking forward to dying while trying to kill you."


    Fulk pushed Mujahid''s hand away. "This is real touching and all, but I really have to shit." Without another word, Fulk continued on his way to the outhouse.


    With Fulk out of sight, Mujahid tied off his horse''s reins, took a deep breath, and entered through the front doors of the monastery.


    He found himself glad he was still wearing his uniform and mask, for the moment he stepped inside he saw the familiar white tabbard with a red cross of a Templar knight, and not one of the three he''d met in Elekvaz. He gave a polite nod, trying to hide any outward sign of nervousness as he passed through the crowd of men in gray robes. They were all chattering away, exchanging gossip and rumors. The once quiet and peaceful monastery was now over-stuffed with men and nigh-deafening. The heat in the room was intense from all the bodies shoved so close together, and sweat dripped down Mujahid''s nose.


    Mu squeezed through, gently brushing aside those in his way with his hands. Some proved easier to move than others, as there were those among them who required a firmer push to get them to move out of his way.


    On his way to Fitz''s office, Mujahid spotted Giradin, Shlomo, and the Templar with red hair in the meeting hall, exchanging jests and laughter. For a moment, Mujahid considered stopping to see Giradin, but he thought it likely that Melcher Fitz might consider that an insult. After all, Fitz was his leader, not Giradin, and it was protocol for returning plague doctors to report to Fitz before doing anything else.


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    So, Mujahid continued on his way, until he arrived at the door to Fitz''s office. He cleared his throat and knocked on the door.


    "WHAT?" came a furious reply from within.


    "It''s Mujahid, master," said Mu. "I''ve returned and--"


    "Come in!" Fitz snapped.


    Mujahid hurried inside and closed the door behind him.


    Fitz sat behind his desk, clad in his gray robes and holding a quill in hand. He stabbed the quill into the inkwell and folded his arms. "You didn''t find Fulk like I ordered you to."


    "I didn''t," said Mujahid, removing his mask. "But, he''s back and ready to serve again. I''d say that problem solved itself."


    "The Hell it did!" Fitz grumbled. "Need I remind you that Fulk is a criminal? A murderer? Father Hewlett wanted him to make his penance as a plague doctor, but I was always against it. Letting such scum into our ranks. You simply can''t trust someone like that... someone who''s... who''s done the sorts of things Fulk has done."


    "I understand, master," said Mujahid.


    "I don''t think you do," said Fitz. "After a time, I thought that Fulk had proven he could be loyal to our order first and foremost. I thought he was well along his path to redemption. But then he ran off to consort with a witch. Now he''s back, having received no consequence at all for his actions. We have no way of knowing if he''ll be loyal to us."


    "With all due respect, master," said Mujahid, "Are forgiveness and redemption not a part of your faith? Is the Church not made up of sinners seeking to be saved?"


    "Christ had a thief among his disciples and it was that very thief who betrayed him," said Fitz. "Forgiveness isn''t the issue. It''s about whether or not it''s wise to trust such a person. Right now, because of Giradin, I''m forced to put my trust in a cold-blooded killer. If you''d killed Fulk like I told you to I wouldn''t be in this mess."


    "I see," said Mujahid. "If... if you don''t mind me asking, master, I know you''ve had people performing experiments with my medicine in a few cities."


    "Yes, I have," said Fitz, his arms folded.


    "How have those experiments gone?" Mujahid asked.


    Fitz''s expression softened just a little. "Clever. You''re reminding me of the one thing you''ve done right lately. The medicine you brewed seemed to work in small villages, but not so much in big cities. I''m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the amount of miasma in the air in the cities. Your medicine can only fight so much."


    "Well, that''s good news!" Mu grinned. "Even if it just works in small villages, that''s still better than where we were before."


    "There''s a problem, though," said Fitz, shaking his head. "A lot of those people out there, the ones who joined because of Giradin, they''re the sort who mistrusts Moors. When they either saw or heard that the medicine didn''t work in the big cities, they spread word that ''that Moor''s medicine doesn''t work at all.'' They''re calling you a charlatan, and worse."


    Fitz stood from his chair and started pacing the room, his nails clawing at his temples in frustration. "Some have already refused to give people in small towns your medicine, claiming that it''s heathen witchcraft. I''ve already had ten men flogged for insubordination, and I''ve seen those men talking with each other, no doubt conspiring against me. Then there''s a duke who''s spreading plague to his servants, whorehouses in cities all over making it worse, more and more people refusing to adhere to our cleanliness guidelines because Jews came up with those guidelines... It''s all going to Hell so fast, Mujahid. You''d better watch yourself."


    Mu sighed and shook his head. "This all sounds terrible... but things have been worse than this before."


    "How? When?" Fitz snapped.


    "Before we had the right of conscription we had almost no plague doctors to work with," said Mu. "Now... well, just look aroung the monastery some time and really think about it. We have more help than we ever dreamed we''d have. Those people out there may not be as cooperative as you like, but in their own way they are trying their best to help us."


    Fitz sneered at Mujahid. "Get out."


    "Pardon?"


    "Get out of my office," Fitz said, pointing to the door. "Take your fairy tale approach somewhere else. I''ve no use for bright-eyed, naive children."


    Without another word, Mujahid left Fitz''s office at his command. The moment he''d stepped outside, a Templar with hair cut short greeted him. "What did he say to you in there?" the Templar asked.


    "I''m sorry," said Mu, "Have we met?"


    "Sir Cristoff," the Templar said. "In Elekvaz, remember?"


    "Ah! Yes," said Mu.


    "What did Fitz say to you?" Sir Cristoff insisted. "I''m starting to worry about his mental state."


    "Follow me and I''ll tell you," said Mujahid. "I''m going to say hello to Giradin. I haven''t seen that lad in months."


    Mujahid made his way through the crowd, all the while regaling Sir Cristoff with the details of his meeting with Fitz, and how unpleasant it had been. When finally he reached Giradin, the young saint embraced him like a long-lost brother. He, Giradin, and Shlomo laughed and joked together, as men who had known each other for years. Even Sir Emeric joined in the conversation, he and Mujahid enjoying each other''s self-deprecating jokes.


    As far as I''ve been able to gather, from all the people I''ve interviewed about that night, that is the last time anyone will admit to seeing Mujahid alive.

 The Brief Tale of Rotbert

    There''s a certain, unremarkable young man who deserves a little bit of a narrative. His name was Rotbert.


    Rotbert joined the plague doctors after hearing the stories about Giradin and his exploits. He came to Melcher Fitz while Giradin was still on his journey to Rome to be tested as a saint.


    Melcher Fitz looked this young man over, noting that he was frail, having arms so thin Fitz feared they might snap in two if he tried to lift anything too heavy. His scraggly facial hair spoke to one who couldn''t keep his hands still, having uneven patches of beard in odd places. His eyes were wide and hopeful, the kinds of eyes one might expect to see on a child''s face, but never on a grown man''s. His chipper voice gave away his naivete.


    Whether out of compassion or annoyance is unclear, but Melcher Fitz assigned this young man to work as a servant in the monastery. Fitz told him that if he proved himself a loyal and true servant, one day he could don the uniform and work in the field.


    For the first few months, Rotbert poured his heart and soul into his work. He''d listen for the sound of approaching horses and rush out to take the reins and lead them to the stables once the doctors had dismounted. He''d spend hours a day in the washroom, scrubbing down the plague doctor uniforms and dreaming of the day that one of those uniforms would be his own.


    He took over other servants'' shifts, and washed dishes when it was not his turn.


    After a month of this, though, he started listening to the stories the new plague doctors told when they come back. They described the bloody business that was their trade, told of their disgust at some of the things they''d seen, and spoke all too often about the cruelty and madness of Melcher Fitz.


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    Three separate stories wherein plague doctors simply found someone who was hiding their plague symptoms, which led to the Crows executing and burning this dishonest peasant, destroyed all of young Rotbert''s enthusiasm for the idea of becoming a plague doctor. From then on, he barely spent any time on his chores. He skipped out on his duties, gave the uniforms the bare minimum scrubbing, and could often be heard grumbling to himself whenever he led horses to the stables.


    On the night that St. Giradin returned, his faith had been all but lost. Though all the others in the monastery seemed to view St. Giradin with the utmost reverence and respect. But, by then, Rotbert was sure these people would believe anyone or anything was holy just to break some of the depressing monotony of their world.


    That night he served drinks to the Templars and plague doctors alike. Though he''d never admit it, I''m almost certain he spat in at least one of those drinks. His heart had turned bitter and cold, and he hardly saw the point in anything anymore.


    After the gathering was over, and those in the monastery started seeking places to sleep, it was the job of the monastery''s servants to clean up the mess. Rotbert, eager for an opportunity to get out of the chores he''d come to loathe, walked out toward the outhouse. His plan had been to slip in there, do his business, and then slip out to the stables where he''d hide until his fellows were done with the work.


    But his shoes stuck to something on the ground, and something warm leaked through the hole in his sole.


    When he cast his eyes down his heart stopped at the pair of eyes staring up at him.


    And the lifeless body to which those eyes were attached.


    And the pool of blood in which the dead Moor laid.


    Rotbert was the one who found Mujahid dead that night, and his scream awoke everyone in the monastery.

 Sainthood and Martyrdom

    Melcher Fitz stormed down the halls of the monastery in the early dawn hours, dozens of plague doctors in tow, each with their swords drawn. Each step was a fierce stomp, shaking the floor on that second story. When they reached the end of the hall, Melcher banged his fist on the wooden door there. "Giradin! Open up! Now!"


    The door to Melcher''s right opened and Sir Emeric stood in the doorway, clad in a nightshirt and trousers. The Templar rubbed his tired eyes and glared at Melcher. Fitz sneered back at Sir Emeric, his face unhidden by any mask. He silently dared the Templar to rise against him.


    St. Giradin''s door opened, and the young saint stood there in a white sleeping gown. "Melcher, what''s wrong?"


    "Where''s Fulk?" Fitz demanded. "He''s not in his room, where is that rotten scum?"


    "Rotten scum?" St. Giradin repeated. "Fulk may be a sinner, but he is repentant. And all of us are sinners in the eyes of--"


    "Save your sermon for someone who cares!" Melcher snapped and smashed his fist on the wall. "There''s been a murder!"


    "A murder?" St. Giradin intoned, his eyes growing wide.


    "I want to know where Fulk is, now! If he didn''t tell you where he was going, then use your ''Holy'' powers to find him, if you really do have any."


    "Slow down!" St. Giradin insisted. "Who''s been murdered?"


    "Mujahid," Fitz spat out. "Now, where''s Fulk?"


    "Mujahid?" St. Giradin fell to his knees. "Oh, by God!"


    "Fulk!" Melcher Fitz demanded again. "Damn it, where is he?"


    "Master!" called a doctor approaching from down the hall. The older doctor pushed forward Sir Cristoff, the Templar''s wrists bound in manacles. "I found the Templar you were asking about."


    "Good," said Melcher, "Put him in a holding cell."


    Sir Emeric stepped out into the hall and pointed an accusing finger at Melcher Fitz. "You can''t lock up a Templar for no reason!"


    "He''s a suspect," Melcher said, his nostrils flaring with hate and his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. "He was seen speaking to Mujahid last night, shortly before the Moor went missing. What''s more, he''s already threatened him once before, and I imagine killing moors is easy for crusaders like you."


    Sir Emeric turned to Sir Cristoff. "Demand a trial by combat! I will be your champion."


    "No." Sir Cristoff shook his head. "I would not see any more blood spilled. Let him lock me up, if for no other reason than to be sure I''ve not tampered with the investigation."


    "Don''t be a fool!" Sir Emeric chastised him. "The holding cells in this place are for the sick and dying, not for prisoners. You''re sure to catch plague in there!"


    Fitz smirked at Sir Emeric. "What''s wrong? Not confident your so-called saint can heal him if he falls ill?"


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    Sir Emeric clenched his fists. "''So-called saint,'' you say? The Pope himself has declared this man a saint!"


    "Then you should have utter faith in his ability to heal the sick," snapped Fitz. Melcher turned back to the doctor who held Sir Cristoff. "To the holding cells with him."


    "Yes, master."


    As the doctor and Sir Cristoff left, Melcher turned back to St. Giradin. "Now, tell me where Fulk is!"


    "I... I shall need a moment to pray," said St. Giradin, taking a step back into his room and reaching to close the door.


    Melcher''s hand reached out and stopped the door from closing. "No tricks! Whatever you do, you shall do in full view of all of us."


    St. Giradin shrunk away from Fitz''s rage, but then shrugged and knelt next to his bed with his hands folded and eyes closed. "Blessed Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. Almighty Lord, Jesus Christ, please show me where Fulk is right now. Lead me to him."


    The young saint rose from his spot on the ground, his eyes still closed and one hand extended out, as if someone invisible held his fingers and guided his steps. He walked toward Melcher, who gave him a most puzzled look.


    "I suggest you get out of the way," Sir Emeric whispered.


    Melcher Fitz and the doctors behind him parted, opening a path for St. Giradin to walk through. The saint continued down the hallway, and turned at the flight of stairs, his extended hand leading the way.


    Fitz, his entourage, and Sir Emeric followed St. Giradin down the stairs and then down another hallway. St. Giradin''s hand turned to his left and rested upon the handle of a nearby door. His eyes fluttered open. "Fulk? Are you in there?"


    "Gir? Aye, come in," came the murderer''s gruff response.


    St. Giradin pushed the door open, but before he could enter, Melcher Fitz pushed past him and pointed his sword at Fulk''s face. "Mind telling me what you''re doing in Mujahid''s room?"


    Fulk raised both his hands in surrender and backed up against the wall, his eyes crossed to keep watch on Melcher''s weapon. "Hey, now! Watch it! I ain''t done anything!"


    "I''ll decide that!" Melcher snapped. "What are you doing here?"


    Fulk hesitated a moment, peered past Melcher to St. Giradin, then said, "When I heard that Mu was killed I... I wondered if his notes were still here. You know... his notes on the cure he was working on in Elekvaz?"


    Fitz snorted. "You expect me to believe you''re investigating the murder, just as I am?"


    Fulk''s brow furrowed. "Yes, damn it! I do expect you to believe that. Because Mu was like a fucking brother to me, you ass!" Fulk turned to Mu''s desk, which was pushed up against the wall, and flung open one of the drawers. "Check them all. His notes are gone, Fitz! Whoever killed him took all his research!"


    "I''ll do my own investigation, thank you very much," said Melcher. "As for you, you''re going to the cells. Until we find out who killed Mujahid, I''m not letting you out of my sight."


    Fear took its place on Fulk''s face. "No... not the cells! Fitz, throwing me in one of those cells is a death sentence!"


    "One that''s long overdue!" said Melcher.


    "Melcher," St. Giradin chimed in.


    "Piss off, boy!" Fitz spat. "Fulk, you have two choices, you can cooperate, or I can run you through here and now."


    "I''ll take his place in the cell!" St. Giradin cried.


    All eyes turned to the young saint in that moment. Sir Emeric looked at St. Giradin and shook his head, trying to warn him not to do this.


    Fitz raised an eyebrow. "How will that help me? I''m trying to make sure Mu''s murderer did not escape. I dare say, if you tried to kill Mujahid he would have handily vanquished you first."


    "It''s no secret that you hate me," said St. Giradin. "Let''s not hold any pretenses about that. I''ll allow you to lock me up while you investigate this murder if you will let Fulk go."


    Melcher thought about it a moment, scratching his own chin.


    "Think of it this way," said St. Giradin. "I''m sure you think that some of my followers might be Mu''s killer. If you lock me up during the investigation, and it turns out one of my followers really was Mu''s murderer, then he''s likely to confess before anything truly horrible happens to me."


    A grin tugged at the corners of Melcher''s lips, but he forced it down. "Very well. Take Giradin down to the cells and lock him up."


    Sir Emeric watched with utter horror, helpless as the doctors escorted St. Giradin away in chains. His heart sank to the deepest of pits as the young saint disappeared from view.

 Fasting and Prayer

    Sir Emeric pulled the shroud over his mouth and nose as he drew near to the holding cells. Through the gray, stone bricks beneath his feet grew mushrooms, mold, and other fungus. The hall was dark, save for the lantern in Sir Emeric''s hands, and those in the hands of the guards Melcher Fitz had stationed there. Sir Emeric could hear the patients coughing as he passed through, and he desperately hoped none of that was from St. Giradin or Sir Cristoff.


    "Giradin?" he called. "Giradin, which cell are you in?"


    "Sir Emeric!" came a distant call in the young man''s voice. "Over here!"


    Sir Emeric hurried over to the door through which he could hear the saint''s voice. "Giradin?"


    "Sir Emeric! Thank you for visiting," said the saint.


    One of the guards drew closer to St. Giradin''s cell and rested against the wall nearby, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The dark lenses on his plague doctor mask were a cold, unfeeling reminder that the Templar was being watched carefully.


    Sir Emeric leaned against the wall, his every movement deliberate and slow so as not to startle the guard. "They tell me you''re not eating."


    "That''s right," said St. Giradin.


    Sir Emeric sighed. "Why? This place is infested with plague. You need to eat to keep up your strength."


    "No," said St. Giradin. "I''m fasting."


    "Fasting?" Sir Emeric repeated. "Did God tell you to fast?"


    "The Virgin Mary did, actually," said St. Giradin. "In a dream I had last night. Besides..." The young saint paused for several moments before finally saying in a dark tone, "The food tasted strange."


    Sir Emeric felt a chill. Could the food the guards were giving St. Giradin be poisoned? Or, perhaps, full of miasma? Deliberately infected so that St. Giradin may die? It was no secret that Melcher Fitz hated St. Giradin and didn''t believe he was truly a messenger of God. Sir Emeric''s blood boiled the more he thought about the possibility that the master of the order might be trying to poison him. How easy it would be for Fitz to kill St. Giradin and make it look like he succumbed to plague, disproving his sainthood.


    "We''re going to find the killer," said Sir Emeric. "We''ll get you out of there. I swear it."


    "Someone''s bound to confess soon," said St. Giradin, though there was no hope or joy in his voice.


    "Why do you say that?" said Sir Emeric.


    "I keep hearing screams from the cells further down the hall, in the areas where I''ve never visited. Screams of agony, not fear. They''re... interrogating people. I think Sir Cristoff is among them."


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    Interrogating. Obviously, he meant torturing. Sir Emeric glanced down the hall, to the areas where shadows obscured the path. Somewhere in there, Melcher Fitz''s men were torturing their suspects, trying to force confessions out of them. St. Giradin was right, if that was allowed to continue, soon they would have a confession from someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the crime.


    Does Fitz really want to catch Mujahid''s murderer? Or does he just want someone to pin the blame on to protect his reputation?


    Sir Emeric turned back to face the door of St. Giradin''s room. "I''m going to talk with Melcher Fitz. This isn''t right."


    "Please don''t leave me," said St. Giradin. "Not yet... it''s so lonely here."


    Sir Emeric''s heart stung at the young saint''s plea. He needed him, wanted him to stay. Sir Emeric never wanted to leave this wonderful young man''s side, but he feared he must if justice were to be achieved.


    "I''ll come back soon," said Sir Emeric. "I promise."


    For a moment, only silence met Sir Emeric''s words. Finally, St. Giradin said, "You''re a dear friend, Sir Emeric."


    With his heart fluttering, Sir Emeric responded, "Greater love hath no more than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friend. You, young saint, are a far greater friend than I can ever hope to be. To do this for Fulk..." Sir Emeric pressed the palm of his hand against St. Giradin''s door, painfully wishing he could have reached out and held the young man''s hand in that moment. "I will return for you."


    Sir Emeric stormed out of those halls, up the stairs, and to Melcher Fitz''s office. Those in his way quickly departed to the left and right, fearing that they might get bowled over by the furious Templar.


    Sir Emeric burst through Melcher Fitz''s door. The master sat at his desk with a quill in hand.


    "Get out," were the first words out of Fitz''s mouth.


    "Not until you hear me out!" Sir Emeric snapped.


    "Fine, speak your peace," said Fitz.


    Sir Emeric''s nostrils flared and he pounded his fist on Melcher''s desk. "You need to release Giradin. NOW! You cannot expect to hold a saint of Almighty God without penalty. Even if you don''t think he''s a real saint, you must understand that the Church holds a different view."


    "Have you made your point?" Fitz asked, his face even colder and more unfeeling than the plague doctor masks.


    "Not nearly!" Sir Emeric growled. "I know you''re trying to torture confessions out of people, and it''s going to stop! You and I know full well that people under torture will say anything to make it stop."


    "You and I know full well that no one tells the truth about crimes they''ve committed unless they have damn good reason to." Fitz shook his head. "What am I to do? Bribe the killer to admit that he stuck a knife in Mujahid''s throat? Speak kindly to everyone and hope someone decides to confess? No one saw the murder happen, so I''m doing all I can to solve this mystery."


    "You''re doing all you can to find a scapegoat!" Sir Emeric snapped back.


    "Get out of my office," Melcher Fitz said, flatly.


    In a fit of rage, Sir Emeric swept his hand across Melcher''s desk, knocking all his papers and his ink well onto the floor, then stormed out while the master doctor cursed at him and scrambled to pick up all his work.

 Bolt ?

    What good was it to send out letters that would never make it to their destination?


    No, if Sir Emeric wanted the Church to know what Melcher Fitz was doing, he''d have to ride our himself and inform the nearest Bishop, who, in turn, could inform the rest of the Church. To save an imprisoned saint, one held captive by someone who was supposed to be working for the Church, the Pope would surely send an army.


    So, Sir Emeric set out in the early morning, armed and armored, riding his horse at a full gallop.


    Curse Melcher Fitz! The man is a maniac... His damnable pride will cost us everything!


    Sir Emeric slowed his horse to a canter, knowing the poor girl couldn''t handle a gallop for too long. He''d learned long ago to never exhaust his horse, lest she become unreliable when he found himself in real danger.


