CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (64 page)

A voice cried out in the darkness.

“D’Molay, D’Molay?” She crawled toward the sound. Aavi reached out into the darkness and a hand clasped hers. She gasped and tried to pull away.

“Aavi . . . i-it’s me.” D’Molay’s voice sounded weak and distant.

“What, what happened? Are you all right?” She reached out to touch him. His side was wet and warm. It was blood.

“I got the Mayan . . . but he’s stabbed me. Not sure how bad, b-but it hurts.” He remained still as she gently stroked his hair and face.
 
She felt his beard and it reminded her of that first day they met, when he carried her down the street.

They sat without moving for a few minutes as he breathed shallowly, trying to recover.

When D’Molay decided it was time to sit up, the effort caused him great pain. He groaned as Aavi helped prop him against a tree. Had it not been for her cleanliness spell, her arms and hands would have been drenched in his blood.
 

“You should have just left me! Now more have died and you have been hurt!” Aavi suddenly felt almost angry at D’Molay, even though his actions had saved her life.

“I did what I had to.” D’Molay forced himself to think through the pain. “Help me get back to their campsite. We can take their horses, then get help for my wound.”
 
He nodded his head in the direction of the glow from the fire, about a hundred yards away. Bracing himself against the tree and with Aavi’s assistance, he shuffled along half bent over, gripping his side as they returned to the camp. Once there, D’Molay slumped back down to rest against a small boulder. Aavi knelt beside him, wanting to help, but unsure what needed to be done next.
 
She had never been involved in healing or dealing with injuries.
 
Her wounds seemed to just go away after a while.

The funeral pyre had burned down a bit but the charred body in the middle of the fire was still quite evident. Aavi could smell the burning flesh, but was so worried about D’Molay that she paid it scant attention. “What do you need?
 
How can we make you better?”
 
She tried to hold back tears as they slowly removed his blood-stained shirt and tunic.
 

Aavi was still completely naked, and even in his current state D’Molay could not avoid noticing her perfect curves in the firelight. “D-do you still have our travel bag and your clothes?”
 
His voice was strained and raspy.
 
He seemed to be having trouble catching his breath.

“Yes.
 
I left them behind the tree you were tied to. I wanted you to find them after I got the men to follow me,” she said with a small amount of pride. Aavi had never thought strategically before. Despite the fact that her plan had not involved lying, killing or even hurting anyone, except herself, it had worked, though perhaps not quite the way she had originally planned.

“Go get them,” he gasped out.
 
D’Molay leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Aavi scampered off to the other side of the campsite. She returned carrying her clothes in one hand and the travel bag in the other. She got on her knees beside him again and put the items down. “What do you need?
 
D’Molay?”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her again. He cracked a weak smile. “I need you to get dressed.”

 
        
She quickly struggled with her clothing and tried to remember what D’Molay had shown her about getting dressed. “Head goes in here,” she recited to herself as she lifted her tunic up and looked at the hole in the center. With weary encouragement from D’Molay, she managed to get mostly dressed. Though she was unable to make the buttons or laces work she at least had clothes on.

D’Molay knew he was losing a lot of blood. He rifled through their travel bag to see what sort of healing items he had brought. Anything he