    The road leading through the forest was long and winding. Birds chirped in the trees above, and Sir Emeric could hear a stream running nearby. A gentle reminder that God provides if one knows where to look.


    As he rode through the calm forest, Sir Emeric suddenly wished he''d brought someone else with him. Maybe one of the other Templars, or one of St. Giradin''s followers. He didn''t know any of them particularly well, but at least he would have had someone to talk to.


    The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention. The riders were still a long ways off, but maybe they would allow Sir Emeric to ride with them. He pulled his horse''s reins and slowed her down to a trot, allowing the strangers the opportunity to catch up. His neck craned to see if he could catch sight of the other riders on the road.


    Two riders cantered into view, both wore plague doctor uniforms and carried crossbows. The moment they saw Sir Emeric, they spurred their horses into a gallop toward him and started to take aim at him.


    They''re here to kill me?


    Sir Emeric spurred his own horse into a gallop down the road, away from his pursuers.


    A crossbow bolt zipped past him.


    The trees rushed by on either side, becoming a blur as he drove his horse to gallop faster.


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    Melcher Fitz sent men to kill me?


    Another bolt zipped past Sir Emeric, this one a little closer.


    Sir Emeric weighed his options. He could keep following the road and hope that his horse was faster than theirs, but given how hard he''d driven her when he left the monastery not long ago it seemed unlikely she''d last long enough to lose them.


    He could get off the road and potentially lose them in the woods, but any number of low-hanging branches could unseat him, and he''d be vulnerable to his attackers.


    A crossbow bolt bounced off his shoulder pauldron, and Sir Emeric had his answer. He led the horse off the road, and she galloped through the woods, jumping over gnarled roots and fallen logs.


    I''ll buy you a whole bushel of apples for this, girl.


    The plague doctors followed, their hoofbeats drawing closer with every passing moment.


    Sir Emeric ducked under low branches when he could, and broke through those he could not avoid. He drew his sword, hacking at the limbs in his way, cutting a path through the woods.


    Zip. Thunk!


    A sharp pain in his back, just under his shoulder blade.


    A crossbow bolt had pierced through his chain-mail, sending agony shooting through his nerves. Sir Emeric lost his balance and fell from the saddle. He twisted his body just before he hit the ground, ensuring that the forest floor would not shove the bolt further into his body.


    His right shoulder hit the ground hard, and a cry of pain escaped his lips.


    "We got him!"


    The sound of two more crossbow bolts released.


    Sir Emeric braced himself to meet Eternal Judgment.


    But the cries of pain he heard were no longer his own. The two horses his pursuers had been riding galloped past him. He looked up and saw the two plague doctors on the ground, with bolts sticking out of their backs.


    Two more plague doctors rode up, their faces concealed behind those terrible masks. Each held a crossbow in his hand as they arrived at the spot on horseback.


    One of the two plague doctors who''d saved Sir Emeric dismounted from his horse and drew a mace from the saddle. He approached the two wounded Crows on the ground. "Dumbshits..." he muttered, just before cracking both their skulls with his mace.


    "Fulk?" Sir Emeric called.


    "Aye," said the Crow armed with a mace.


    "And Shlomo too," said the Crow who''d not yet dismounted.


    Sir Emeric forced himself to his feet, groaning as the bolt''s tip dug into his muscles. "You came to save me?"


    Shlomo''s horse trotted a little closer, and though Sir Emeric could not see him smile he could hear it in his voice. "Why not? Giradin''s rather fond of you."


    Sir Emeric''s cheeks burned at Shlomo''s words.


    "Besides," said Fulk, "Anyone can see Fitz''s lost his mind. One of our own... Mu was murdered right there. Right fucking there! And all Fitz can think to do is torture people til someone confesses. He doesn''t care who actually did it, he just wants to make his subordinates think he can protect them again. Which he can''t. Bastard''s a worse leader than me!"


    "Where are you headed?" Shlomo asked. "We''ll make sure you arrive."


    "I need to speak to Bishop Galien," Sir Emeric said. "He can get the word out to everyone else who needs to know."


    "Then we''ll make sure you arrive at his castle safely." Shlomo dismounted from his horse. "Come here. Let''s have a look at that wound."

 Cynocephaly

    Sir Emeric, Shlomo, and Fulk were still a day''s ride from their destination when the storm rolled in faster than a cavalry charge, dumping rain on them as if it were falling out of buckets. Flashes lit up the sky, and thunder rumbled, warning them that the storm would only grow more furious with time.


    "We need to find shelter!" Sir Emeric shouted over the tempest.


    "You think?" Shlomo yelled back.


    "Where?" Fulk shouted back. "There''s not a town for miles!"


    Sir Emeric looked up, over the nearby treetops, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand. After scanning the horizon, he spotted smoke rising in a single column. "There! I think that''s coming from someone''s chimney!"


    "Or a campfire," Fulk bellowed back. "Could be headless men for all we know."


    "Then we slay them and take their camp," said Sir Emeric, leading his horse to trot into the woods.


    Shlomo shrugged and followed Sir Emeric. Fulk too, rather than remain in the storm by himself, followed after the Templar.


    The canopy of trees hid them from some of the rain at first, but they soon found that waterfalls cascaded down from the branches, drenching them in ice-cold water when they least expected it. The shock from the sudden splash of water over Sir Emeric''s head caused the muscles in his chest to tense painfully. He shivered in his armor, wishing that the metal were better at keeping him warm. He''d left in such a hurry that he''d forgotten to pack a cloak.


    The forest trails beneath their horse''s hooves ran with streams of muddy water, carrying away driftwood. The three of them had to be mindful of where they steered their horses to be sure the poor animals wouldn''t sink into the mud, or step into water far deeper than it appeared.


    Lightning struck a tree nearby, and all three men had just enough time to raise their hands to cover their ears before the resounding boom rattled their bones.


    Sir Emeric kept his eyes on the trees ahead, looking for the first signs of whatever shelter the smoke was rising from.


    Finally, he spotted a cabin made from logs hastily nailed together. The windows had wooden slats closed over them, but he could see hints of light from within. When he and the others drew near, they saw smoke rising from the chimney. "Someone''s home."


    "You think they''ll take us in?" asked Shlomo.


    "Only one way to find out," said Sir Emeric.


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    The trio drew near the cabin and dismounted from their horses, tying the reins to the nearest branches. Sir Emeric hated the idea of leaving his horse out in such a downpour, but it seemed he had no choice under the circumstances.


    Sir Emeric approached the front door first, his long, red hair sticking to the sides of his face in soaking strands. He was sure he was quite a pathetic sight, drenched as he was. Maybe this would get some sympathy from whomever lived in this cabin.


    Immediately after he knocked on the door, Sir Emeric noticed that the door was far bigger than was normal for a peasant''s house. The questions in his mind about just how big the person who lived here was were answered immediately when the host answered the door.


    The host was taller than any man Sir Emeric had yet met, and his shoulders were broader than those of the strongest ox. He wore a linen tunic and sack-cloth pants. His arms were strong from constant work.


    But most interesting of all was his face. Or, rather his head, which was that of a wolfhound, his shaggy fur obscuring his eyes. The host''s mouth hung open and his tongue lay out as he panted.


    "What in the Hell..." Fulk muttered.


    Sir Emeric forced a smile, hoping that the mere fact that this dog-headed man lived on his own meant he was not as barbaric as his kin. "Good sirrah," Sir Emeric said gesturing for Shlomo and Fulk to approach. Shlomo obeyed and Sir Emeric wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We are poor travelers who found ourselves ambushed by this terrible storm. We would like to share your hearth, if you would be so kind."


    "Come in!" said the dog-headed man. "Shake yourselves off."


    Fulk shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a dream. "Did that thing just speak?"


    "Yes, he did," said Sir Emeric with a grin. "And quite eloquently, I must say." Sir Emeric ushered Shlomo inside and beckoned for Fulk to do the same. Fulk glanced out at his surroundings, clearly pondering whether or not he wanted any part of this strange encounter, but finally entered the dog-headed man''s house.


    The home was a humble one, with a table pushed up against one wall, a stool at that table, a bed of straw in the corner, and a fire in the fireplace. Sitting just in front of the hearth was a pot full of foul-smelling stew, which bubbled through a yellow cream. Sir Emeric fought to suppress a gag.


    "I''m Caleb," said the dog-headed man.


    Shlomo chuckled. "That''s a fitting name. I''m Shlomo.


    "Sir Emeric."


    Fulk remained silent.


    Shlomo patted Fulk on the shoulder. "This is Dungpie. He''s mute."


    "Piss off!" Fulk grunted, shoving Shlomo''s hand away.


    Sir Emeric stretched out his arms. "We''ll catch our death if we stay in these wet clothes. Mind if we undress?"


    Caleb reached into a sack beside the fireplace and produced a soup bone. "Doesn''t bother me." He proceeded to start gnawing on the bone.


    Fulk muttered curses under his breath.


    Sir Emeric slipped out of his armor, exposing his heavily-scarred torso and shaking out his wet hair. "I knew a family of dog-folk in Bethlehem," he said. "What did the scholars call it again? Cyno... cynocephaly, that''s it. Were you born with cynocephaly, or did you get cursed this way?"


    "Born with it," said Caleb.


    Shlomo slipped off his mask and coat, his clothes underneath having remained dry, despite the downpour. Waxed leather had its perks. "And you live alone out here?"


    "Ever since my Pa died, yep," said Caleb.


    "You hear that, Fulk?" Shlomo said, peering up at the murderer, who still stood with his back against the door. "He lost his Pa." The Jew''s lips curled in a smirk.


    Caleb tilted his houndish head to one side with curiosity.


    "Well, thank you for letting us in," said Sir Emeric. "We wouldn''t have survived out there."

 Revenge for Pogroms

    By the time the storm had passed, it was already dark, and so Sir Emeric, Fulk, and Shlomo had to stay the night in Caleb''s home. Caleb hardly minded, but he had no extra beds. The three of them slept on their bedrolls on the dog-headed-man''s floor.


    But it was hardly a restful night. Shlomo lay awake all night with a terrible foreboding in his heart. Every time he closed his eyes he feared what might lie beyond his eyelids. Every time he opened them he imagined terrifying shapes in the shadows. He''d see faces looking back at him in the knots in the logs of Caleb''s home. Sir Emeric''s snoring sounded like fearsome beasts growling, and Fulk muttered in his sleep, his words often either threatening or frightened.


    In the middle of the night, Shlomo felt the familiar pressure in his bladder, warning him that he should get up and take care of business now rather than risk falling asleep like that and then dream about getting up to take care of business.


    He slowly stood from his bedroll, picked up his sword, and crept toward the door. Every step he took was slow and deliberate. He didn''t want to see just how grouchy Fulk could really get if one woke him in the middle of the night.


    Maybe the first time he murdered someone was because they woke him from a good dream, Shlomo mused.


    The front door creaked, which caused Shlomo to open it more slowly, and just enough for him to slip out. The damp, cool night air invited him outside, as did a choir of crickets. An owl called out in the distance, and a raven cawed loudly before fluttering away.


    Shlomo rubbed his tired eyes and walked a few paces away from Caleb''s home. Not far from the front door, he found a tree and marked it, as he imagined Caleb was often fond of doing, his sword leaning against a stump to his right.


    "Shlomo..." called a whispering voice in the darkness.


    The Jew snatched up his sword and drew it from its sheath, not stopping to replace what he referred to as his "shmok" back into his trousers. "Who''s there?" he hissed.


    A beautiful woman with long, stringy dark hair stepped out of the shadows. She wore a black dress which had been either torn or tailored in such a way as to expose the flesh between her ample breasts and up her silky thighs. "Just a fellow Jew out for a walk late at night," she said with a sultry grin.


    "You''re that witch!" Shlomo said, the blade trembling in his hand. "Lillith... Louise..."


    "Levanna," she said.


    "Ah, who cares what your name is, nafka! Suffer not a witch to live, my rabbi always said."


    Levanna smiled widely and nodded her head. "He did say that. I miss old Mahershala."


    Shlomo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "How do you know Rabbi Mahershala? Or did demons tell you that name?"


    "I guess I shouldn''t be surprised you don''t recognize me," said Levanna. "It was a long time ago. Ten years, I think?"


    "Ten years since what?" Shlomo asked.


    "The Pogrom," she said, her smile fading away to a bitter frown.


    Shlomo''s blood went cold. Indeed, it had been about ten years since his village was destroyed in a Pogrom because the Baron owed a debt to Rosenburgh that he could never pay off. Shlomo had left in a hurry with what few belongings he could carry, and he was never sure who all had survived the attack.


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    "Who are you really?" Shlomo asked.


    "Levanna is my real name," said the witch. "But back then I was just a girl. Nissa''s little one."


    A flood of memories rushed into Shlomo''s mind when he heard Nissa''s name again and thought back to the little, dark-haired girl who was always by that woman''s side. Nissa was one of the village''s widows, who''d lost her husband in a wood-cutting accident. Every man in the village checked in on Nissa and her daughter regularly. Some even proposed to Nissa, but she always told them her heart was too broken to move on and marry another man.


    "You''re..." now that Shlomo got a better look at Levanna''s face, he could see Nissa in her features, but she had her father''s cleft chin.


    "You know your shvantz is still showing?" said Levanna.


    Shlomo looked down, blushed, and returned the offending member to its proper place of concealment. "Sorry..."


    Levanna stepped closer to him. "I was enjoying the view, actually, but decided to be polite."


    Shlomo''s heart raced, but he recalled the way this woman had manipulated both Fulk and Giradin with her lusty ways. "You forsook everything... turned to worshiping demons and false gods in exchange for power... but still care about manners?"


    Levanna shrugged. "I have to care about something, don''t I?" She chuckled, but her face turned dark again. "But, I haven''t forsaken everything from those times. Revenge is still on my mind."


    "Revenge?" Shlomo repeated. "You mean for the Pogrom? The Baron''s long since passed away. They say a fever took him."


    Levanna shook her head. "Please, you don''t really think that''s the end of it, do you? Tell me truly, how have you been treated since you''ve been a plague doctor? From what I''ve heard, there was a town where the people attacked you simply for being a Jew. They killed a priest, if memory serves."


    Shlomo hesitated for a moment, then said, "They did, yes... but that was just one town. A town full of broken people looking for someone to blame for their suffering."


    "And there have been other pogroms since then. I don''t know if the Christians have told you, but they''ve been attacking Jews all over Europe. Destroying our homes... taking our money... slaughtering our men and raping our women."


    Shlomo sighed. "Yes, such is the way of the Goyim. But, you don''t understand. I was in the Vatican recently, Levanna. The Vatican! The Pope himself was friendly to me, and a man I consider a dear friend has just been declared a saint. The Church is trying to turn things around."


    Levanna spat. "The Hell with the Church! Don''t be a putz! All they need is one more crisis, one more little thing to get out of hand and they''ll turn on us again, Shlomo. They''ll kill us all."


    "So, why not leave?" Shlomo asked. "If you fear the Christians so much, why not go to Israel. I hear the Muslims are actually treating Jews well since the Crusades ended."


    "I told you," Levanna said, her eyebrows furrowing in rage. "I want revenge! Those damnable Christians took everything from us! Maybe you didn''t see it, but they butchered the rabbi. Cut him to ribbons! And these momzers do things like this all the time! They accuse us of drinking the blood of Christian babes, but it is they who feast upon the blood of our people! Shlomo, they must be destroyed!"


    Shlomo snorted. "Even if that''s true, how do you propose to do that? No, if the Christians need to be destroyed, God will deal with them. Until then, we are to be kind to our neighbors."


    "The Hell with God and his so-called ''plan''!" Levanna spat. "We were supposed to be his chosen people, but if he gave a damn about us he''d have stepped in long ago and done something!"


    "Levanna..." Shlomo reached out to her, sorrow stinging his heart when he heard the hate that had grown in this young woman whom he''d known when she was still a girl. The world had been cruel to her, so she''d learned to repay that cruelty.


    "Shlomo, I want you to come with me," Levanna said. "Leave the Crows and help me destroy Christendom!"


    Shlomo shook his head. "Even if I wanted to, Levanna, how could we possibly do that?"


    "I have a plan," Levanna said. "But I can''t tell you unless you agree to come with me."


    According to Shlomo, it was pity that stayed his hand. He told me he had the weapon ready and knew what he had to do. He already had his suspicions of just what this witch''s "plan" was. But he kept remembering that laughing little girl he knew in his home village. Nissa''s adorable daughter, so full of hope and promise. The world had made her into a monster, and she''d embraced darkness because she thought the light had forsaken her.


    "You need to leave," he said. "Now! And you can never come back. Next time I see you, I''ll be forced to run you through... I''m sorry, Levanna."

 The Fate of Liars

    "We have a confession, master!"


    No sweeter words had ever been spoken. Melcher Fitz''s loyal subjects had finally broken one of Giradin''s followers. Or maybe it was one of the Templars. Either way, someone would pay for what happened to Mujahid, and the Crows could feel safe under Fitz''s watchful eye once again.


    Melcher Fitz handed his practice sword over to his attendant, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, "Lead the way, Gerd."


    On the way inside from the practice yard, Melcher grabbed his coat and pulled it over his naked torso, hiding his sweaty flesh from view, though he left it open in the middle so air could still pass through and cool his body down after his hard exercises.


    Just before entering the prison under the monastery, Fitz took one of the plague doctor masks from the hands of an attendant and fastened it to his face. He''d not be as protected as he would in the full uniform, but neither did he have any intention of actually entering any of the cells. Just the interrogation chamber.


    Strolling down the long hallway, he passed Giradin''s cell and a pleased smirk took his lips. It had been his plan, if that boy''s fanatics didn''t talk, to make them watch as he tortured Giradin. He was thankful he didn''t have to, given all the risks involved with hurting someone the Church so foolishly considered sacred.


    Around a dark corner, illuminated only by the candle Gerd carried, Melcher beheld the thick, wooden door of the interrogation chamber. Two guards pulled the door open for him, and he squinted as the light from the many torches within struck his eyes.


    The room reeked of copper and rotting meat. The torturers had refused to clean the mess from many previous torture sessions from the floor, leaving the cobblestones stained brown, with fresh flecks of red on top. Hooks hung from the ceiling on the ends of thick chains. On the tables along the walls rested all manner of twisted devices. Screws. Knives. Spikes. Cages full of rats. Pokers sat in the furnace on the far end of the room, staying red hot.


    In the center stood a large wooden X, and a man hung from it, his hands and feet screwed to the cross. The man was naked, his body criss-crossed with cuts and covered in burn scars and places where rats had chewed at his flesh. Blood still dripped from his brow, adding to the gruesome decor of the torture chamber.


    Melcher Fitz approached him, seized him by the hair and forced his head up to look at him.


    "Your name," Fitz demanded.


    "Adelmar," the prisoner wheezed out, his voice hoarse from all his screams.


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    "Are you one of Giradin''s followers or one of the Templars?"


    "Giradin''s followers," came his weak reply.


    Fitz''s smile grew at the sound of his victory. "Did you murder Mujahid?"


    Adelmar bit his lip and glanced over at the devices on one of the tables before saying, "Yes."


    "Why?" Fitz demanded.


    "I don''t know," said Adelmar.


    Fitz sighed and shook his head. "Gerd, find out why."


    "Yes, master," said Gerd, starting toward the cage full of rats.


    "Please!" Adelmar pleaded. "Isn''t it enough that I confessed?"


    Fitz shook his head. "I''m afraid not."


    Adelmar feebly flailed against the screws in his hands and feet, causing more blood to pour forth from his wounds. "Dear God, have mercy!"


    "God doesn''t listen to the prayers of unrepentant murderers, Addy," Fitz mocked.


    Gerd picked up the cage swarming with rats and carried it over to Adelmar''s stomach. He fastened leather straps around the prisoner''s waist as the young man whimpered and cried, too weak to scream anymore. Once the leather straps were in place, Gerd took a torch off the wall and placed his hand on the string attached to the cage''s door. If he pulled up, the rats would be released, with Adelmar''s guts as their only escape. Gerd brought the torch''s flames close to the cage, causing the rats to flee to the opposite end, toward Adelmar. Their nails clawed and teeth gnawed at the bars between them and Adelmar, desperate to escape the heat.


    "Last chance," said Fitz. "Why did you murder Mujahid?"


    "Because I hate Moors!" Adelmar cried out.


    Gerd nodded his head and moved the torch away from the cage.


    "Not yet," said Fitz, seizing Gerd''s wrist and forcing him to heat the rats'' cage again. "Did Giradin or the Templars tell you to do it?"


    "No!" Adelmar cried.


    "Tell the truth," Fitz insisted, his brow furrowing in disgust. "Did the Templars tell you to murder Mujahid?"


    The rats squealed and screamed, their claws already gouging lines in Adelmar''s flesh whenever they missed the bars.


    "No!" Adelmar wept openly, tears mixing with his blood in pink streaks down his face. "I acted alone!"


    Fitz shook his head. "Really wish you''d been more honest. Gerd, open the cage."


    "Master, I think he''s telling the truth," said Gerd.


    "I''ll do the thinking, Gerd!" Fitz snapped. "I say he''s a liar, and liars deserve to suffer!"


    "Master..."


    "OPEN THE CAGE!" Fitz shrieked.


    "I swear!" Adelmar cried. "No one told me to kill nobody!"


    Fitz gave a firm nod to Gerd.


    Gerd sighed and did as he was told.


    The moment the door was removed, the rats took to chewing and clawing away at Gerd''s flesh, trying to escape the heat of the torch.


    The sound from Adelmar''s throat was closer to a drawn-out croak than a scream as his skin tore away, blood poured over the rodents, and his entrails were exposed little by little.


    Gerd winced and stepped back.


    Coward!


    Fitz seized the torch from Gerd''s hand and held the end of it firm against the cage, turning the bars red hot. "This is the fate of all liars!" Fitz shouted over Adelmar''s agony. "In this life and the next!"


    "Master!" called a voice from the door.


    "Busy at the moment," Fitz called back.


    "No, master, we''re under attack! Vermin have us surrounded!"


    Fitz turned away from the cage, giving the Crow a puzzled expression. "No warning? They''re just... here already?"


    The Crow shrugged and nodded. "Not sure how they got past the watch-towers unnoticed, but they''re here!"


    "How many?" Fitz asked, walking away from Adelmar as the rats continued to burrow their way through him.


    "Several hundred, master."


    "Get everyone not in a cell battle ready," Fitz commanded. "And fetch me my sword!"

 The Siege of Crow HQ Begins

    With chainmail under his long coat, Melcher Fitz ascended the steps to the bell-tower of the monastery. There, three archers in their plague doctor uniforms stood in wait, arrows nocked to their bows.


    "What are the Vermin doing now?" Fitz asked, raising his spyglass to his eye.


    "Well, they surrounded the place," said one of the archers. "And now... they''re just standing there, outside of bow range."


    "And there are headless men with them," said another archer.


    Fitz peered out at the line of Vermin in the distance and sneered. "Nasty beasts... if they''re not here to attack us what are they here for?"


    "If I had to guess? They are here to attack us. They''re just waiting for something."


    Fitz''s fist closed tight around the pommel of his sword, still resting in its sheath. "Well, keep me informed if they..."


    He stopped short in his sentence when he heard the squeals of wooden wheels approaching. He looked out to the tree line and squinted, trying to get a good look at what the Vermin were up to now. He gasped and slid his fingers down to the hilt of his sword when he saw that the rat-folk were rolling catapults forward.


    "What the Hell?" Fitz muttered. "Who gave these scum siege weapons?"


    "Maybe they stole them?" suggested one of the archers.


    "Ring the bell three times," Fitz ordered. The signal for all within the monastery to back away from the walls and prepare for the assault. Soon, these creatures would lob boulders at the monastery walls, smashing holes through which they could pour in.


    But as the bells rang, wagons rolled forward and rested next to the catapults. Wagons each pulled by only two of the Vermin. Fitz couldn''t be sure just yet what lay under the sheets over those wagons, but they couldn''t be as heavy as boulders. Two Vermin couldn''t possibly be strong enough to haul that many enormous rocks so easily.


    Vermin climbed up onto the backs of the wagons and threw back the sheets. Whatever lay in the wagons was a mass of red, black, and brown. Vermin waved their hands in the air, as if swatting away flies, then reached into the wagons with meat hooks and drew out the gruesome contents.


    "Corpses!" Fitz cried. "Those are human corpses!"


    The Vermin turned the cranks on their catapults and loaded the rotting bodies.


    "Oh, God!"


    Snap!


    The rotting, diseased bodies of long-dead men and women soared through the air and splatted against the walls of the monastery. Red sprayed upon the impact, along with plague pus and bile. The archers in the bell-tower with Fitz turned away. One retched twice, tore off his mask, and vomited over the side, his sick sliding down the shingles.


    The Vermin reloaded and launched more bodies at the monastery, their twisted, high-pitched laughter even more disturbing than the sounds of shattering bones and exploding viscera when the corpses struck the monastery''s outer walls.


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    Smash!


    One of the corpses broke through one of the windows on the second floor. Crows within wailed.


    Vermin cheered and adjusted each of the catapults to match the one that had successfully sent one through the window. More bodies sailed through the air and shattered the windows, filling the halls with scarlet.


    Fitz retreated down from the bell-tower. His plan had been to defend the monastery, hold out until the Vermin''s numbers had dwindled enough for them to flee, but he knew his men''s morale was at stake the longer this bombardment went on. They needed to put a stop to it.


    On the first floor, Fitz approached a sniveling group of Crows as they tried to push one of the bleeding, stinking bodies back out the window. "Leave it!" he shouted. "We''ll burn them later. Take your bows and thermal arrows, then get out there and light up those catapults! Now!"


    The Crows exchanged looks with each other, but none could read if any of their fellows were as terrified as they were, so they did as they were commanded.


    Fitz watched through a shattered second story window as a cadre of Crow archers rushed outside, their arrows aflame.


    Vermin raised their rusty swords and maces just before rushing at the archers, their little legs carrying them faster than Fitz would have imagined.


    Swarms of rats ran with the Vermin, moving in brown waves.


    The archers down below released their flaming arrows as soon as they were in range, but their trembling hands caused most of them to miss their marks. The lights fell short of the catapults, or sailed far too high and lodged into the trees above.


    The Vermin were bearing down on the archers, along with their smaller rodent brethren.


    Half the archers on the ground turned and ran rather than face the oncoming hordes of vile rodents.


    The other half nocked more arrows to their bows and lit the ends, taking aim at the catapults.


    The flaming arrows loosed just as the Vermin cut them down, ripping their bodies in half. Only one of the flaming arrows hit its mark. One of the Vermin walked over to the front of the catapult and kicked the flaming arrow away. Another stomped on the flame until it snuffed out.


    The archers in the belltower loosed their arrows at the Vermin, but they did not reach their targets.


    The swarm of rats continued on, ahead of the Vermin, a bounding wave of disease. Arrows sailed down on the rats from above, but even those which hit their targets did little more than kill one rat in a sea of rodents.


    The rats slammed up against the walls of the monastery, far from the front door. The vile rodents started stacking on top of each other, forming a ladder with their own bodies so that others could climb through the broken windows.


    More bodies soared through the air, smashing through the windows and creating more passageways for the brown rats.


    Fitz drew his sword and ran to the nearest open window. He slashed wildly at the hill of rats that had built itself right up to the top. "Come on!" he cried to the other Crows nearest to him. "Don''t let them in!"


    Those among the other Crows not frozen in terror (damn new recruits...) rushed in with mallets and crushed the rats.


    One slipped past Fitz and scurried away, into the monastery''s halls.


    The momentary distraction allowed three more to slip past him, and he returned his attention to his ferocious assault on the hill of rats. High-pitched squeals and cries echoed down the halls.


    "Die!" Fitz shouted. "You scum... die!"


    He looked up just as another corpse flew at the window where he and his fellows stood. Just in time, he and the other Crows ducked, letting the body sail over them and splatter against the wall behind them.


    The distraction was just enough for dozens of rats to pour into the monastery and scurry off into the shadows.


    "Give me that torch!" Fitz commanded.


    Fitz jabbed the flaming end of the torch into the pile of rats below the window, setting their fur ablaze. Other Crows rushed into the rooms nearby and returned with pots, heavy books, pans, and whatever else they could find to simply drop on the piles of vermin.


    Crack!


    A flung corpse struck Fitz in the chest and sent him sprawling back against the wall. His head hit the stone, and for a moment all his world was a blur.

 Crows Hiding in the Nest

    There was no fighting the swarm of rats that had come pouring in through the windows, so Fitz and those with him fled deeper into the monastery.


    "Seal those doors!" Fitz cried, and the Crows did as he bid. They pushed the wooden doors shut and frantically fixed a wooden beam in front. As they barred the door, Fitz took a quick look around the room to ensure that they were not near any more windows.


    Those halls with outside-facing windows had been filled up with rotting, plague-filled corpses and brown rats.


    "We hold here!" Fitz shouted. "None of them get one step further!"


    "Yes, master," called one of the Crows.


    Taking a second look at his surroundings, Fitz found that he and those with him had holed themselves off in a prayer room. Only twenty Crows had retreated into this particular hall, leading Fitz to use the room to silently entreat God to lead the others to rooms where they could hold against the attacking hordes.


    "All this carnage... and the Vermin haven''t even gotten in..." one of the Crows muttered.


    Fitz rounded and seized the plague doctor by his collar, forcing him up against the nearest wall. "Hold your tongue unless it''s to say something helpful! I swear by God and all that''s Holy, next person who says a despairing word will get his fingers broken!"


    Bang!


    The wooden door jolted as something slammed against it from the outside.


    Startled, the Crows all prepared their weapons, their dark lenses focused on the door.


    Bang!


    Bang!


    Fitz held his sword in two hands. He opened his mouth to speak encouraging words, but nothing formed in his throat. Terror had choked all hope out of him. His arms shook, causing the blade to wobble in his hands.


    You are not a coward! he told himself. Stop that shaking, now!


    But the trembling only traveled from his arms down to his knees. His guts churned with sick and his head swam in a sea of dread. Tiny pinpricks pierced his every nerve.


    Bang!


    If the door did not hold he had nowhere else to go. In that prayer room he was cornered, along with a handful of Crows who seemed even more cowardly than he was at the moment. He could hear their whimpers and wails, though they tried to keep them low.


    "Down there!" one of the crows shouted.


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    Fitz cast his eyes down at the floor, where he saw the contorted, flattened body of one of the rats trying to squeeze under the door.


    Fitz lifted his foot and brought his boot down hard on the rat''s skull. A squeal and sickening crunch ended the rodent''s life.


    More snouts poked through under the door. More rats trying to get through.


    "Get over here and stomp on the beasts!" Fitz cried.


    The Crows in the room with him rushed over and stomped down. The high-pitched screeches, combined with the wet crunching noises soon turned into music in Fitz''s ears. Each pop was the sound of success, and he found it strangely satisfying to crush a small creature''s skull like a grape.


    Fitz and the other Crows pressed their bodies up against the barred door as they continuously stomped on the rodents trying to break through.


    A violent crash against the door sent Fitz and the other Crows sprawling backward. The wooden beam across the door bowed for a fleeting moment, making a cracking sound.


    Deep, guttural laughter from the other side belayed Fitz''s confusion. "Headless men..." he muttered. "The headless men are inside..."


    "Holy Mary, Mother of God..."


    And other prayers uttered throughout the crowd.


    Another loud crack, and the door pushed inward again, the wooden beam bowing further. Dust flew from where the hinges connected to the gray brick walls.


    High, tittering laughter heralded the arrival of dozens of Vermin, followed by a chopping sound.


    They''re using axes to break through...


    Fitz gripped his sword tightly and prepared himself.


    An axe blade tore through the wood, showing its dull, iron sheen on the other side. The moment the Vermin pulled the blade away, Fitz rushed across the room and stabbed through the hole in the door. The Vermin on the other side cried out in pain as the sword sliced through fur, hide, and meat. Fitz twisted his blade and pulled it back, a stream of scarlet following his motion.


    Through the door, Fitz heard the Vermin''s scurrying footsteps and angry mutterings as they stepped back from the door. The small victory forced a smile onto Fitz''s lips.


    A loud screech as a rat leaped through the hole in the door and latched itself onto Fitz''s beak.


    Though he could not see, Fitz heard the other Crows cry out and rush across the room to assault the other rats who crawled through the same small hole.


    Fitz thrashed about, trying to snatch the rat from the beak of his mask and toss it aside. The rodent proved surprisingly slippery, crawling up and down the length of the beak and onto the top of his head. Finally, Fitz seized it by the scruff of its neck, its teeth and claws feebly trying to tear his leather gauntlets as he threw it on the ground and stomped on it.


    Crack!


    The Crows at the door fell back again as another impact splintered the wooden beam across the door. Even the door itself was breaking now, the boards coming loose and nails falling out of place.


    Even over all the cries of despair from his comrades, Fitz heard the rushing, pounding footsteps of the headless-man''s charge.


    The door and its bar gave way in a storm of splinters, and a hulking headless-man burst into the room, shoulder first.


    The Crows stabbed wildly at it, piercing its leathery flesh and spilling blood on the ground. The headless-man swung his great stone club, the first strike crushing one poor Crow''s head.


    Fitz ducked low under the second swing and charged in, thrusting his sword into the headless-man''s mouth. The blade cut through his tongue and pierced the back of his throat.


    Another crow rushed in and stabbed the creature through the eye.


    In a flurry of blood and violence, the Crows brought the savage headless-man to the floor. As its bulky body fell, swarms of rats scurried out of the way.


    Fitz, his veins still pumping with rage and terror, peered out upon the Vermin down the hall. The vile creatures charged at him and the Crows, brandishing their rusty weapons.

 Fitzs Folly

    Battered and bruised.


    Covered in blood, both human and Vermin.


    Melcher Fitz staggered into one of the monastery bunkrooms and slowly pushed the door shut behind him.


    The bunkroom was empty. Well, not empty. But Melcher was the only living soul in there. He was alone, listening to the sounds of carnage coming from outside. The rending of flesh, the spilling of blood, and the anguished screams of the dying.


    What did Melcher expect? He''d allowed those accursed Templars to bring the Anti-Christ into his midst after all, and the Devil''s progeny had brought his demon-spawn hordes to seek revenge.


    Damn Giradin... Damn him to Hell!


    This onslaught of evil had made everything clear for Fitz, Giradin was the Beast, and he had turned God''s Holy Church on his whims.


    Fitz staggered over to the nearest bed and supported his weight, fatigue making his senses dull and his knees weak.


    He couldn''t breathe in that mask, so he removed it. Black curls stuck to his brow from the sweat, and the scruff on his jaw itched fiercely. He tried to scratch, realized he still wore his leather gauntlet, then tore it off and clawed at his own face. Every time he satisfied one itch another popped up, more terrible than the last.


    "Oh, God! Someone help!" came a cry from outside.


    Melcher Fitz took a step forward, lost his balance, and stumbled to his knees. His patelas hit the stone floor with a crack, causing him to wince and whimper.


    Every part of his body hurt. Like Christ, he had given his all and suffered much. In leading the Crows, he had descended into Hell itself, but found it far too harrowing for his limited, mortal spirit.


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    Casting his eyes upward, he spied a crucifix hanging from the post of one of the bunks. He beheld the cross, and the tortured, emaciated picture of Christ upon it. The eyes under that brow of thorns looked down upon him, as if he were all that existed in the world.


    "My Lord, Jesus Christ," Melcher Fitz began. He held his sword with the tip on the ground and leaned upon the hilt. "Hear my prayer. I know that I have sinned, and that I have failed You. But I have strived my whole life to fight the good fight, as you taught us. I have stood against the forces of evil, and protected the people from the Devil''s plagues."


    Outside, terrified screams as something dragged a thrashing Crow down the hall.


    "I ask but one favor of you, Almighty God," Fitz continued. "Grant me the strength I need to make things right again. In your name, I shall slay the False Idol and restore goodness to Christendom. The Church will not fall, not while I breathe."


    Fitz reached up and gently ran his un-gloved fingertips over the figure of Christ.


    "Forgive me my sins, and allow me to make my attonement!"


    A cooling sensation ran down Fitz''s fingers, a slight tingle like he was being pricked by a thousand icy pins. The sensation moved down his hand, his forearm, and to his shoulder. From there, it radiated throughout his body like an invisible spiderweb. The cold surrounded his heart, but it was calming.


    Pain left his joints, and the sweat rose like steam from his brow, with spots of blood across his forehead.


    Strength returned to his arms, and his sword felt light in his hands once again. The chain-mail was like a linen sheet upon his shoulders.


    "Thank you, my Lord," Fitz said. He seized his mask and strapped it back onto his head, grateful to have its protection returned to him.


    When he went to slip on his gauntlet, he caught a glimpse of the palm of his hand and yelped at the sight. A needle-like hole had pierced through his hand, between the tendons of his middle and ring fingers. When he held his hand in front of a candle, he could see light peering through from the other side.


    Christ, fill me with your spirit and grant me all I need to destroy the forces of Hell!


    Fitz left his hand bare and instead slipped his gauntlet into his pocket.


    His arms felt like they were made of steel, his heart a fortress of unbreakable ice, his mind a blazing furnace. With his newfound strength, Melcher Fitz kicked open the bunkroom door and charged the Vermin with his sword held high.

 Saints Preserve Us

    Fits cut a red path to the sick wards.


    No Vermin, headless-man, or swarm of rats could stand in his way. He put them all to the sword with the kind of strength he imagined would make Samson look like a cripple by comparison.


    Without a hint of fear in his heart, he took the keys from the pocket of a dead Crow who''d been standing guard and approached Giradin''s cell, his blood-soaked sword ready in his hand.


    But the door was wide open, and Giradin was gone.


    "No!"


    Panic rose up in Fitz''s heart, but it immediately transformed into rage.


    The only way he could have gotten out is if someone let him out...


    Peering down the hallway, with only a few lanterns on the floor to light the way, Fitz saw that several of the other doors lay open too. Including the ones which held the Templars and Giradin''s followers.


    Fitz beat his fist against the wall.


    Damn it all! The Beast is loose and he took his heretics with him!


    Calm yourself, my child. Not all is lost.


    The words which popped into Melcher Fitz''s head did not seem like his own. They were thoughts brought to his mind by some external force. In an instant, he was certain he knew the source of the voice.


    My Lord?


    Make your way to the sanctuary, said the voice in Melcher''s mind. Your enemy is there, along with his heretical followers.


    I''ll cut them all down, if I have to.


    Fitz stormed through the halls of the monastery again. Along the way he met a few Vermin stragglers, those who had fallen behind from the bulk of the horde.


    Vengeance is thine.


    The Vermin hissed at Melcher Fitz, baring their pointed teeth.


    Unperturbed, Fitz charged into the midst of them, and in a flurry of steel, rust, and red their bodies fell in pieces upon the stone floor. Fitz''s uniform was soaked in gore, but he had not yet shed the only blood that mattered.


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    Avoiding some of the larger groups of Vermin and headless-men rampaging through his home, Fitz crept along the walls until he reached the sanctuary, where all the faithful would gather to pray. He pushed on the door, only to realize it was barred from the other side.


    "Hold!" came Sir Cristoff''s shout from the other side. "More trying to come in!"


    Then came the sound of stomping boots as those on the other side took their positions, readying themselves for the attack.


    Fitz beat his fist on the door three times. "It''s Master Melcher Fitz. Open this damn door and let me in!"


    Murmuring on the other side. Were these scum contemplating insubordination?


    They will learn obedience to proper authority. Remove from them the rebellious element and they will listen once again.


    "Is the hallway clear?" asked Sir Cristoff from the other side. "Not a rat or Vermin in sight?"


    "The hall is safe," Fitz said. "Now, let me in."


    The wooden bar lifted, releasing the door, and it swung open. Melcher hurried inside and four men pushed the door shut behind him, barring it once more.


    Once inside, Melcher took a look around the sanctuary. Those within had stacked pews and arranged them to create barricades, behind which they stood ready with spears, swords, crossbows, and any other weapons they''d managed to get their hands on. Most of them wore plague doctor uniforms, but some wore the sack cloth tunics given to prisoners and the sick when kept in the cells below the monastery.


    Whoever let Giradin out also let the sick patients out...


    Those whose faces were unhidden made no effort to disguise their disgust for Melcher Fitz as he walked among them.


    They also hated and scorned me. What makes you think you will be treated any differently?


    Taking the words to heart, Melcher ignored those who sneered at him and turned his attention to the front of the sanctuary. There, Sir Cristoff stood with his sword in hand, and Giradin knelt beside him.


    Giradin''s hair had grown out and become a tangled mess, like a bird''s nest atop his head. His facial hair had grown into a scraggly beard, growing in patches upon his cheeks and chin. The boy clasped his hands together and rocked back and forth as he prayed before the life-sized crucifix behind the pulpit.


    Fitz drew nearer, eyeing Sir Cristoff. The Templar was likely no match for Fitz now, for Fitz had the spirit of Christ within him. He was the true chosen saint, not pitiful Giradin. Even so, it occurred to Fitz that if he were to strike against Giradin and Sir Cristoff suddenly and without explanation, the others in the sanctuary would turn on him. Even if he somehow slaughtered them all single-handedly, he''d have on his hands the blood of many potential allies against the Vermin.


    Fitz was about to turn and address the crowd, explain to them that Giradin was the Anti-Christ and he had brought the Vermin down upon them to scare them away from the right path, but before he could speak, Giradin rose and turned to him. By the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what Fitz was there for.


    Clever Devil...


    "Give me one more hour," said Giradin. "If help doesn''t come, I will gladly submit myself to your blade."


    Sir Cristoff jumped as if startled at Giradin''s words and glared at Melcher Fitz. He stood between the master of the Crows and the supposed saint.


    Melcher Fitz nodded. "That sounds fair enough. If no help comes by then, surely all will see that you are a False Idol, come to lead us all astray."

 Their Worm Does Not Die, the Fire is Never Quenched

    Sir Emeric had returned with the Bishop''s army, prepared to take control of the monastery and force Melcher Fitz to release St. Giradin and cease all interrogations. But it was a different form of madness he encountered when he and the Bishop''s knights and archers arrived.


    Fires blazed within the monastery, with smoke billowing out the windows. The sounds of violence rang out from within, and even from the saddle Sir Emeric could see the Vermin inside, followed closely by the headless-men, the faces in their chests twisted into expressions of sadistic glee.


    It''s Giradin''s prophecy... Oh, Christ forgive me! I did not heed his words!


    Sir Emeric drew his sword and lowered his helmet down upon his head. "Vermin have taken the headquarters of the Crows. Let us take the monastery back! For life, for peace, and for God Almighty!"


    The galloping horses were like a sound of rolling thunder. One of the Bishop''s knights blew a war horn to tell the survivors of the Vermin attack to take hope, for help was on its way. Shlomo and Fulk rode beside Sir Emeric on either side, their crossbows at the ready.


    Headless men poured out of the monastery''s front doors, snarling, cursing, and brandishing their clubs. No doubt, they''d heard the sound of the approaching army and came to meet them in battle.


    Both Shlomo and Fulk loosed their bolts as soon as they were within range, and piercing two headless men''s faces.


    The headless men charged at the approaching cavalry, twirling their clubs menacingly.


    Two forces met in the middle with a mighty crash, and the violence ensued. Like so many other battles Sir Emeric had fought before, all dignity and honor disappeared the moment the knights met their enemies face to face. The men became as savage beasts, rending flesh and shattering bones.


    A headless man''s club had narrowly missed Sir Emeric''s head, and the Templar, in turn, severed his attacker''s arm at the elbow.


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    At the end of the flurry of steel and scarlet, the headless men lay dead, and only a few knights had fallen beside them. Those divided in their lifetime had become united in the Grave, and would soon face Eternal Judgment.


    Sir Emeric dismounted and marched through the front doors, his tabbard already soaked. The entourage of knights followed him in, as did Shlomo and Fulk, who had hung up their crossbows and exchanged them for a mace and a short sword.


    The scene inside the monastery made even the battle-hardened Sir Emeric grimace and retch. The remains of plague-ridden men and women lay strewn about the floor. Hills of the corpses of Crows, Vermin, headless men, and rats piled up so high that they blocked passageways within the monastery. The stench of rotting meat, copper, and bile burned in Sir Emeric''s nostrils and lingered on his tongue. Flies buzzed about, their presence so loud even the continuing violence could not drown them out.


    Shlomo tapped Sir Emeric''s shoulder to get his attention, and when he had it he said, "If anyone''s still alive, they''re likely holed up in the sanctuary."


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "St. Giradin''s in the cells below. He''s our best chance to end this battle." While Sir Emeric believed this was true, he''d be lying to himself if he claimed it was his primary reason for wanting to save Giradin first. Since the moment his eyes beheld the carnage done to the monastery, his heart had been racing with the terrible thought that the wonderful young man had come to harm. Familiar feelings of loss rose into Sir Emeric''s heart, and he was not certain he could endure that suffering again.


    Shlomo nodded. "Very well. Why don''t you take half the men with you to find Giradin and I can lead the other half to the sanctuary."


    Sir Emeric nodded and turned to the knights behind him, "Half of you follow this Crow, the rest of you stay with me!"


    The knights took one hallway after another, marching together with their shields high and their swords cutting their path for them. Vermin and rats threw themselves at the knights, only for shields to push them back and boots to trample them under foot.


    Rugs and curtains blazed, filling the halls with smoke and forcing the knights to crouch as they walked so they could breathe cleaner air and see the path ahead of them. The heat filled their armor with sweat, and the distant screams filled their hearts with rage and dread.


    Finally, Sir Emeric reached the stairs leading down into the cells, where the sick were kept.


    The floor was an unstable carpet of bodies both human and otherwise, but no obstacle was so great that it could have even slowed Sir Emeric from reaching his goal at this point. He strode over the corpses as easily as a man does through grassy fields.


    He reached Giradin''s cell, peered inside, and saw that the saint was gone.

 John 4:22

    Rats fled from before them as Shlomo and Fulk fought their way to the monastery. After all that carnage, it seemed the tide had finally turned in Christendom''s favor.


    The Vermin attacks were growing more and more sparse, as if even those monsters knew their end was nigh.


    Finally, wading through the ankle-high puddles of blood, Shlomo and Fulk arrived at the sanctuary doors. Shlomo approached first and rapped his gauntlet-covered knuckles on the door. "Is there anyone alive in there?" Shlomo shouted.


    "Who goes?" came a voice from the other side.


    "Clearly, not a Vermin or headless man," Shlomo bellowed back. "So, does it matter?"


    "That''s the Jew''s voice!" someone from the other side called back.


    "Open the door!" came Sir Cristoff''s reply.


    Shlomo listened as they removed the board and the door swung open. He and Fulk were the first to enter, followed by the knights and Templars they''d brought with them.


    Most of the candles had burned down to the last bits of wax, so the room was dimly lit. When Shlomo''s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked about at the people who''d taken shelter in the sanctuary, all exhausted and slick with scarlet. In the far corner, Shlomo spotted Melcher Fitz tied to a chair. In his chest there gaped a wound from which blood had long since stopped flowing. The man''s mask had been torn from him, revealing a face paler than snow and dark purple lips.


    "Is he...?"


    "Look!" Fulk said, pointing to the opposite corner. St. Giradin lay upon one of the pews, his head wrapped from the brow up in bandages torn from the curtains. The dark red stain on the bandages told Shlomo that he''d been struck on the head.


    St. Giradin was breathing.


    "Baruch Hashem!" Shlomo said before rushing to his side.


    Sir Cristoff stood over him. "He took a bad blow to the head. We''ve stopped the bleeding, but... well, you never know if head wounds will heal or not."


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    "He''s a saint, isn''t he?" Shlomo asked. "Can''t he just heal himself?"


    Sir Cristoff shook his head. "If saints could do that we''d never have martyrs, now would we?"


    Shlomo rolled his eyes, thankful that his sarcasm was hidden behind his bird-like mask. "The Vermin and their ilk are retreating. Those that are left, anyway. The Bishop''s knights have slain most of them by now."


    Sir Cristoff sighed. "Blessed Mary! I was sure we''d never hear good news again." Sir Cristoff reached into the pouch on his belt and produced a small, leather book. "Which reminds me, I need to make sure someone makes a copy of what I''ve written so far. If this book is lost, all the information I''ve gathered will be gone too."


    Shlomo chuckled. "One thing at a time, Sir Templar. Life is far more precious than knowledge. Adam and Eve forgot that, let''s not make their mistake."


    "Gah!"


    The shriek from the other end of the room all but caused Shlomo''s heart to burst.


    Fitz is alive?


    Melcher Fitz, despite the wound through his chest, flailed and thrashed in the chair to which he was bound. Every Crow in the room still armed aimed his weapon at their order''s Master. Dread shook their hands.


    "What the fuck?" Fulk muttered.


    "That''s what I said," Sir Cristoff told him.


    "Worthless men!" Melcher cried out. "You damn fools! Can you still not see that I do God''s work! He has not allowed me to die from the sword. No, not until my mission is complete. You must see now! Giradin must die!"


    Fulk stumbled back from Fitz and cast his mace from his hand. The weapon clattered to the floor, chipping the stones where it struck. The murderer staggered out of the room, as if suddenly drunk, and slammed the door shut behind him.


    Sir Cristoff shook his head, his eyes fixed on Melcher Fitz. "We''re not sure what''s happened, but he''s received at least three mortal wounds and still hasn''t died."


    "He is the Anti-Christ!" Fitz screamed, struggling against his bonds as if to rush at St. Giradin.


    "Or, rather..." Sir Cristoff continued, "I think he might have died, but didn''t stop moving."


    Horror settled into Shlomo''s heart like an unpleasant relative returning for a long visit. He stared at Fitz''s pale face and neck. His gaunt features. The blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. The eyes devoid of all shine, dry bone-like orbs swivelling in their sockets. The Crows'' Master only took a breath when it was time for him to scream more accusations at the saint.


    Yes, it was true. Melcher Fitz was dead. But some force, whether Heaven, Hell, or hate itself, kept him moving.


    Shlomo turned to Sir Cristoff, "Are we sure those ropes can hold--"


    Snap!


    The chair under Melcher Fitz snapped apart, with wooden pieces dangling from the ends of ropes.


    One of the Crows lunged, sword-first.


    Shlomo blinked, and Melcher Fitz had seized the Crow and now held him hostage with his own sword against his throat.


    Fitz spat a bloody tooth from his mouth and said, "You will release me or he will die."

 Wounds of the Saints

    "Let the hostage go, Fitz!" Sir Cristoff demanded.


    Melcher sneered at him.


    "Master," said Shlomo, his hands held up to calm him, "I beg you to reconsider what you are doing. In the heat of battle, many strange thoughts enter into men''s minds. They think the world is ending, they think God has forsaken them... Sometimes, when the blood is hot, they even attack their allies." Shlomo gestured across the room, to St. Giradin, who watched the scene intently. "But if you take a hostage there''s no going back. If you kill him it will be even worse. Please, Master, please consider letting him go."


    "Shlomo, look who you stand with!" Melcher Fitz spat back, slowly inching his way toward the door with his hostage. Templars and Crows alike moved out of his way as he passed, their weapons still pointed at him. "You are surrounded by men who fought in the Crusades, who murdered and raped your people under crosses."


    Shlomo scoffed at Fitz''s words.


    But it was true of at least one man present. Sir Cristoff had committed the latter of the two crimes Fitz listed. He all but dropped his sword when he heard it.


    "They''ll turn on you," Fitz said, "Just like they turned on Mujahid. They''ll kill anyone who stands in the way of their perfect world. A world without Moors, Jews, or non-believers."


    "Listen to yourself, Master Fitz!" Shlomo pleaded. "Do you have any idea how mad you sound?"


    "That boy is the Anti-Christ!" Fitz shouted again, gesturing toward St. Giradin with his head. "I know it... I''ve seen the signs. When we bathed him when he first came here I saw the scars. Three scars on the back of his thigh, each shaped like the letters V and I. VI. The Roman numeral six!"


    Shlomo did all he could to suppress his laughter. "That''s your evidence, Master Fitz? He has scars on the back of his thigh? Those could have come from anything!"


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    "He''s the Devil''s own son!" Fitz bellowed.


    "That part may very well be true," said St. Giradin.


    All eyes turned to him, confusion on every visible face.


    St. Giradin nodded his head. "I never knew my father. I was born the son of a whore. It''s entirely possible that my father was none other than the Devil himself. Clearly, even if he is not the Devil, he is a man of sin. But whatever my father was, is, or may be, I am a saint, as the Pope himself has verified."


    Melcher Fitz pulled his hostage along with a hard tug, moving closer to the door.


    "It seems to me, Melcher," said St. Giradin, "that if anyone here is in league with the Devil it is you, the man who is accusing the Pope of having made a mistake in his holy judgment."


    "Liar!" Fitz screamed.


    St. Giradin started a slow walk toward Melcher Fitz. "Put the sword down, Melcher. And let the hostage go. Hasn''t there been enough bloodshed this day?"


    "There will never be enough until you lie dead!" Fitz bellowed back.


    St. Giradin continued to advance toward his enemy. Fitz shook with greater terror with each passing moment.


    St. Giradin was now within reach of Fitz''s weapon.


    "Drop the sword," St. Giradin commanded.


    Fitz shoved his hostage aside and lunged at St. Giradin.


    In a flash, Giradin''s seax appeared in his hand and he deflected Fitz''s blade from his face.


    Shlomo picked up his crossbow from the pew nearby and raised it for a shot.


    But the clash between St. Giradin and Melcher Fitz made it impossible to get a clean shot in. If he pulled the trigger, he risked hitting his friend.


    At least, that was the excuse Shlomo gave me when I asked him why he didn''t shoot Fitz.


    Sir Cristoff rushed in and thrust his blade at Fitz.


    The Crows'' Master parried the attack and kneed Sir Cristoff in the stomach.


    St. Giradin stabbed Fitz in the shoulder.


    Barely fazed by it, Fitz ran his blade through St. Giradin''s stomach.


    "NO!" cried out many of those in the sanctuary.


    St. Giradin grabbed his wound, blood pouring over his fingers. When Fitz withdrew his blade, Giradin collapsed onto the Sanctuary floor.


    Sir Cristoff''s sword caught Fitz''s neck and embedded itself deep. The blade went half-way through, elliciting a crimson fountain.


    Sir Cristoff withdrew his sword and swung again, this time lopping off Fitz''s head. The Crow Master''s body collapsed in a heap on the sanctuary floor next to St. Giradin.

 The Coming of Woes

    Rain washed away the aftermath of the violence at the monastery. The water leaked through holes in the walls and ceiling, helping to carry away the blood and viscera from that terrible battle the previous night.


    The remains of Vermin, headless-men, rats, and those bodies the Vermin had launched at the monastery were gathered in a pile, where tree branches shielded them from the rain. There, the surviving Crows heaped hay and pitch upon the pile and set it aflame.


    The Crows who had died in the battle, including Melcher Fitz, were given a Christian burial in the graveyard behind the monastery. The number of wooden crosses in that gated cemetery tripled that day.


    But while most at the monastery attended the collective funeral for their fallen commrades, Fulk, Shlomo, and Sir Emeric did not leave St. Giradin''s side.


    After Fitz stabbed him, the saint had spent all his time in the infirmary, lying in bed. The few actual physicians in the monastery had died in the battle, so Shlomo did what he could to push Giradin''s entrails back inside and sew up the wound. Even so, blood and bile squeezed through regularly, and all three men were sure the fluids were still leaking inside the saint''s body.


    Sure, the Crows had sent for a physician, and they had no doubt the Church was sending one as fast as they could, but barring a miracle the physician would never arrive in time.


    Sir Emeric had far from lost hope as he knelt beside St. Giradin''s infirmary bed, holding his hand.


    In a somewhat delirious state, Giradin said to them, "Thank you... it''s not good to be alone..."


    Shlomo leaned forward in his rocking chair, twisting the end of his beard on one finger. "You''ll never be alone, Giradin. You''ve become like a brother to me, Giradin Ha''Tzadik."


    "What does that mean?" Giradin asked.


    "Like a brother to me?" Shlomo asked. "Well--"


    "No... that word... Hazadik..." A fit of wet coughs took Giradin for a moment, and Sir Emeric held him down, hoping to prevent him from tearing the stitches.


    "Ah, you want to know what Ha''Tzadik means..." Shlomo tried to turn his eyes away from the red and brown spots accumulating on the sheets around Giradin''s stomach. He knew there was nothing more they could do until the physician arrived, and didn''t yet want to face the reality that Giradin was going to die. "Well, the rabbis say that every day, God looks down at all the sin in the world, but among all men he notices thirty-six who are righteous. The thirty-six Tzadikim Nistarim. For their sake, God holds back the destruction of the world. You may not be a Jew, Giradin, but there''s little doubt in my mind that you''re one of the thirty-six."


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    "Thank you," Giradin wheezed.


    "What happens if there''s only thirty-five?" Fulk muttered.


    Shlomo ignored his question for the time being, but knew he would have to give the murderer an answer eventually. "Is there anything we can get you, Gir?"


    Giradin shook his head.


    Sir Emeric looked up at Fulk and Shlomo. "Would you two mind if I had a private moment with Giradin?"


    Shlomo was about to agree before Fulk jumped in, "Of course we mind! Our friend is dying, Templar. A friend we''ve known longer than you have. Why should you have the right to hear his last words?"


    "There''s something I want to tell him," Sir Emeric said, giving both of them a pleading look. "Please, just a minute alone."


    "Piss on that," Fulk said, folding his arms. "Whatever you have to say to him you can say in front of us."


    Sir Emeric looked both of them over, considered it for a moment, then finally said, "Fine." He turned to Giradin and said, "There''s something I want you to know... You see..." Sir Emeric sighed, "I know it doesn''t matter now, but it''s the truth and... I love you, Giradin. I mean... I''m in love with you."


    Fulk grunted his disgust and turned away.


    Shlomo whispered, "I knew it..."


    Giradin reached up and touched Sir Emeric''s cheek. "If many things had been different..."


    "Save your strength," Sir Emeric said, sniffling and forcing a smile. "The physician''s on his way. Maybe..."


    Giradin weakly shook his head, and his eyes wandered over all three men in the room with him. "I love you all."


    How precious, though sad, this story would be were those Giradin''s final words. Or, if they had not been his final words because he''d miraculously recovered.


    But no. Giradin grew more delirious after that. Most of what he had to say was nonsense, as if he''d become a baby again and knew not how to speak.


    Yet, even amid all the gibberish, Shlomo said he caught one final word.


    "Rebirth..."


    On the day that the Church came to claim Giradin''s body, to be interred in a tomb fit for a saint, Fulk approached Shlomo and asked, "What happens if there are only thirty-five?"


    "Pardon?"


    Fulk sneered at Shlomo. "You know what I''m asking, damn it! You said Giradin was one of the thirt-six zad... tzad... sod it! One of the thirty-six good people God looks at when he decides not to destroy the world. What happens if there are only thirty-five?"


    Shlomo had been dreading this question for a long time. In his mind, he kept refusing to think about it. Had Fulk asked that question years ago, Shlomo might have said they didn''t have to worry, for there were bound to be more than thirty-six. Or, perhaps, as one passed away another would rise to take his place. But given all the wickedness he''d seen in the past year alone, he knew what lay on the horizon.


    He glanced over at Sir Emeric, who had been standing with the other Templars but was now on his knees, weeping uncontrollably, as the priests and monks loaded Giradin''s body into a stone coffin in the back of a wagon.


    At long last, unable to hold in the horrible answer any longer, Shlomo said, "The world ends."

 Goats

    "When the cattle driver comes from plowing,


    He plants his cattle prod.


    A, e, i o, u!


    He plants his cattle prod.


    He finds his wife at the foot of the fire,


    Sad and so disconsolate.


    If you are sad, then tell me.


    I¡¯ll make you a stew,


    With a turnip, and a cabbage,


    A skinny lark.


    When I am dead bury me


    In the deepest part of the cave.


    Feet turned towards the wall,


    Head by the channel for water.


    The pilgrims that will pass by,


    Will take of the holy water.


    And they will say, ''Who died here?''


    Here is the poor Joanne.


    She went to paradise,


    To heaven with her goats."


    "Well, what do you want? I''m a genius, not a choirboy!"


    A cackle followed.


    The sound of boiling water.


    Then the footsteps of his off-key, eccentric host.


    Melcher Fitz awoke and stared up at a stone ceiling in a dimly-lit room.


    His neck stung and throbbed, and his body felt cold.


    "Where am I?" he meant to say, but the words came out as a mumble.


    He couldn''t open his lips. He tried to raise his hand to his face to figure out why, but found that his wrists were strapped down against the strange bed where he lay.


    "Aha!" the strange host cried out from outside Melcher''s view. "It worked! And you said my flights of fancy were rubbish, Daddy... pah! You who filled my boyish head with much worse nonsense..."


    Melcher Fitz mumbled again, now realizing that threads held his lips together. Whoever this stranger was, he''d sown his mouth shut.


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    The stranger leaned over Melcher, revealing his face to him. The man was in his mid-fifties. What little hair remaining on his head had turned white and resembled thorny weeds. His beard was long and gray, tangled like a bird''s nest. The acid-burn scars on his forehead and nose, combined with the sour smells in the air, told Melcher this was some manner of alchemist.


    "Just as I thought!" the stranger remarked, staring into Melcher''s eyes. "All I had to do was reattach the head, then pump a little alkahest into you, and now you live again! Well... as much as you were really ''alive'' before." The stranger looked up, scratching his chin with a gauntleted hand. "What does it mean to be ''alive?'' Is that when one''s heart is beating, when one can still think, or when one can still move autonomously? Hmm... seems ill-defined these days, doesn''t it? Much more so now that a man who''d lost his head has come back from the grave."


    Melcher struggled against the straps holding his body down. When he pulled against them, he discovered that he was bound at his wrists, ankles, around his waist, across his throat, across his chest, his knees, his thighs... it seemed far more than anyone really needed to keep an ordinary man restrained.


    The stranger must have known he was no ordinary man.


    "I''m sure you have many questions," said the stranger. "Let me try to answer them. No... don''t try to speak, my friend." The stranger reached out and stroked Melcher Fitz''s hair with the back of his hand. "Oh, my precious friend... your vocal chords were torn when you lost your head. I''ll try to help, but I''m not sure you''ll ever be able to speak again."


    Fitz grunted and pulled against the restraints again, hoping the strength he''d found before would grant him escape. He had to know if Giradin was still alive, if he still had work to do to slay the Anti-Christ and prevent the Apocalypse.


    The stranger pressed down on Fitz''s chest with his hand. "You''ll find that even the strongest man who ever lived could never tear through those straps. Anyway, I''ve not introduced myself. I am Dr. Yves, the most brilliant alchemist who ever lived. And you... you are my latest and greatest experiment!"


    Dr. Yves turned his head away from Fitz and bellowed, "Garbage!"


    A high-pitched voice called from the opposite end of the room. "Yes, master?" The voice was not that of a child, neither of a woman. Fitz supposed it was some manner of dwarf.


    "Tell Refuse to ride to Levanna''s house bearing news of this fortuitous day. We have conquered death, Garbage! It is time for celebration!"

 The Order of Saint Giradin

    Their numbers had been reduced to so few after the battle. The Crows were never a great force to be reckoned with, but now, by Shlomo''s calculations, there were less than a hundred of them.


    Worse yet, they had no master anymore, neither was Giradin around any longer to take his place. Shlomo wondered if maybe there were few enough Crows remaining that they might not need a leader. But the more he thought of it, the more he recalled the arguments and chaos of his hometown whenever the rabbi was away. Men with opinions fought constantly, especially if they had no authority to look to.


    It''s like herding cats...


    On the plus side, the food and alcohol stored in the cellars under the monastery (which had miraculously remained untouched during the battle) were now more than enough to ensure that every member of the order got his fill.


    So, as Shlomo sat in the quiet dining hall with the few remaining Crows, he helped himself to an extra loaf of bread, three extra wedges of cheese, and four mugs of dark beer. Yes, it occurred to him that he could try to ration the food and drink in case they had a particularly rough winter, but he hardly saw the point.


    "Enjoying the perks of losing so many people?" Fulk asked as he plopped down into the seat next to Shlomo with a modest plate.


    "We find enjoyment wherever and whenever we can," said Shlomo with a smile. "Yes, countless good people died recently, including the greatest goy I''ve ever known. But, for the moment, that just means more booze for us." Shlomo raised his mug. "L''chaim!"


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    Fulk had neither mug of beer nor bottle of mead before him. His cup was full of well water.


    Not like Fulk to refuse a drink... what''s wrong with him?


    Shlomo took a good look at Fulk. The burn scars were as disfiguring as ever, making an already ugly face that much uglier. But the blackness in his veins, which always showed through his skin, appeared to be mostly faded. It was now just a light gray.


    Now that Shlomo thought about it, it had been a long time since he''d seen Fulk eat anything. Sure, his plate was modest, but he was eating nonetheless.


    Was he still Fulk inside?


    "I imagine we''ll have to start recruiting again," said Shlomo. "Probably conscripting, really. I doubt people will want to join us willingly after... you know... the battle. We can conscript a nice young man for you to bugger."


    Shlomo prepared to dodge should Fulk take a swing at him. Normally, Fulk would.


    "That''s not funny," was all Fulk said, tearing off another piece of bread and eating it.


    "Oh? Would you prefer to bugger old men?" Shlomo asked.


    Fulk rolled his eyes. "You''re trying to pi... to get me mad. Stop it."


    Shlomo leaned back from his friend, giving him a skeptical look. He just wasn''t Fulk without coarse swearing and a fierce temper. Shlomo might have just shrugged it off as an emotional reaction to recent events, were it not for the fact that certain recent events included people becoming possessed by spirits.


    The doors flew open and all eyes turned while Sir Emeric and Sir Cristoff walked into the dining hall. Sir Emeric continued to the front of the room while Sir Cristoff took a seat next to Shlomo and Fulk.


    "You''re still here?" Shlomo asked. "I thought you two would have gone back to Templar headquarters by now."


    Sir Cristoff shook his head. "We''ve been re-assigned. I''m still keeping record of these events, Sir Emeric is..."


    Now at the front of the room, Sir Emeric reached into the pouch on his belt and produced a scroll of paper with the Papal seal on it. "Good day, everyone. As of this moment, by order of the Pope, I, Sir Emeric of the Knights Templar, am the new Master of the Order of St. Giradin of Elekvaz."

 White Crow and Bird Dog

    Now, dear reader, I would like you to try to recall a certain man I mentioned before. A man with cynocephaly. His name was Caleb, and per his condition of cynocephaly he had the head of a wolfhound on the body of a man. He lived alone in the woods, and was gracious enough to give Shlomo, Sir Emeric, and Fulk sanctuary from the storm. Do you recall this man? Good.


    Now imagine the sort of life such a man lives. He has the intelligence of a man, but thinks like a dog.


    Such a man would spend most of his days sleeping, hunting only when he was hungry enough. Whenever squirrels, racoons, or wild cats stray onto his property, he would rush out of his house, shouting furiously, and chasing them until they had left. Once he was satisfied that his home was safe from the intruders, he would return to his house to gnaw on the thigh bone of a boar he''d killed with his spear the previous day.


    When a moment of sadness or loneliness hit him, Caleb would turn his eyes out the window, toward the sun''s warm light, and pray that God would make him fully human some day. Briefly, he would contemplate the meaning of life, and whether or not a creature such as he had an immortal soul, but before he could get far in his philosophical musings, he''d hear movement in the bushes outside his home, causing him to rush out and chase after the rabbits.


    On one particular day, he actually caught one of the rabbits before it could escape, picked it up in his jaws, and shook it until its neck broke.


    Food for me! he thought, spitting the unfortunate rodent out onto his floor, just inside the doorway.


    Then his nose caught scent of something unfamiliar. He crouched low and hid behind a tree outside his house.


    His ears twitched at the sound of footsteps on the path leading to his home. Something was coming. By the sound of it, human. More than one. On more than one occasion, Caleb had been mocked and tormented by humans who found him. They called him a monster, threw rocks at him, and called him cruel names. But other humans had been kind, giving him cuts of meat or scratching behind his ears.


    But because he could never be certain which humans would be kind and which ones would be cruel, he hid and waited, peering through the leaves of the tree.


    When they came into view, Caleb saw that these were not mere men at all, but rather monsters. They walked upright like men, and were as large as men, but they had the heads of birds, with long, pointy beaks made of iron. Their scent smelled human, but Caleb caught whiffs of something else there too. Mint, roses, carnations, and vinegar. Truly a strange collection of scents.


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    Though Caleb could not see color well, he could tell that three of the bird-men were all black and the one leading was all white. Each of them carried weapons with them, though the weapons were not in hand at the moment.


    All four bird-men stopped in front of Caleb''s house, with the white one standing the closest.


    "Caleb!" the white one called out.


    The dog-man''s hair stood on end. How did the white bird-man know his name?


    "Caleb, it''s me, Sir Emeric," called out the white bird-man. "We came to stay with you the other day, remember? I need to speak with you."


    Sir Emeric? Now that Caleb thought about it, the name and voice both sounded familiar. Yes, Sir Emeric was the name of the man in white who''d stayed one night in Caleb''s house some time ago. He''d brought two bird-men with him. One had turned out to be a normal man in disguise. The other was rude and silent. Caleb recalled that his name was "Dungpie."


    "Caleb?" the white bird-man called out again. "Are you home?" The white bird-man reached into his coat and produced a small cut of dried meat. "Are you hungry?"


    Caleb cautiously stepped out from behind the tree, his ears perked up.


    All three bird-men turned to face him, two of the black ones gave a slight jump, indicating that he''d startled them.


    "There you are!" said Sir Emeric. He reached up and removed the bird head, revealing that it was but a mask, and he was human underneath. "Can we talk, my friend?"


    Caleb approached slowly and took the meat from Sir Emeric''s hand.


    "This is insane..." one of the black bird-men muttered.


    Caleb chewed on the dried meat and tilted his head to one side. "Dungpie is here?"


    One of the bird-men burst into laughter and slapped Dungpie on the back. Dungpie shoved him away with a loud, "Piss off, Shlomo!"


    Sir Emeric wore a smirk, but he did not laugh. "Caleb, I have a job for you."


    "What''s a job?" Caleb asked.


    "You don''t know what a job is? Well, a job is something... something men do. It''s part of what makes us men, and maybe it will make you a man too."


    Caleb''s ears perked up and his neck straightened. "I''m listening."


    "We are what''s called plague doctors," said Sir Emeric. "Some people call us ''Crows.'' There''s a sickness that''s trying to hurt a lot of innocent people, and there are bad men and monsters who have tried to spread it on purpose. We need to stop it, otherwise millions will die."


    Caleb wasn''t sure what millions were, but by the tone in Sir Emeric''s voice he knew it was a bad thing if they died.


    "It occurred to me, though, that dogs can''t catch this sickness," said Sir Emeric, "So, I thought maybe you could help us stop the sickness from spreading. In return, we''ll feed you, care for you, and maybe, just maybe, God will reward your faithfulness by making you human. Would you like to do it? You could help a lot of people."


    "And people would like me?" Caleb asked.


    Caleb wasn''t sure why, but his question appeared to have made Sir Emeric sad for a moment. He responded with, "People like us will like you. What say you, Caleb?"


    Caleb considered it for a moment, then gave a nod of his head and said, "Yes. I want to go with you to stop the sickness."


    "Good boy," said Sir Emeric, scratching the top of his head.


    "This is just too weird..." Dungpie muttered.

 The Wrong Cross ?

    While so many of the Crows set out to recruit new members to their ranks, Sir Emeric personally responded to reports of a man in the city of Codul who claimed he could cure the Plague. Such a claim was suspicious for more reasons than Sir Emeric could count. Even so, he prayed that it might turn out to be true as he left the monastery with Shlomo, Fulk, Sir Cristoff, and Caleb.


    Under a plague doctor mask, none could tell that Caleb was any less human than the rest of the Crows. Sir Emeric was sure he''d find the way people treated him when they didn''t know he was a dog-headed-man disorienting.


    Many days in the saddle brought them to the gates of Codul. The walls loomed over them, three stories tall with archers on the battlements. The gate was wide open, allowing merchants and travelers to enter. Though, as Sir Emeric and his entourage approached, the travelers and merchants kept their distance.


    Caleb, standing a head taller than anyone else present, glanced back and forth at the frightened passersby and said, "Master, why are they so afraid of us? Aren''t we here to help?"


    The five of them passed through the gatehouse, with a metal grate above their heads through which guards peered down at them.


    "Yes, Caleb," said Sir Emeric. "We are here to help. But so many of these poor people have heard only frightful tales about plague doctors."


    "You''d think Giradin''s story would endear us to them," said Shlomo.


    Sir Emeric sighed. "You''d think... but most of them know that while St. Giradin was a plague doctor, he was also martyred by one. They have as much reason to fear us because of that story as they do to revere us."


    Just as they got through to the other side of the gatehouse, six members of the city guard stepped in their way. The one in the middle was a short man with a long, bushy mustache which fluttered as he spoke. "Doctors, may I ask what brings you to our fair city this day?"


    Sir Emeric nodded, his mask''s beak bobbing up and down. "We have heard stories of a man in this town who says he has the cure for the plague. Naturally, we have come to investigate it. If the cure is real, then we need to replicate it and distribute it as widely as possible. If not, then he needs to be punished for bringing false hope."


    "You must be referring to Dr. Yves," said the guard with a grin. "Yes, we''ve been quite excited for his cure, but he says he''s still experimenting with it. He said something about... ''it does no good to cure people of disease and in so doing give them poison.'' Something like that."


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    Sir Emeric glanced at Shlomo and Fulk, then back to the guard. "Where can we find him?"


    The Templar noted that some of the guards narrowed their eyes and furrowed their brows at the question. There was a hint of hostility there, as if in their mind he ought not to have asked such a question.


    The leader of the six guards said, "Why don''t we show you the way? The people of Codul are a bit... leery of outsiders and plague doctors as of late."


    And so, the six city guards guided them through the streets of Cobul. The streets themselves were cobblestone, and surprisingly clean. The people of Cobul, apparently, were not merely throwing their refuse out the window any more, as was the custom throughout most of Christendom. The houses were made of gray stone bricks, just like the outer walls of the city. Cats roamed the streets and the rooftops.


    In fact, now that Sir Emeric thought about it, it was a rather unusual number of cats roaming those streets.


    On the way to meet Dr. Yves, they passed by the local church, and Sir Emeric''s eyes fell upon the steeple, where it seemed the cross had been broken off. The result of a storm or disaster? He couldn''t be sure, but the thought that the people of Cobul might have removed the cross themselves made Sir Emeric shudder.


    Finally, the five plague doctors, under escort of six guards, arrived at the door of a small stone house just outside the gates of the lord''s castle. Red smoke rose from the chimney, and the curtains had been pulled shut in front of every window.


    "Here you are," said the bushy-mustached guard. "We will wait here for your business to conclude."


    As Sir Emeric approached the front door of the house, he felt something churning in his gut. A deeply unsettling feeling that he could neither shake nor understand. Even so, he raised his fist and knocked three times on the door.


    He could hear movement inside, and the curtains of one of the windows shifted slightly. Sir Emeric thought he might have seen an eye looking back at him from the other side of the window, but the curtains closed again instantly.


    Chattering inside. Multiple voices, but Sir Emeric couldn''t make out a word.


    Four clicks, and the door opened. In the doorway stood a balding man with wild, white hair around the back of his head and on the sides. A long, gray beard hung from his chin. Burns had made the wiry hairs uneven. His face was flecked with acid scars, and his eyes were bloodshot, though wide open.


    Behind the balding man stood another man, this one dressed in all black and wearing a dark, cloth mask over his face. His hand rested on the pommel of a sword attached to his belt.


    The bald man bowed his head, his tangled hair fluffing out as he did so. "Dr. Yves, at your service, doctors. I''m assuming you are here about my cure?"


    Sir Emeric was about to answer Dr. Yves'' question cordially, but his eyes caught sight of a symbol carved into the stone floor within Dr. Yves'' home, directly under the doctor''s feet. As a Templar, he knew the symbol well. The strange cross represented the Cathar sect, which the Catholic Church had utterly destroyed just a few decades ago.

 The Chivalrous Bear

    "May we come in?" Sir Emeric asked at last.


    "Absolutely not," said Dr. Yves with a shake of his head.


    Sir Emeric''s nose curled in disgust. Clearly, this heretic was hiding something far worse than just the Cathar cross inside his home. "May I ask why?"


    "You may ask," said Dr. Yves, scratching at his scraggly beard. "But I may choose not to answer you. Oh wait! I just did."


    Sir Emeric wanted nothing more than to punch this alchemist in the nose and force his way in, but Shlomo placed a hand on Sir Emeric''s shoulder and gestured with his head toward the people of Codul, who watched the scene unfold from across the street, their brows furrowed. Each of them held some manner of tool; a hammer, a wood-cutting axe, a pitchfork, and they held them as if ready to use them as weapons.


    Shlomo approached Dr. Yves. "Well, every man is entitled to his privacy. After all, for all we know you may have a young lady lying naked in there, whether because you were busy making love to her or if she was merely your patient. Whatever the case, it is not our business, is it? No, our business concerns the cure you are developing, and we would like to speak with you about that. If we cannot meet in your home, is there some other place you might suggest we meet?"


    Dr. Yves pointed his bony finger down the road, toward a tavern. Above the tavern''s door hung a wooden plaque with a picture of a bear dressed in armor and carrying a sword in its paw as it sat upright on a horse. "Let''s meet at The Chivalrous Bear."


    Shlomo snorted at the name of the tavern, and even Fulk gave a light chuckle. Caleb stared at the tavern and tilted his head to one side, then the other.


    "Drink there often, do you?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "Yes I do," said Dr. Yves. "Ask anyone. I will see you there shortly. I just want to finish up my work and I''ll be right there."


    Without another word, Dr. Yves slammed his front door shut.


    Shlomo shrugged and started on his way down toward The Chivalrous Bear. Sir Emeric and the others followed. "Something strange is going on with that man," said Sir Emeric.


    "He''s an alchemist," said Shlomo. "I wouldn''t be surprised if he''s sampling his own medicines all the time."


    "It''s more than that," said Sir Emeric. "Did you see the symbol on his floor?"


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    Shlomo shook his head.


    "I did," said Fulk. "The symbol of the Cathar cult, the one you folks wiped out some time ago. You think he''s a surviving Cathar?"


    "I did," said Sir Emeric. "Until he told us to meet him at this tavern. Cathars were absolutely against drinking, or any other sort of physical pleasure. If he drinks at this tavern regularly, like he claimed, then he''s not a Cathar, but he has their symbol on his floor."


    Fulk grunted. "Then, clearly, he was not the original owner of that house. The original owner probably got evicted... or hanged, or burned at the stake, or whatever you people do to heretics these days, and Dr. Yves bought the house."


    "Why does it matter if he''s a cat-harr?" Caleb interjected, his voice sounding genuinely curious.


    All five Crows went silent for a moment. Finally, Sir Emeric said, "I suppose it doesn''t, really. Years ago, the Church was worried that the Cathars were leading people to Hell because they said the God of the Old Testament was an evil God while the God of the New Testament was a good one. That and... well, many other heretical beliefs they espoused. But a lone Cathar, especially one who''s not terribly devout, is hardly a threat to anyone."


    "Or, rather," Fulk said, "If he''s a threat to anyone, it''s not because of what he believes, it''s because of what he does."


    "That''s true," said Sir Cristoff.


    "And it''s possible he might actually help us," said Shlomo. "Sir Emeric, I know things are different among the Templars, but among the Crows we can''t be so ready to declare people our enemies because of what faith they follow. Not long ago, our best hope for a cure was Mujahid, a Moor."


    The five of them finally arrived at The Chivalrous Bear and entered the tavern. Like all buildings in Codul, it was made of gray, stone bricks and immaculately clean. Even as patrons inside spilled their drinks, boys working there rushed to clean up the mess from the ground. Sir Emeric noted that the serving wenches here dressed far more modestly than in typical taverns. Not just more modestly, in fact, but also more expensively. Their clothes were bright and colorful, complimented with copper jewelry and glass beads.


    Sir Emeric and Sir Cristoff took seats near the door, both sitting on opposite sides of the table so they could keep eyes on the crowd.


    Shlomo glanced over at the bar, then back to Sir Emeric and said, "Would it offend your Templar sensibilities if we ordered drinks?"


    "It wouldn''t offend me," said Sir Emeric, "But you are not to drink anything here. We have a job to do, and need to stay sober and alert."


    "Where''s the fun in that?" Shlomo asked. "Haven''t you heard? All is vanity and chasing after wind. All a man can do is eat, drink, and be merry."


    "Wine and strong drink are for the poor, Lemuel," said Sir Cristoff. "So that they may drink and forget their troubles."


    Shlomo grumbled and took his seat at the table with the Templars. Caleb and Fulk did the same, but without grumbling.


    A few moments later, Dr. Yves walked in the tavern door.


    "Doctor!" called out the bar-keep.


    Dr. Yves waved. "Aye! Have the wenches bring me my usual." He strolled in, heading toward the table where the five Crows sat. Behind him walked the masked man in black. Dr. Yves gestured to a seat on the opposite end of the table and said, "Useless, sit there."


    The masked man in black did as he was told, apparently responding to the name "Useless."


    Dr. Yves sat near the Crows. "Now, what shall we talk about?"

 Decoding Eccentricities

    "Let''s talk about your cure," said Sir Emeric.


    "Oh, must it be all business?" Dr. Yves chuckled. "No ''are you married?'' No ''what do you do for fun?'' Straight to the cure..."


    Fulk grunted in displeasure


    "We''re plague doctors," Sir Emeric responded, his hands folded on the table. "It''s our job to stop the plague. If your medicine can do that then that is our primary concern."


    Shlomo chimed in, "We can talk about your personal life later, my friend."


    Dr. Yves shrugged. "Very well. What do you want to know about the cure?"


    "Does it work?" Sir Emeric asked.


    Again, Dr. Yves shrugged. "Depends on what you mean by ''work.'' Yes, it removes plague from those who take it, but in a few of my patients I have seen some rather nasty side-effects. Some leading to insanity, some leading to death. I assume you agree with me that it does no good to cure a disease while also killing with poison. So, I''m trying to figure out if it really is something about my cure that caused those side-effects or if those cases were unrelated. For that, I need more patients."


    "More people to experiment on, you mean?" Sir Emeric said, a hint of disdain in his voice.


    Dr. Yves raised an offended eyebrow. "How do we cure sickness if not through experimentation? Yes, I know that there are magical means... saints and witches and whatnot, but you people failed to protect your saint and burn witches at the stake. When magic fails, science must--"


    Dr. Yves had not yet gotten the words fully out of his mouth before Sir Emeric stood from the table and seized him by the collar of his shirt. Useless stood as well, his hand on his sword''s pommel. Fulk rose and took a step back, his mace in hand.


    "Watch yourself!" Sir Emeric snarled through the steel of his mask.


    Dr. Yves raised his hands in surrender. "I... I suppose that was insensitive of me. You must still be in mourning for dear St. Giradin..."


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    "We did not fail," Sir Emeric snapped, his voice wavering. "We were betrayed."


    "Of course..." Dr. Yves said, clearly fighting to suppress a smirk. "And that''s entirely different from failure."


    Sir Emeric''s eyes rose from the alchemist and glanced around the tavern. All the patrons there had drawn daggers, clubs, and a variety of other commoner weapons and had their eyes fixed on the scene. Sir Emeric wasn''t sure why these people had such a vested interest in this alchemist (whether it was just because of his medicines or because of something more sinister), but he knew that if he persisted in this path he would have a bigger fight on his hands than he was prepared to deal with. Even Caleb''s immense strength couldn''t keep them alive in such a brawl.


    Sir Emeric released Dr. Yves and sat back down. "My apologies for that outburst. You''re right. This is still a sore subject for me."


    Fulk reluctantly resumed his seat, as did Useless, and soon the patrons of the tavern put away their weapons as well.


    "As I was saying," said Dr. Yves, adjusting his collar, "Where magic fails, science must prevail, and science requires experimentation. I need more patients. I don''t suppose you could help with that?"


    Sir Emeric shook his head. "No. We''re not providing you with people to experiment on."


    "Why not?" Caleb asked.


    Sir Emeric''s beak snapped toward the tallest Crow at the table. "What do you mean?"


    "If it will help people, why not give him sick people to try his medicine on?" Caleb asked.


    "Because it''s cruel," Sir Emeric said.


    "Crueler than just letting them die of plague?" asked Shlomo.


    "I..."


    Shlomo raised his hands. "Don''t misunderstand me, I hate the idea of experimenting on people, but the good alchemist here is asking for patients. People who are infected with the plague and doomed to die."


    "But to just give them over to this madman..."


    Shlomo chuckled and shook his head. "And what makes you think he''s a madman? Sure, he seems eccentric, and he''s quite insensitive, but other than his hair I see no hint that he''s out of his mind."


    "What''s wrong with my hair?" Dr. Yves asked, pulling on the end of his tangled beard.


    Shlomo ignored the question. "When we take in patients who have the plague we could ask them if they''d rather try experimental medicine or merely drink poison. I think I already know what most will choose."


    Sir Cristoff raised his hand. "I have a question before we decide on anything." All went silent, which indicated to him that he could ask his question. "Dr. Yves," he asked, "How did you come upon this cure?"


    Dr. Yves nodded. "A fair question. I admit, the work was not entirely my own. A woman named Lillith sold me the notes of a previous physician. Once I decoded the notes and translated them from Arabic, I realized that the man who''d written them was so very close to the cure... it only needed a little more work from another brilliant mind."


    Fulk stood from the table suddenly and shook his head. "Sir Emeric, we need to talk. Outside. Now!"

 The Murderer Voices Suspicions

    "What has you so upset?" Sir Emeric asked at the moment he and Fulk exited the front doors of the tavern.


    "Not here," said Fulk, glancing up and down the city streets and the people standing outside their doors. "Back alley. Come on."


    Fulk led Sir Emeric around the corner of the tavern and gestured for him to lean in close. Through his muffling mask, he whispered to the Templar, "I know who murdered Mujahid."


    "Why didn''t you share this information before?" Sir Emeric hissed.


    "Because I didn''t know until now!" Fulk grunted. "Just now... just a moment ago, that crazy-eyed alchemist said he bought medical research notes from a woman named Lilith, and he said they were written in coded Arabic. Well, after Mujahid was killed, I searched his office and found that his notes had been stolen. Mujahid always wrote in code, he said it was something alchemists typically did so people couldn''t easily steal their work."


    Sir Emeric nodded. "So, you think Dr. Yves has Mujahid''s notes? I think you might be jumping to conclusions, my friend. From what I understand of alchemy, most of the great alchemists of the past five-hundred years or so have been Arabs. Those could have been anyone''s notes."


    "There''s more," said Fulk. "It was the name he gave us, Lilith. Lilith was the one who sold the notes to him. When we first encountered Levanna, the witch, she tried to tell me her name was Lilith. I saw through it and got her real name out of her, but that was her alias. She killed Mujahid, stole his notes, and sold them to Dr. Yves."


    "To what end?" Sir Emeric asked.


    "How the Hell should I know?" Fulk snapped.


    Sir Emeric leaned back against the nearest wall. "I see. You said you knew Levanna''s real name wasn''t Lilith. How did you know that?"


    "Because every other witch says her name is ''Lilith.'' It''s a demonic name, so they think claiming it gives them... power or something."


    "So, if every other witch uses that alias, and most alchemical books are written by Arabs, how do you know that this particular Lilith was Levanna and these particular notes in Arabic belonged to Mujahid?"


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    "Because it''s too much of a coincidence otherwise!" Fulk grunted. "You must be able to see it... tell me you''re not that stupid!"


    "I see it," said Sir Emeric. "It''s enough to be suspicious, but not near enough to arrest Dr. Yves over."


    "The Hell it''s not!" Fulk bellowed, clearly forgetting that he was trying to be discreet a moment ago. He glanced to the right and left, recalling his situation again, then spoke in a lower tone, "Take him in for questioning! A couple days on the rack ought to loosen his tongue!"


    Sir Emeric pushed off from the wall and stood straight with his shoulders back, his hands clenched into fists. "We do not do things like Melcher Fitz did, Fulk. We will not torture the innocent until they confess to crimes they didn''t commit."


    "I''m not saying we get him to confess to the murder." Fulk shook his head. "I''m saying we get him to tell us more about this ''Lilith.'' For all we know, that damn witch lives in his cellar, and that''s why he wouldn''t allow us in his house. That''s it! We go back into the tavern and demand he let us into his house."


    Sir Emeric folded his arms. "And if he refuses?"


    "We arrest him for interfering with our investigation!"


    Sir Emeric smacked Fulk in the side of the head. Fulk retaliated before he could think it through by reaching for Sir Emeric''s throat. But before Fulk''s fingers could reach, Sir Emeric seized him by the wrist and twisted his arm, forcing the murderer to his knees. "Think this through better than that, Fulk. You must! Our situation is a lot more precarious than you realize. For whatever reason, the people of this city love Dr. Yves. I don''t know if that''s because of his medicine or if he''s just a favored citizen, but they love him, and they far outnumber us. Even if we brought in more plague doctors, we don''t have anywhere near the man-power to arrest Dr. Yves and leave with our lives. Giradin told me about what happened to Father Hewlett. Well, this will be many times worse."


    "Gah! Let go of my arm, Templar!"


    "Tell me you understand first, murderer!" Sir Emeric gave Fulk another twist. "Swear to me you won''t do anything stupid and endanger the rest of us."


    "Damn you!"


    "Swear it!"


    "I swear!" Fulk conceded.


    Sir Emeric released his arm, allowing him to rise to his feet again. Fulk rubbed his shoulder and elbow, looking away from Sir Emeric.


    The Templar continued, "We proceed cautiously and carefully. You may be right about what happened to Mujahid, but we need more to go on, and we can''t just arrest anyone we want."


    "We''ve lost too many people," Fulk muttered. "And their killers keep getting away with it..."


    "That''s not entirely true," said Sir Emeric. "Giradin''s murderer lies buried behind the monastery."


    "Dead from a beheading," Fulk said. "Nowhere near as horrible a fate that bastard deserved. Melcher Fitz and Levanna are the only people in all the world who deserve a worse fate than I do."

 The Narrator Revealed

    When Sir Emeric released Dr. Yves on his way, even the plague doctor mask couldn''t hide Fulk''s frustration. Not that any of us could blame him, even before we knew he suspected Dr. Yves knew Mujahid''s murderer. Dr. Yves had the closest thing to a cure for the Black Plague any of us had seen since Giradin passed.


    And given the reports of how quickly the plague was spreading in the cities and countryside alike, we knew that if we didn''t find and distribute a cure soon all of Christendom was doomed to fall.


    "Vanity of vanities," Shlomo muttered, "Everything is vanity. The grave waits for us all. All a man can do is eat, drink, and be merry." The words became like a prayer he said over and over whenever he thought no one was listening. I was.


    That night we stayed in the inn above the Chivalrous Bear. Three rooms; one for Sir Emeric and Shlomo, one for Fulk and I, and one for Caleb by himself (which made sense, given his size and smell).


    Yes, dear reader, I''ve decided that I shall hide my true identity from your sight no longer. I am Sir Cristoff, the young Templar who traveled to Elekvaz with Sir Emeric all those years ago. I witnessed many of the events of St. Giradin''s sanctification with my own eyes, and pieced together the rest of this story from interviews, reports, and stories I heard from different persons involved. This has, likely, created some inconsistencies in the story, and even led to some events being highly-exaggerated. In any event, this story represents the truth as best I have been able to record it.


    This was my charge from the Pope; to write down the events surrounding the Black Plague, and all that happened. I can only hope that whoever finds my manuscript will take some benefit from it. Learn from the mistakes we made, but honor our triumphs and our virtues, few as they may have been.


    But, back to the story.


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    As I said, I shared a room with Fulk, and few things are as unsettling as sharing sleeping quarters with a known murderer who''s wrestled with demons in the past. Especially since I couldn''t tell for sure if the demons were gone, or merely biding their time.


    His loud, obnoxious snoring was strangely comforting, because it reminded me that he''d fallen asleep before I did.


    Having trouble falling asleep, I attempted to time my breathing with his snores. Slow and steady, drawn-out breaths.


    And a sharp intake of air when there was a knock at the door.


    I sat up on the bedroll and glanced out the window. It must have been midnight by then, who could possibly be knocking on my door at such an hour?


    Fulk''s snoring had stopped, and in the moonlight I saw his fingers wrap around the handle of his mace, which lay on the ground.


    A second knock.


    Must be Sir Emeric, I thought.


    I stood from the bed, taking my sword in hand as I approached the door. I glanced back to Fulk''s scarred face and he rose from his bedroll, standing beside it with his weapon ready.


    "Who is it?" I asked through the door.


    "You don''t know me," came a high-pitched voice from the other side. "But I want to help you."


    I paused a moment, licking my lips. Everything about this was strange, but part of me knew I had to learn about the stranger on the other side of the door.


    I lifted the latch and creaked the door open. At first, it appeared that no one was there, until I heard a sigh from knee-level.


    A man no taller than two feet stood there, with hair standing up in a wild mess, pale skin, wide eyes, and a bulbous nose.


    "Hi, my name is Garbage," he said, not a hint of irony or shame in his high-pitched voice.


    "Um... Sir Cristoff," I said, giving him a confused look. "Are you... a dwarf?"


    "No no, nothing like that," said Garbage. "I''m a homunculus. But, listen, can I come in?"


    A homunculus?


    In my years of fighting monsters beside other Templars, I''d learned of such creatures, though I''d never encountered one. Homunculi were creatures created by alchemists who were supposed to be like small human beings. Supposedly, though, the secret to making them had been lost long ago.


    "Umm... let me in?" Garbage said.


    I shook my head. "I''m sorry, why would I do that?"


    "Because you want to know about Dr. Yves and what he''s working on," said the homunculus. "I can tell you what you need to know."

 The Door to Hell

    When I was a child I was terrified of the cellar.


    Stories about Hell and the realms of the dead always spoke of it as underground. I suspected that if I found the darkest corner of the cellar, I''d find the gate to Hell itself, and demons would lay claim to my soul.


    Though my grasp of theology grew far better when I became a Templar, my fear of dark places underground never left me.


    So, as Garbage led Fulk and I through the back alleys of the city and to the entrance to the catacombs the lantern rattled in my gauntlet''s fingers.


    Every shadow was a ghostly face, grinning up at me as I entered the realm of the dead.


    Neither Fulk nor I were in our plague doctor uniforms at the time. Fulk said there all eyes in town would be on the Crows, so it would be better to wear more casual clothes. Furthermore, he insisted that chainmail made too much noise. So, my gloves were the only armor I wore as I entered the depths.


    "Garbage?" I whispered. "Are you sure this is the way?"


    The little homunculus turned his head and tilted it to one side in confusion. "It''s my way home."


    "Right," I nodded, my right hand tightening my grip on its sword.


    Walls of gray stone surrounded us, and roots like talons reached out at us through the cracks. Shadows danced along the walls. Mine. Garbage''s. And Fulk''s.


    One more?


    No, just a trick of the light. Or, more likely, my mind.


    Further into the tunnels the walls were lined with coffins. A little further, and not all the coffins were intact, with snowy-white skulls staring through the gaps. Their faces had been forced into an eternal grin, with what little teeth they had left.


    "Still further," said Garbage, holding up his lantern.


    "Hold on a moment!" Fulk snapped, just before he reached out and snatched Garbage by the back of his tunic. He pinned the little homunculus against the wall, little legs kicking in the air.


    "Ok... yeah..." Fulk peered around at his surroundings for a moment. "Much better place for an interrogation. I''ll bet no one can hear you scream from down here."


    "Fulk, what are you doing?" I demanded, stepping toward him.


    Fulk jabbed a finger at me. "Stay back! This little shit could be leading us into a trap. Don''t you want to ask him a few questions first?"


    "Not like that!" I said, seizing his shoulder and pulling him away from the wall. Garbage slipped from his arms and huddled in the nearest nook he could find, trembling.


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    Fulk poked me in the chest with two fingers. "Listen to me, altar boy, I''m sick of these monsters coming out of nowhere and you people just trusting them. They''re not human!"


    "Maybe sometimes that''s all the more reason to trust them," I said, shoving his arm away.


    "You''re being a stupid ass!"


    "Maybe, but I think Giradin would tell you the same."


    Fulk''s eyebrows relaxed and his gritted teeth released. "I... Fine! Whatever."


    I knelt down next to Garbage and said, "Sorry about that. My friend''s a little jumpy."


    Garbage''s litle body cautiously unrolled and he looked up at me. "I... I''m sorry I made him so mad... He has questions? I should have explained things better."


    I raised a hand to calm him. "It''s all going to be fine. Fulk just wants to know a few things. I won''t let him hurt you, all right?"


    Still shivering, Garbage stood up. "All right."


    Fulk folded his arms and grunted. "You''re a homunculus made by Dr. Yves, aye?"


    "Umm... aye..." he said.


    "So, why show us the secret way into his lab?" said Fulk. "One would think you wouldn''t want to give away your master''s secrets."


    "My master named me ''Garbage''," the homunculus said flatly.


    After a short silence, Fulk''s face softened again. "I... see..."


    "Hardly the worst thing he''s done," said the homunculus, "And I only realized it was a bad thing a few days ago, but I''m sure you can guess what sort of master he is."


    Fulk gave a knowing nod. "Fair enough."


    After a few more questions, which mostly seemed to be Fulk posturing, we continued our descent into the underworld with Garbage.


    Beyond the coffins lay a hill of human skeletons; man, woman, and babe. More than I could count.


    "These are here from the last time the plague hit the area," said Garbage. "Before Dr. Yves brought everyone here."


    "Brought everyone here?" I intoned. "Everyone in town came here with Dr. Yves? Why? From where?"


    "He was their priest long ago," said Garbage. "Before bad men came and tried to kill them all. They left Toulouse and came here, to a big city with only a few neighbors left. They took all the houses for themselves. My master took this one."


    Garbage struggled to climb over large roots, fallen bricks, and piles of bones. His tiny legs and arms were no help as he clambered over all these things. Every now and then, I considered reaching out to help him, but I thought he might find that insulting.


    "Is your master a Cathar?" I asked.


    Garbage shrugged. "Don''t know what that is. But what is he? Well... you hafta see."


    We finally came to a wooden door at the end of a long hallway. Garbage looked up at us and said, "Try not to get sick on the floor when you see what''s in here. I have to mop it if you do."


    I chuckled at his words, until he pushed the door open, revealing a room lit by many candles.


    Squeaks and squeals were like nails on a black slate as Fulk and I entered the candle-lit room.


    Alining the walls all around us were cages which held moving lumps of fur and skin inside of them. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the creatures were enormous rats.


    No.


    Not rats.


    Their front legs were more like arms, their paws more like human hands. They were missing patches of fur, places where pale, human-like skin showed through. Their teeth were filled with fangs, and their eyes shone red with hate. Two, three, sometimes four tails swished around behind them.


    "Oh my God..." Fulk muttered.


    The cages stood one atop the other, like great pillars of horror. The Vermin inside their cages lashed out at us, their claws squeezing through the iron bars, their fangs furiously chewing at them. Black drool dripped from their mouths, and their fur stood on end like quills.


    Most grotesque of all was what lay in a cage far larger than all the others.


    A female.


    Bloated with pregnancy, swollen to three times her normal size.


    With six, bare, too-human breasts from which baby Vermin suckled, clambering over each other to reach their mother''s teats.


    "What the fuck..." Fulk muttered. "What the fuck... fuck... FUCK!" He drew his mace, tears of rage staining his face.


    "Dr. Yves is BREEDING FUCKING VERMIN!"

 Bad Bad Monsters

    Had I not been there to restrain him, Fulk would have immediately set to work crushing all the young Vermin in the cages with his mace. Fulk''s terrible temper was well-known, but nothing I''d ever seen before compared to the hate in his eyes.


    Life is full of tragedy, but we learn to deal with it. It''s evil that we have such a problem with, and it was hard to comprehend how anyone could be so evil as to actually breed the Vermin and work toward the goal of killing millions upon millions of innocent people. Dr. Yves'' work had been to try to hasten the End of the World.


    I held back Fulk as he shrieked and flailed, spittle flying from his mouth, and his teeth about to crack under his gnashing and grinding. "Crush them all!" was the only intelligible thing I heard him say, surrounded by violent shrieks of gibberish.


    "If you go in swinging some of them might get loose!" I argued.


    "Then burn them!" Fulk shrieked. "Give me that candle!"


    "They''re evidence!" I shouted, yanking him away from the Vermin cages again. "Even the people of Codul can''t stand by someone who breeds Vermin."


    Fulk stopped flailing. "What are you suggesting?"


    "We take one," I said. "Maybe one of the babies, but we leave the rest here so Dr. Yves doesn''t know he''s been discovered. We bring the baby Vermin to Sir Emeric, and he can present it to the Church, maybe even the Pope himself. We''ll return with an army and lay waste to all of Codul if we have to, and put a final stop to all this madness."


    Garbage shrugged, and said in his high-pitched, nasally voice, "This is hardly the worst thing Dr. Yves has made."


    "How do you mean?" I asked. "What could be worse than this?"


    "The other chimeras," Garbage said. "All sorts of bad bad monsters he''s been making for years." The little homunculus shook his head, a grave expression on his face. "Ever hear of the tarasque?"


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    The question sent a chill down my spine. "The one that laid waste to almost a quarter of France?"


    According to legend, the tarasque was a terrible, fire-breathing beast, many stories tall. It had the head of a lion, a body like an ox, six bear-like legs, the shell of a tortoise, and a scaly tail that ended in a scorpion sting. A century ago, the beast ran wild in the countryside of France. Then, one day, it myseriously stopped. No one saw it again.


    "Yes, that one," said Garbage, pointing a stubby finger at me. "Dr. Yves found its wormfood body and took some pieces. He''s making something new. Something bad bad bad. A monster with many mouths. All full of fangs. All spit fire and poison."


    Fulk grunted. "If he''s really making something like that, can we afford to wait to kill him after the Church''s army comes? By then the monster may be complete, and no army can stand up to something like that!"


    "We can''t arrest him now," I said. "Too many people in Codul are loyal to him."


    "Cristoff, I didn''t say arrest him," Fulk said darkly. He turned to Garbage, "Small one, is there a staircase from here leading up to Dr. Yves'' home?"


    "There is," said Garbage.


    Fulk''s brow furrowed. "Good. Then, would you be willing to show me the way, knowing full well that I will murder your master when I find him?"


    "Yes indeed," said Garbage. "I''d love to see you bash his brilliant brains in."


    Fulk nodded and sighed. "Leave it to a murderer to do what''s necessary..."


    "Fulk..." I said, offering a sympathetic look. "Are you sure you want to go down this path? You''ve come so far since then, and St. Giradin even absolved you of your sins..."


    "I have to think I was put here for a reason," said Fulk, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Judas was put on Earth to betray Christ, Babylon was put on Earth to punish Israel for idolatry... sometimes even the wicked are part of God''s plan."


    "If that''s your decision," I said, "then God be with you. I''ll take a baby Vermin to Sir Emeric, you can slay Dr. Yves. I... I suspect we may never see each other again."


    Fulk snorted. "Not that we''ve ever been the closest of friends, but... I only realized how much I''d miss Giradin after fucking Fitz killed him. It took me a long time to realize that all the thoughts of vengeance I had against Fitz were really just me hating myself... you know... for not being kinder to Giradin when he was here."


    I offered my hand to shake his. "Then, this is goodbye, my friend."


    Fulk grasped my hand tightly and looked me in the eye when he said, "Goodbye."


    And that was indeed the last time I saw Fulk. Garbage told me about what happened to him after that, but I don''t know where Fulk is now. I do so hope he still walks among the living, for as terrible as things are now, it''s a fair sight better than the judgment which likely awaits him after his death.

 Penance or Damnation

    Fulk and I parted ways after our discovery in the lab underneath Dr. Yves'' home, but in later interviews Garbage told me what happened next to the murderer.


    Fulk ascended a spiral staircase in a narrow spire, following closely behind Garbage.


    "How much further is it?"


    "Not too far," Garbage grumbled. "Be patient!"


    "You don''t have to do this, Fulk."


    The voice startled both Garbage and Fulk. Both turned to see the source, Fulk with his mace ready and Garbage with a pair of shears pointed like a knife.


    Behind them, a few steps down the staircase, stood a young man whose form was translucent, with a faint golden glow around him. The young man wore pure white robes with a royal blue sash belt, and a thin ring of light hovered above his head.


    "Giradin?" Fulk said, lowering his weapon.


    The saint nodded to him. "It''s good to see you again, Fulk."


    "What..." Fulk reached out to touch Giradin''s shoulder, his hand passing right through his form. A strange tingling sensation traveled up Fulk''s arm and into his chest, causing him to yank away his arm. "Are you a ghost?"


    "A spirit," Giradin said, "But not what you would call a ''ghost.'' I do not wander this world aimlessly, as ghosts do. I''ve come here specifically to speak to you."


    "I..." Fulk glanced back at Garbage. The homunculus was dumbstruck, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. "I''m honored," Fulk said. "What do you need to talk about?"


    Giradin gave a sympathetic look. "The course of action you''re about to take, Fulk. When I met you, you were a murderer making your penance. During our time together, it was so obvious you wanted to be more than a murderer, to be a good man, but you thought it impossible. You continued to do whatever suited you at the time, trying to use evil to do a little good."


    "Here to lecture me?" Fulk grunted and folded his arms. "Some things never change."


    "Fulk, when have I ever lectured you?" Giradin asked.


    Fulk''s expression softened and he hung his head in shame. "I... well, you were so damn perfect after you became a saint that I always thought..."


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    "That I thought less of you?" Giradin asked.


    Fulk sighed. "Aye..."


    Giradin shook his head. "Never. You were always my brother. That''s why I pardoned you."


    "The day you pardoned me I''d come back to kill you," Fulk said. "Turning in Levanna was supposed to be my way back into your good graces long enough to club you over the head."


    "I know," said Giradin.


    Fulk''s eyebrow raised skeptically, "If you knew, why did you pardon me anyway?"


    Giradin shrugged. "If you were there to kill me, why didn''t you go through with it?"


    There was a brief moment of silence between the two of them, after which Fulk finally said, "For the same reason you pardoned me. You were my brother."


    Giradin pointed his finger at Fulk. "And that was your first step toward true redemption. The witch had you convinced that you had to kill me to be free of the spirit I''d put in you, but out of compassion for a brother you chose not to. Now you are your own man again, free of the spirit of Dashiel, and any other spirits you don''t want."


    Fulk nodded and gave a half-smile. "I haven''t felt strange for a while. I just... slowly recovered, I guess."


    "But now you are faced with another test, Fulk," said Giradin. "It is one thing to keep from murdering your brother. It is another thing entirely to show mercy to your enemy."


    Fulk''s brow furrowed and his fists clenched. "That bastard up therecreatedVermin! All the people who died because of him..."


    "And God will judge him," said Giradin. "His crimes will not go unpunished. Have faith in that, if nothing else."


    Fulk paced, shoving the still un-moving, dumbstruck Garbage out of his way. Garbage stumbled and caught himself on the stairs, but said nothing. The homunculus'' eyes never left Giradin. Fulk snarled as he spoke. "What if Dr. Yves makes more monsters and they kill more innocent people? Ever think of that?"


    "That would be terrible," said Giradin. "But you''re not going up there to kill him to protect those people, otherwise you''d be just as satisfied with taking him captive. No, you''re planning to murder him to satisfy your own rage."


    "And why shouldn''t I be fucking angry?" Fulk snapped. "After Isselhan, Elekvaz, the Monastery of St. Ida... all those people dead because of what that piece of shit has done!"


    "If you murder him in anger you will never be free of your sin," Giradin answered. "This is your time of testing, Fulk. God wants to wash away all your sins, bring you into the Kingdom of Heaven. But you have to repent. Don''t murder Dr. Yves. Take the final step toward becoming a new man, and leave that blasphemous alchemist for God to deal with."


    Fulk grunted and smacked the nearest wall with his mace. The bricks cracked and dust flew up. "Damn you! Why? Why do you have to take this from me? I''m about to avenge all those we lost... all those innocent people, and you want me to show mercy to a man who obviously has none? Fuck you! Where do you get the right? From God? Well, where the Hell doesHEget the right? I want this! I want my God damn revenge!"


    Giradin shook his head. "God will damn your revenge if you choose to take it, Fulk."


    "Then fuck him too!" Fulk said, striking the wall once again.


    "Fulk..." Giradin said, his voice and expression both pleading. "Please... don''t murder Dr. Yves. Such a thing can only end in ruin for you. The Bowls of Wrath are about to be poured out upon Christendom. Please please... don''t be one of the people subject to God''s wrath when that day comes."


    Fulk looked up at Giradin, the two of them exchanging a long silence. After what seemed like days, Fulk finally said, "I can''t promise anything. I''m sorry."

 Baptism of Fire

    According to Garbage, Fulk arrived inside Dr. Yves'' house shortly after his run-in with St. Giradin''s spirit. The moment the spirit faded, Garbage fell out of his trance and led Fulk the rest of the way, hoping Fulk would ignore the saint''s advice and murder Dr. Yves in his sleep.


    When the candle in Fulk''s hand illuminated the first room they entered, he saw a strange bed in the center of the room with leather straps sticking out of it. The straps were loose, but judging by the curve they had been used recently to restrain something. Or someone.


    "What is this place?" Fulk whispered.


    "The doctor brought a dead man back to life here," said Garbage.


    "There''s far too much of that going on..." Fulk muttered. He continued on, pressing into the next room. He stepped so lightly that his boots made no sound in contact with the stone floor. Fulk had been a fugitive and a murderer so long he had learned all the tricks of the trade.


    "Dr. Yves sleeps in there," Garbage whispered, pointing to a door on the other side of the foyer. "Useless is probably standing guard in his room."


    "Useless? Is that a homunculus?"


    "No, that''s the man he brought back from the dead."


    Fulk set down his candle on the mantle over the fireplace and gripped his mace in both hands. "Then I''ll have to send him back to Hell."


    Fulk approached the door to Dr. Yves'' bedroom. Outside, he paused a moment, as if contemplating how he should begin his attack. Did a man who had been brought back from the dead need to sleep? If so, perhaps Fulk could open the door slowly and crack the skulls of both Useless and Dr. Yves before they woke. If not, then opening the door slowly would just give Useless all the time he needed to prepare his counter-attack.


    Whatever conclusions or guesses he came to, Fulk decided that kicking the door open and barging in was the best plan.


    With a loud crack the wood broke away. In the darkness the silhouette of a man in black rushed at Fulk. The candlelight gleamed off a steel blade.


    Fulk swung his mace, knocking the blade away before it could reach his neck, and threw his shoulder into Useless'' chest. Ribs cracked from the impact, causing Useless to stumble back.


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    Useless shoved Fulk away with surprising force, sending him sprawling back onto the fireplace mantle with a hard thud.


    The candle fell from the mantle and rolled on the floor, casting light and shadows over the walls in a violent whirlwind.


    Crack!


    Crack!


    Fulk and Useless fought, their weapons clashing together violently.


    Fulk threw in a punch or a kick whenever he saw an opening. Though bones cracked and broke with every hit, Useless seemed almost unaffected. As if the man who''d come back from death could no longer feel pain.


    Snap!


    With one final collision of Fulk''s mace upon Useless'' blade, the weapon broke in two.


    But Fulk''s victory was short-lived as Useless seized him by the throat and began to squeeze. The mace fell from Fulk''s hands, and all his fingers struggled to pry Useless'' grip from his throat.


    "That''s it!" Dr. Yves shouted from the bedroom. "Crush his windpipe!"


    Fulk''s face started to turn purple, and his head trembled. He reached out with one hand and grasped Useless'' genitals. He closed his fist around them so hard the testicles crushed in his palm, then gave a violent twist.


    Useless made no sound. Not so much as a wince from the man who''d come back from the dead.


    Fulk dropped to his knees, no longer able to hold himself up.


    Garbage had hidden himself in a closet with the door barely open, watching the fight unfold. Though he saw Fulk dying, he did nothing to help him.


    "Damn you!" Fulk wheezed, his teeth gritted. He punched Useless in the face over and over, each strike growing weaker and weaker. Soon, they were little better than the slaps of a child throwing a tantrum.


    Dr. Yves cackled. "Choke the life out of him! I want to see the light leave his eyes forever!"


    Fulk''s left hand found the handle of his mace, but he feared he''d be too weak to lift it.


    So he picked up the candle instead.


    Fulk shoved the candle under the hem of Useless'' tunic. The flame caught the dead man ablaze, which caused him to release Fulk''s throat.


    While Useless flailed about, trying to put out the fire as it engulfed him, Fulk took in long gasps of sweet air and forced himself to his feet.


    Dr. Yves was shrieking something indistinct at Useless. The resurrected man stumbled about, the flames from his body reaching out to lick the curtains, catching them ablaze too.


    Heat and black smoke filled the room.


    Useless'' body collapsed on the ground, the flesh melting off his bones and hair burning away.


    Through the smoke, Fulk staggered forth and seized Dr. Yves by the throat in one hand.


    "Choke the life out of him?" Fulk croaked between gasps. "Don''t mind if I do!"


    Fulk raised his other hand and grasped Dr. Yves'' throat in both hands.


    Dr. Yves reached into the sleeve of his sleeping gown and produced a dagger, jabbing Fulk in the gut.


    One hand left Dr. Yves'' throat and gripped his wrist, slowly forcing him to pull the dagger out of Fulk''s bowels. With a violent twist, he forced the mad alchemist to drop the dagger.


    Then, Fulk shoved Dr. Yves away, sending him toppling over his bed.


    Fulk was staggering. Dizzy from blood loss, air loss, and heat exhaustion. Keeping his head under the smoke, he stumbled toward the front door of Dr. Yves house and threw his shoulder into it, forcing it open for the sake of his freedom.


    And he fled, knowing not whether Dr. Yves had lived or died.


    A trail of blood followed him for a time, but it stopped just two blocks from Dr. Yves'' home.

 Infanticide

    A violent knock on the inn room door shattered Shlomo''s sleep.


    "Oy vey..." he groaned, rubbing his eyes. He glanced across the dark room at Sir Emeric, who rose from his bedroll, picked up his sword, and approached the door.


    Sir Emeric ground his palm against his right eye. "Who could possibly be trying to speak to us at such an hour?"


    Shlomo stood and picked up his sword, still in its scabbard. "Let me answer the door, Sir. If it''s an enemy they''re probably coming for you, not me."


    Sir Emeric didn''t ask Shlomo to explain his logic, it was far too late (or, perhaps, too early) to worry about such trivial things as reason.


    Shlomo opened the door, and I barged in, holding in his arms something wrapped in a bundle of cloth. "We have to get out of this city immediately!" he said in a hushed tone. "Get to the nearest bishop, cardinal, priest, whomever we can find and tell them about this." I held up the bundle of cloth and unrolled it, revealing the pink, hair-less creature wrapped up inside. Its head looked like that of a rat, and it had a long tail, but where paws should have been were human hands and feet. The little creature squirmed in my arms and whined.


    Shlomo covered his mouth and stumbled away from it. "Is that...?"


    "A Vermin baby. Yes," said I, vigorously nodding my head. "Dr. Yves has been breeding them under his house."


    "Saints alive..." Sir Emeric muttered, his eyes wide with horror. "How did you find out about this?"


    "No time to explain that now," said I. "We have to get out of here! Fulk''s on his way to murder Dr. Yves, and when he does the whole city will be in an uproar."


    Simultaneously, Shlomo said, "Damn it, Fulk..." while Sir Emeric said, "Good man." The Jew and the Templar exchange glances, but promptly decided that it wasn''t worth discussing for the time being.


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    Sir Emeric grasped Shlomo''s shoulder, "You wake Caleb. I''ll go get our horses. Cristoff, kill that thing, but keep its body. We''ll need it to prove what Dr. Yves is doing."


    "Yes, sir," I said.


    Sir Emeric and Shlomo both left to tend to their own duties. I looked down at the baby Vermin and considered how best to end its short, miserable life. I couldn''t crush it, for that risked making it unrecognizable. Also, I didn''t relish the thought of carrying a mushed, messy corpse with me for however long it would take to prove that Dr. Yves was breeding Vermin. I considered stabbing it, but its body was so tiny compared to my sword, and when I''d stabbed its brothers and sisters (along with its mother) it had sliced the little babes in two.


    Guess I''ll have to smother it.


    The thought was not a pleasant one, but it seemed the best course of action. I wrapped the Vermin infant tightly in the cloth in which I''d been carrying it and tied the end of the cloth in a knot to cut off the air flow.


    The little monster started to struggle within the cloth, its little legs kicking and fingers pulling at the threads. Its cries pierced my ear-drums as well as my soul. At first, it sounded merely like an animal dying, but in time I could swear it was the wailing of a human babe begging for mercy the only way it knew how. My heart crumbled in my chest, and its remains churned a boiling sea within my guts. For a moment, I considered dashing the cloth-wrapped creature against the nearest wall, just to make it stop, but I remembered that I was suffocating it so we could keep the body intact.


    Its cries grew louder, and I feared that someone might hear and think me a babe murderer. Then again, wasn''t I? The creature was at least partially human, after all. Did it have an immortal soul, like a human did? Was I murdering an innocent person?


    Its flailing within the cloth grew more frantic, its weak little limbs fighting against the death slowly setting in.


    For the love of God, Sir Cristoff! Have a heart!


    Giradin?


    The voice was in my head, I was sure of it, but it was clearly Giradin''s. I couldn''t tell if it was imagined or if it was real, but maybe it didn''t matter. Deep in my heart, I knew that what I was doing was wrong.


    And yet I did it anyway.


    I''d love to say that the guilt prevented me from killing the poor, helpless baby. I''d love to say I did the right thing. But I didn''t. I let the child suffocate in the cloth, held it until its thrashing and its cries ceased.


    This is my confession of my sin, and it is hardly the worst sin on my conscience. Truth be told, dear reader, I am most certainly damned for the horrible things I''ve done. Fulk has more hope of reaching Heaven than I ever will. I will be thrown into the pits of fire to burn for all eternity for the terrible things I''ve done. My only comfort is that someone somewhere might learn from my mistakes and thus avoid my fate.

 The Crow Trap

    Sir Emeric, Shlomo, Caleb, and I met outside the inn, having had only just a few moments to throw our uniforms back on. Sir Emeric met us by the front door, pulling up all of our horses with him.


    None of us said a word, hoping not to wake any of the people of Codul. With God''s blessing, we''d slip out without anyone noticing.


    But God, it seems, was not with us that night. Maybe it was because of my sins, or maybe He had some other reason. The sound of glass shattering echoed through the city, and black smoke rose over an orange glow like an early dawn. Dr. Yves'' home was on fire.


    "Fulk..." I muttered, both in concern and fury for the murderer.


    The front doors of every home nearby opened and out walked the citizens, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.


    "Fire!"


    "There''s fire! Get to the well!"


    Sir Emeric turned to the three of us. "Ride! Now!"


    We all mounted our horses and spurred them as hard as we could. The mares bolted off, their hooves beating the cobblestone streets to make our escape.


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    Though, we''d not ridden far before we heard a voice cry out, "The Crows tried to kill me! Don''t let them get away!"


    "Stop the Crows!"


    "Kill them!"


    The city gates lay far ahead of us, at the bottom of the hill. I might have thought our horses had wings for how fast they flew.


    Yet, it didn''t take long at all for us to hear the sound of hoofbeats behind us.


    "STOP THEM!"


    The twang of bowstrings, and arrows whistled past us.


    "Don''t look back!" Sir Emeric cried.


    And we obeyed. A hail of arrows zipped past us. Behind me, Caleb yelped in pain. Part of me wanted to see if he''d been hit, and possibly go back to save him, but I couldn''t. I kept my eyes ahead, at the city gates.


    The cold night air whipped around me, howling in my ears like a woman in torment.


    Zip.


    My horse cried out, and before I knew what was happening she fell, throwing me from the saddle. I sailed through the air for but a moment before crashing into the stone streets. My body skidded and rolled down the hill, pain shooting through my every joint. Loud cracks and pops accompanied every hit, but I had no breath with which to cry out in agony.


    Three horses rode past me. Then six more. Then ten more.


    My head throbbed and spun, my world was a blur of darkness and multi-colored lights all around. My ears rang with a high-pitched sound, like a whistle screeching as a child held it against my neck.


    Muffled voices approached, and I could barely make out their words. "Here''s one!"


    "Take him. The rest will come back for him."


    Strong hands hoisted me to my feet. My head fell limp to one side, and agony shot through my arms and legs as they carried me away.


    "We caught a Crow!"


    Their voices were becoming clearer now, and the ringing in my ears was fading away. My gut threatened to expel every meal I''d ever eaten.


    "Take him to the jail! If the others don''t come for him, he''ll hang!"

 Metamorphosis

    When you live in constant darkness, time is imperceptible. I cannot tell you if I was in that cell for hours, days, or months. Most of the time, the slow, distant dripping of water and chattering of rats were my only indications that there was still a world outside my cell.


    Now and then, I would lift my arms, feeling the chains attached at my wrists as the manacles dug into my flesh, wearing it raw. Nearby, something would move, its little paws scurrying on the stone floor. Another cell would slide open in the distance, then slam closed again with a cry like a wailing widow.


    The air was full of dust and mildew. An old taste in my mouth or smell in my nostrils. Not the stench of rotting flesh, but of bones long since cleaned white. My nose could detect the ghosts in this place, souls who died in despair. Some intentionally abandoned to rot, others forgotten and left to starve.


    A terrible, high-pitched screech. Louder than any noise I''d heard in a lifetime. Far away, light poured in. Blinding. Two dark shadows of men entered the prison, one carrying a piercing yellow lantern in his hands. Rats and mice scurried by, terrified of the evil that had intruded into their world.


    Though I was already certain of my impending fate, I prayed to God that it would not be so. Maybe He would hear even this sinner''s prayers.


    As the lantern drew nearer and nearer, assaulting my eyes with its burning light, I realized that God had long since passed the point where he would forgive the sins of a man so wicked as I was. If there was to be any escape, it would have to be on my own strength, of which starvation had robbed me.


    The two black silhouettes of men stood before my cell. One raised his lantern higher to shine the flickering light upon me. "Here he is. The Crow we captured. What did you want with him?"


    "Dr. Yves has a special fate in mind for this blackheart."


    "Crow!" the one with the lantern bellowed at me. "We''re going to open your cell. If you try to escape, we''ll make you suffer so terribly the denizens of Hell will pity you."


    The threat was unnecessary by then. Hunger and despair had robbed me of the ability to fight anyone or make any attempt to escape.


    The cell door screamed as the lantern man slid it open. Rough hands seized me by the arms and forced me to my feet. The chains pulled on my wrists, and I felt warm blood ooze from those wounds, turning cold the instant it hit the air. The lantern rested on the ground, and a black silhouette bent down to unlock my chains.


    Once I was loosed from the cell floor, the taller silhouette dragged me along, twisting my arms behind my back to ensure that what little strength I had left would be no threat to him.


    I suppose I must have walked, but I do not recall doing so. I remember it more as being carried just above the ground by some invisible force, my feet never touching the stone floor. From behind me, the lantern cast strange shadows on the walls. Two of the men who''d come for me, and one with wild, gnarled hair. Me? I couldn''t be sure, but it made the most logical sense. The shadows of the bricks in the walls resembled twisted, smiling faces, mocking me for the terror which awaited me.


    Then came the staircase. I ascended toward a doorway with blinding light on the other side, but I knew this was not Heaven, because I was headed toward it.


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    My head throbbed as the light overwhelmed my senses.


    Then the cold air of night hit me. The full moon above may as well have been the sun for how bright it was.


    "Murderer!" a young woman cried.


    "Bastard!" shouted an old man.


    Splat!


    Something first hard, then soft, then moist struck the side of my face. A rotted vegetable of some sort? Yes, the smell suggested it was a cabbage gone bad. Despite the stench, my stomach grumbled with hunger, and I wondered if any parts of the food that had struck my face was still edible.


    "Monster!" screamed a young man, followed by another moist vegetable, this one square in my chest.


    Dogs barked nearby, snarling and growling at me. I could feel the heat of their breath, and vaguely make out their dark shapes around me.


    More and more voices rose up in outrage.


    "Kill him!"


    "Hang him!"


    "Burn him!"


    And a multitude of other phrases lost to the chaos of their jeers.


    "Dr. Yves has something special in mind for this one!" shouted the man who dragged me along. "Stay back!"


    The cries and jeers and hate continued, spit covering my weakened body as my captors dragged me along.


    Darkness ahead of me.


    A door closed behind me, and the violent shouts of the crowd faded. Muffled behind as I entered through the doors.


    "Thank you for bringing him," came Dr. Yves'' voice. "Throw him in that room there."


    "Yes, doctor."


    I still couldn''t see as they pushed me through a doorway and slammed the door shut behind me.


    My eyes adjusted to the candlelight in the room, and for the first time in a long while I got a good look at my surroundings. Six candles rested upon the floor, each equidistant from each other. Their light reflected off mirrors on every wall.


    I got a good look at my own face. Gaunt. Disheveled. Covered in hair, and paler than bone. And because the walls were covered in mirrors, I saw myself reflected a thousand times over. No. Infinitely.


    The door to this new room was made of iron, and there was no handle on my side. The flap on the bottom of the door lifted, and through the gap slipped a plate with bread and bits of meat. The smell was the most beautiful thing I''d experienced in longer than I could remember, and my stomach begged and pleaded with me to partake of the food.


    I knew it was a trap of some sort. Poison. Drugs. Something of the like that the mad alchemist had prepared for me. But I no longer cared. I fell upon the plate, picked up the bread and meat and shoved it into my mouth, greedily devouring the morsels offered to me. Once they were gone, I licked the plate, catching a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirrors. Savage. Beastly. I had lost all the dignity of a man.


    Once I''d finished off the plate, I slid it under the door, hoping that they might give me more. I knew not what meat they were offering me. It could have been lamb, rat, or even human for all I knew. But I wanted more.


    And they gave more. Another plate slid under the door with more meat and bread. I ate again, ravenously shoving everything into my mouth. Barely chewing as I tried to get it into my stomach as quickly as it could reach.


    And after the fifth plate, a pain overtook my gut, then spread out through the rest of my body. My head throbbed, and I heard a high-pitched ringing sound in my ears. I raised my hands to the sides of my head, only to discover that my fingernails had become claws.


    Some invisible force pulled upon the area around my nose and jaw. It pulled forward, and agony shot through me as my bones started to elongate.


    I cried out, and all my teeth started falling out, one after another. I spat teeth and blood from my mouth.


    Before my eyes, in the mirrors, I saw fangs grow where my teeth used to be, the longest of them in the middle and on top. Hair sprouted from my flesh all over, until my body was almost completely covered in thick, brown fur.


    My back arched forward, forcing me to hunch over. There was no part of me left that did not tremble, for every nerve was ablaze with agony.


    All the while, I watched as my once human form changed into something grotesque. Monstrous. I clawed at the mirror. "Make it stop!" I screamed, but even my voice did not sound like my own anymore. "Please, God, make it stop!"


    I beat the nearest mirror with my fist, sending cracks through the glass. Shards broke off, cutting my hands. My blood spilled upon the ground below me, putting out one of the candles.


    "No! Oh, God, please! No!" I bashed my head against the mirror, shattering it further.


    But when I turned, the other three mirrors revealed to me the beast I''d become.


    Vermin.

 Revelation 21:8

    And when my change was complete, they brought me out of that lonely room of shattered mirrors to display my grotesque form to the people of Codul.


    I was brought out with chains around my wrists and ankles, and they laughed at me and mocked.


    "This is the Crow!" the one pulling my leash called out. "The one we captured, who tried to kill Dr. Yves. Once dedicated to fighting Vermin, he has now become one himself. His own brethren will no longer recognize him, but will surely kill him on sight. And you can bet they will be back."


    People in the crowd scooped up mud in their hands and flung it at me.


    "Disgusting creature!"


    "Want some cheese?"


    Another clump of muck struck my face, stuck in my long whiskers.


    "Oh! I think I hear a cat coming!"


    Their mocking laughter stung my soul, and I hung my head in shame.


    Yet, all their mockery came to a stop at the sound of bells from the gates.


    "His friends are coming back! Arm yourselves!"


    The people of Codul all retreated into their homes to take up weapons. I stared down toward the front gates of the city, pondering if I ought to feel hope or terror. I knew that if my fellow Crows saw me they would surely kill me, but for a moment I wondered if I should simply let them do so to put an end to the torment of being a Vermin.


    But then I recalled what the next life would surely be for me. There would be no end to torment. All I could do was delay the eternal suffering just a little longer. Just long enough to pass along my knowledge to others.


    As I thought on this, the townsman who''d been leading me around yanked on my chains, pulling me along toward a hitching post by the side of the street. He chuckled as he attached my chains to the post and secured them tightly.


    "You''re going to stay right here, Vermin," he said, grinning wickedly at me. "And when they see you, oh, they''ll fill you with so many arrows the Devil himself would never survive!"


    "Please," I said, my voice raspy and weak. "Mercy... I told Fulk not to kill Dr. Yves..."


    "No mercy," he said, shaking his head. "You''re an agent of the Church, and the Church showed our people no mercy when they took up arms against us." He punched me in the stomach, causing me to double over, then smacked me across the face with the back of his hand. "I hope there''s a special place in Hell for you, Crow." He spat on my cheek, then walked away, leaving me alone in the street.


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    The siege began, and in an instant I knew Sir Emeric had brought back a great force, capable of laying waste to this entire city. Stones flew through the air, smashing into the city walls and pelting those on the battlements.


    I peered down on the thousands of men in armor beyond the city walls. Many loosed volleys of arrows up at the city guard, while others reloaded the catapults or helped carry the battering ram to the gates.


    The Codul city guard loosed volleys of arrows down on their assailants, but the assault launched up at them soon proved more than they could handle, and they fell from the battlements.


    The people of Codul emerged from their homes, men and women alike clad in quilted doublets. Swords, axes, bows, and crossbows were in their hands. From the back alleys strode forth an army of tiny men, each only as big as Garbage. They pushed crates and barrels into the streets, as if creating make-shift barricades in the moment, before going back to take up spears.


    The gates down below crumbled, and in marched the army Sir Emeric had brought with him. From my spot up high, I could see them. Men in chain-mail, with tabards of all manner of colors and patterns. A mixed army. Men loyal to the Church, to local lords, and to the Crows.


    At the front rode Sir Emeric, clad in his white plague doctor uniform, with his long-sword raised high and his shield on his arm.


    The people of Codul took up positions on rooftops and behind the barriers the homunculi had built up for them, preparing themselves for the onslaught.


    But perhaps they''d not thought through the battle as well as they thought, for the plague doctors brought in with them a wagon full of barrels. Though I could not make out the symbol inscribed on the barrels, I knew that these were surely full of dragon''s bile. They were going to burn down Codul.


    Oxen covered in plates of steel armor dragged the wagon through the city streets, no doubt spreading the fuel through the sinful city.


    The distant catapults aimed higher, launching wooden barrels into the city itself. The barrels smashed against rooftops and broke in every avenue and boulevard.


    It was possible that the Crows would never kill me because they''d never get the chance. It seemed likely now that they would simply burn down Codul, then come in again to wipe out all who were left. Yes, even as I thought it, I could see the armored men taking up barrels of the dragon''s bile and spreading the stuff over the houses nearest the wall. Citizens of Codul rushed out to fight them and defend their city, but the armored men proved far too dangerous for them to stand against.


    Sir Emeric and other knights on horseback rode through the city streets, slaughtering all who got in their way. Clearing a path for the dragon''s bile to spread.


    "Light arrows!" I heard one of the Codul men cry out.


    To my horror, the archers nearest to me lit the arrows nocked to their bows.


    "Draw!"


    They drew back their bowstrings and aimed high.


    "Loose!"


    Flaming arrows sailed through the air in an arc, raining down on the Christian army. Those below raised their shields to defend themselves, realizing all too late that they were not, in fact, the targets of the attack.


    The streets and rooftops all around them lit aflame, surrounding them in thick, black smoke and fire. The screams of agony and terror filled the air. Barrels of dragon''s bile exploded, sending showers of flames everywhere.


    And the people of Codul resumed their terrible, mocking laughter.

 St. Giradin Returns

    It was hard to ponder just what would have possessed the Crows and the army they brought with them to do something as tremendously foolish as to start spreading dragon''s bile in the city before defeating the denizens therein. But, I suppose, they had no reason to suspect that the people of Codul were willing to burn down their own city to destroy the Crows.


    For a moment, the chaos and the screaming which rose up with the smoke by the city gates led me to the despair of believing the people of Codul had, quite simply, won the battle.


    Until a fierce wind blew in, bringing with it dark clouds and sudden, torrential rain. The raindrops tore through the smoke in streaks, and the Hellish flames shrunk away from Heaven''s tears.


    Then, a white light cut through the smoke, and a figure appeared in the shape of a man, hovering over the Crows'' army. I could not make out who the figure was, but I saw in his hand a long-sword wreathed in golden lightning.


    From the chaos charged forth Sir Emeric, along with hundreds of other men on horseback, their shields raised in front of their faces.


    "Nock arrows!" bellowed a voice from nearby.


    The cavalry was charging uphill, ensuring that the horses would be exhausted by the time they reached the top, where the militia of Codul waited for them.


    "Draw!"


    Bows creaked as their strings drew back, preparing another volley of arrows.


    I peered down at the charging knights, knowing that their shields would not block every arrow flying their way. Worse, while their horses were armored, they were not armored enough to protect them from such an onslaught. Countless knights would surely die the moment the arrows sailed through the air.


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    In the distance, the figure of white light vanished.


    Then, I went blind as it appeared just a few strides before me. I heard the sound of wood snapping. Lightning crackled and thunder rumbled. The people of Codul cried out in pain and terror. A blade sliced through flesh and sundered bone.


    Then, the light vanished, and when my sight returned, I saw the Codul militia lying in ruins at the crest of the hill.


    Just as Sir Emeric and the other knights reached the top and cut through the survivors like butter. Red painted the houses and streets of Codul.


    Yet, at the crest of the hill, the horses reared back, throwing their riders from their saddles before trotting off to the alleyways to rest.


    The knights rose to their feet, groaning and holding their aching backs.


    "A Vermin!" one shouted, pointing his sword at me.


    "Slay it!"


    "No!" I cried, pulling on my chains. "Please! Don''t! I''m human!" My voice was so gargled that I could not be sure if they understood a word.


    The knights encircled me, staring at me with utter hatred in their eyes. Such disgust.


    "Please!" I begged. "I want to live!"


    "Don''t hurt that one!" Sir Emeric shouted, limping toward me. "That''s Sir Cristoff."


    "Sir Cristoff?" one of the knights asked, incredulous.


    "A Templar, like me," said Sir Emeric.


    "How... how can you tell?"


    Sir Emeric pointed off into the distance with his sword, at the figure clothed in white light. "St. Giradin told me. Sir Cristoff must not die this day. He has more work to do yet. Break his chains and give him a sword. He is to fight by our side."


    One of the knights approached me with an axe in hand. With four powerful swings, he sundered the chains which bound me to the post. Another drew near and placed in my hands the sword of one of the fallen Codulites. "I don''t envy you your fate," he muttered.


    I opened my mouth to thank him, both for the weapon and for his sympathy, but before the words left my mouth, the doors of all Codul homes near us burst open, and out poured swarms upon swarms of Vermin, followed by waves and oceans of black rats.

 The End of the World

    When I saw the legions of Vermin swarm the streets of Codul, I was naive enough to think that the armies of Hell had come to Earth. But, no, the armies of Hell had not yet arrived.


    I stood with Sir Emeric and the knights he''d brought with him. All of us in a circle, our swords pointed outward at the advancing hordes of Vermin. Every wave of the rat-folk slain built the piles of gore and fur higher, forcing the next wave of Vermin to climb over their fallen commrades.


    At first, I thought that this might be a deterrent. A terrifying wall made up of their fallen commrades. Having since become such a beast myself, I now know that Vermin feel spite and hate far more often and deeply than fear. The piles of dead bodies before them became all the more reason for them to attack us, if "reason" can be attributed to such monsters.


    My blade stuck between the ribs of a fallen Vermin, and I found myself without the strength to draw it in time to defend myself against the next beast. Just as one more rat-folk leapt from the top of the corpse hill, I picked up the rusted blade from one of his fallen commrades and ran him through.


    Snap!


    The rusted weapon broke in two as the Vermin fell limp on top of me. The weight of its dead body pinned me to the cobblestone street. "Help!" I cried, flailing about under the corpse. But the violence all around me was far too loud for anyone to hear my pleas. And even those who could hear me likely couldn''t distinguish me from the rest of the Vermin at this point.


    Before my eyes, the knights'' boots danced and stomped about, changing their footing as they defended themselves against the onslaught. Blood poured forth like waterfalls. Rivers cascading down to run between the cobblestones. The stench of copper was overwhelming, and vomit rose up into my mouth. I turned my head and spewed it out, spitting to ensure all the foul-tasting bits were gone from my tongue and between my teeth.


    Another dead Vermin piled on top of the one who had me pinned.


    Then another fell over my kicking legs.


    A Vermin fell at my side, its dead eyes staring at me with such hate, I felt like I was staring at a crossbow pointed at my head.


    Yet another Vermin fell, this one directly on my face.


    I was buried alive under the hills of the dead. Plunged into the depths of Sheol. Just one more body in a mass grave.


    And that was the last part of the battle for which I was conscious. Everything that followed I gathered from a multitude of witnesses after it was over.


    . . .


    Sir Emeric was certain that there was no hope to win the battle. All around him and the knights who''d accompanied him, the walls of Vermin corpses grew higher and higher. This allowed the attacking Vermin to leap upon him and the others from greater and greater heights with each passing moment. As far as he could tell, he and his allies had yet to suffer a single wound from the Vermin. But, the way the bodies were piling up, it hardly mattered. Either they would be buried alive under the mountain of dead rodents, or even if they did escape they would surely do so having caught the plague.


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    The whistling of arrows gave him a brief moment of hope, until he heard the fires roar and smelled the smoke of burning fur and flesh.


    He turned and beheld fiery arrows raining down on the meat hills south of him and his commrades. Whether knowingly or not, the Crows had condemned he and those close to him to burn with the enemy. They were willing to sacrifice their allies to destroy the Vermin and stop the spread of plague.


    The spirit of Melcher Fitz was alive and well in the Crows'' hearts.


    "Break ranks!" Sir Emeric shouted. "Flee!"


    The circle in the middle of the corpse mound broke apart as the knights pushed back, shields first, in their desperate attempts to climb over the hills around them before the fire consumed them.


    Sir Emeric''s boots slipped in the slick blood, bile, and other humors as he attempted to crest the hill. He dug his sword deep into the body of one of the Vermin, pulling himself up by the strength of the blade.


    Another Vermin leapt at him. Sir Emeric caught the enemy on his shield, digging the heels of his boots into the faces of dead rat-folk, then, with all the strength he could muster, shoved the Vermin away.


    Sir Emeric slipped and tumbled, and finally slid down the other side of the corpse hill on his belly, all manner of fluids spraying his face before he reached the ground on the other side.


    St. Giradin... where are you? he thought. Surely, the Saint knew that they were in danger, and surely doomed to die if he did not intervene on their behalf.


    Once on the other side, Sir Emeric staggered to his feet, lashing out at every Vermin he saw with his blade, shrieking with such rage that his voice died in his throat.


    A barrel of dragon''s bile smashed into the hills of corpses, and Sir Emeric''s men screamed as the flames spread, consuming them along with the bodies of their enemies.


    And still, thousands more Vermin charged at that spot on the hill.


    There was nothing for it. Sir Emeric turned and fled from the carnage of the hill, leaving behind the battle and those who had fought by his side. He rushed back down the streets, back toward the main gates.


    And that was when he learned why St. Giradin had not stepped in to rescue him and his commrades.


    The force the Crows had brought with them stood surrounded on all sides. Vermin beyond counting rushed down the cobblestone hills toward them. The archers did all they could to prevent the Vermin from getting close enough to start forming corpse walls, loosing arrow after arrow at the endless hordes. Behind them, Headless Men attacked the gates, smashing their great, stone clubs against the shields of the phalanx formed there.


    St. Giradin flew over the battle, swooping down to brush aside swaths of enemies at once with his blade of light. Yet, even with his miraculous intervention, the battle seemed hopeless.


    Worst of all, in the distance, far beyond the gates of the city of Codul, Sir Emeric saw the trees sway, snap, and fall as something enormous moved toward the city. He could barely make out the shape with all the smoke and haze in the air, but it appeared like a mountain moving toward them. A curved one, with seven heads roaring from seven long necks. Streaks of flame filled the air as it approached, lighting the forest ablaze as the beast barreled toward the city.


    And that was when Sir Emeric knew for sure that this was no ordinary battle.


    This was the end of the world.

 The Beast

    The beast tore through the city''s wall like it was made of cotton.


    Seven heads, each like that of a lion, peered about, exhaling fire wherever they wished.


    Those soldiers below who had not yet fled from the horrible terror Dr. Yves constructed loosed arrows at the beast, but each arrow snapped and broke on the creature''s shell.


    It was as Garbage had told us. Dr. Yves had taken the body of the legendary tarrasque and created from its remains a beast far more terrible than anything we''d seen before. Even the Vermin and Headless Men fled from the monster.


    And upon its back, in a wooden carriage without wheels or horses, right at the apex of its tortoise-like shell, rode Levanna. Clouds of black smoke swirled around her, and faces appeared in the smoke, smiling and shrieking with voices which struck down to the souls of all who heard them.


    Both armies fell trampled under the monster''s bear-like paws, each enormous enough to crush a cottage under just one of its toes. Houses, spires, and buildings crumbled all around the beast as it laid waste to Codul one city block at a time.


    Shlomo stood in the midst of the chaos, staring up at the monster as it rampaged through Codul.


    Shlomo took up a pike from one of his fallen comrades and rushed toward the seven-headed beast. All the while, men and Vermin alike were as a stream flowing against him, trying to sweep him away in their rushing tides of panic. The brave Jew swung out with his pike, brushing them aside to clear a path for himself.


    Over and over, he repeated the words, "V''im ruchi g''viati, Adonai li v''lo ira."


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    Which meant, "For as long as I have breath, You are with me; I will not fear."


    Once he''d gotten past the swarms of fleeing people, he found himself walking over the fields of crushed bodies, their rotting meat causing his feet to stumble and slip. At first, he managed to catch himself on the pole of the pike and force himself back up. But when a Vermin snout crushed under his heel, he lost his balance and fell.


    Yet, before he could hit the ground, a hand reached out and caught him, yanking him back up to his feet again. He stared up at the burned, ugly face before him.


    "Fulk!" said the Jew.


    Fulk had joined the fray, and like Shlomo he carried with him a pole-arm, though his was a lance. "Come on," said Fulk. "Let''s slay this monster together."


    Disease and disaster had made these two men from entirely different walks of life into brothers. A murderer running from God and a faithful Jew were the only living men who approached the beast that day, careful to avoid its six paws as they stamped down upon the city.


    Soon, they stood under the belly of the monster, hoping it would be softer than its seemingly indestructible shell. The beast''s massive body blocked out the lights of the burning city, leaving them in darkness.


    Fulk produced a vial of poison from within his coat pocket and coated the tip of his spear with it.


    "You think that''s going to be anywhere near enough?" Shlomo asked.


    "Probably not," said Fulk, the sounds of violence now distant and muffled. "But it''s all I have."


    Shlomo nodded and did the same to the tip of his pike. "Maybe it will be. A spider''s bite is tiny, but even that little bit of venom is enough to kill a man.


    "Then may these two, insignificant spiders be enough to slay the monster," said Fulk.


    Knowing that they were in far greater danger near the monster''s legs, they rushed toward the nearest one, letting out a fearsome war cry as they went.


    With all their might, they shoved the tips of their weapons under the beast''s fur and into its flesh. The sharp edges pierced as deep as they could go, and then the shafts broke in their hands.


    Having done all they could, all that was left to them now was to try to stay alive, and pray that the venom was enough to end the beast.

 The Witch and the Saint

    Shlomo and Fulk were not the only brave souls who sought to bring down the beast with seven heads.


    This I have learned through dreams and visions, pieced together with what witnesses saw and even the words of Levanna herself. My prayer is that I get these details right, despite how hard they were to discover.


    St. Giradin, clothed in sunlight, had been flying about the battlefield, dropping to the ground to slay swarms of Vermin, Headless Men, strigoi, and homunculi at a time. But there were far too many even for a saint of God to handle.


    The people of Codul were Cathars, apostate Jews, pagans, gypsies, and other groups who had been persecuted, in some cases to near extinction, by the Church. All had abandoned the faiths of their fathers to embrace a new god: vengeance. In order to achieve their vengeance, they were willing to burn, just as their fathers had, so long as Christendom burned with them. They hated not just the Christians, but all the world now. Every rotten thing that God had created. And so, they turned to Dr. Yves, and other alchemists like him, who would bring forth new creatures, ones who would destroy the broken world left behind by a God the people of Codul thought cruel.


    And just as Dr. Yves was their prophet, their father, their own twisted version of the Pope; Levanna was their queen, their mother, their dark inversion of the Virgin Mary.


    From the air, St. Giradin spotted her riding the back of the beast, clothed in scarlet and shrouded by clouds of dark smoke. Spirits below. Demons conjured from Hell itself to do her wicked bidding.


    St. Giradin readied his sword, the blade crackling with lightning, and plummeted toward Levanna.


    The Witch turned her eyes upward as the Saint descended, a wicked grin on her lips. She''d long anticipated that this day would come, a day when she''d lead the demons to victory over a saint, but she found it amusing that the saint would be Giradin, the Crow she''d gotten so flustered by calling him "handsome." The naive boy had become a glorious Heavenly Spirit. And now, she would tear him down from the heights and cast his soul into Purgatory, to wander forever, lost and alone, just as she had been for so long.


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    St. Giradin descended toward her like a shooting star, streaks of multi-colored light spreading across the sky, and Levanna was in awe of his beauty.


    The time for her vengeance against God had come. She held no illusions that she would ever tear the Lord Himself off of the White Throne, but if she could wrest the soul of even one of his saints from his control it would be enough. When one cannot kill who one hates, one settles for hurting them as much as they can.


    Levanna pointed her accusing finger at Giradin, her eyes narrowing. "Take him!" she commanded the demons.


    The black smoke swirling around her shrieked with a sound like an infant experiencing pain for the first time, then flew off to meet St. Giradin in the air.


    At the moment the darkness and light collided, a ring of red flames spread out across the sky, dissipating as it traveled. The mass of black smoke jerked and thrashed erratically, a white, glowing mass in the middle. Bolts of lightning arched out, with deafening thunder shaking all of Codul.


    The glowing mass smashed into the few standing walls around Codul, taking the smoke with it as it shattered the bricks, breaking mortar like it was soft clay.


    The Witch cackled as the once seemingly unstoppable Saint struggled to fight back against the demonic onslaught. Fire, lightning, and gusts of wind burst forth from the mass, leaving total destruction in its wake.


    Finally, the mass of smoke forced the light onto the ground.


    But Levanna''s cackling laughter was cut off as the beast under her feet started to stumble. She lost her balance and slid down its shell, grasping at it with her nails in a vain attempt to stay up. "What''s wrong?" she cried, peering over at the beast''s seven heads. The flames had ceased to stream forth. The lion-like heads had fallen limp.


    And the beast collapsed.


    Levanna slipped down the shell, her nails broken and torn on the way down, her scarlet dress rent asunder by the abrasion. She tumbled down, and her head struck the cobblestones.


    No sooner was the witch unconscious, then the light within the smoke glowed brighter, tearing through the foul spirits. Fire turned the smoke to ashes, and St. Giradin''s spirit stood victorious over his Hellish assailants.


    In a flash, he severed all seven heads of the beast, ensuring that it would not return to life.


    Down below, Sir Emeric swooped in and snatched up Levanna''s body.


    It was then that the clouds above parted, and a thousand-thousand lights, just like St. Giradin, descended on the city of Codul. With their flaming swords, they laid the city to ruin, reducing the wicked there to dust, along with every house and building in that evil place.


    And that is why, to this day, if you follow the road signs to Codul, all you will find is a vast, empty field. Even the hill upon which the city was built was reduced to ashes.

 The Closing of the Age

    Oh, how much I would like to say that after the forces of evil were defeated at Codul that Christendom returned to peace and normality. But, it seems, God was no more happy with us than he was with the people of that wicked city.


    The survivors of that battle had caught the plague, each and every one. Though many submitted themselves for inspection, many others simply fled, wishing to live as long as they could. And even those who had submitted themselves for inspection did not all show symptoms of the plague soon enough to be caught.


    Codul, though destroyed, had accomplished its goal. The plague spread as fast as flames upon dragon''s bile, until all of Christendom, and any nations too close to Christendom, were utterly devastated.


    This, dear reader, is why the world as you know is the way it is. Why the population of the world you know has dropped from many millions to only a few thousand. Why you can travel for weeks, even months, without seeing another human face. It''s why so many cities lay empty, save for a few survivors scavenging in the dirt for whatever they can find.


    What''s left of the Church has kept me in their care and asked me to write this story so that you might learn something from it. What you are supposed to learn, I cannot know for sure. But if you know our mistakes, our follies, and the history surrounding these events, maybe you can figure out for yourself what it all means.


    Nearly all of the men in Christendom now lie dead, leaving a population of twenty women to every one man. Johanna, the first woman Pope, says that this is a sign of hope, for it is women who will bring a new future. A world far different from any we had known before.


    I''m sure you want to know what happened to those brave souls who fought in the battle of Codul.


    Sir Emeric was one of those who submitted himself for inspection after the battle. Black buboes were discovered on his body. Not wanting to be responsible for the deaths of any more innocents, he took poison and his body was burned. It had been his last hope that his death would be the example to others. Sadly, not everyone shared his courage.


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    As the plague spread rapidly, the sick of Christendom panicked, hoping to blame their situation on a scapegoat. As has happened far too many times in our history, they assigned guilt to the Jews. Shlomo was lynched by a violent mob. His body was left to hang until ravens had come to pick it clean.


    Levanna was not given a trial, her crimes were far too obvious for such a farce. After I finished interviewing her to fill in whatever parts of the story I could gather from her, she was burned at the stake before a large, jeering crowd. I wasn''t there for her burning, but it''s said she didn''t stop laughing until the very end, when her spirit left her body. I can only hope that in Hell her terrible laughter has finally come to an end.


    I know not what happened to Fulk. There were rumors that after Codul he escaped into the woods, and some have claimed to have seen him hiding out in the wilderness, occasionally stopping by abbeys among the pilgrims. I pray he has finally found peace and redemption after all that happened. Maybe, just maybe, St. Giradin managed to save his soul.


    As far as I know, Dr. Yves is still at large too. I wonder sometimes, is he proud of the destruction he''s caused? All the mass graves that lay all over Christendom? All the wailing mothers who had to bury their babies, all the weeping children left without parents? I try to tell myself I don''t care what that madman thinks, but it''s hard not to be curious.


    As for me? Well, I, Sir Cristoff, am still a Vermin, though I have so-far kept my mind intact. I can''t rightly say why it is that I kept my sanity while all other Vermin became mindless beasts bent on destroying mankind. Maybe their madness was the result of drugs Dr. Yves had given them, or maybe none of the rest of them were ever human.


    In any case, while my body is that of a monster, my mind is still that of a man. A wicked, sinful, damned man. How so many virtuous people died while I was left alive I will never know.


    Read over this story carefully, dear reader. Perhaps, in this retelling of the events, you can see where it was that we went wrong, what we did to enrage God Almighty so much that he would take the lives of nine out of ten of every household in Christendom. Take hope that you may do better than we did back then, but also remember that the Angel of Death waits at your door, ready to slay you. He needs only God''s permission to snuff out the flame of life forever.

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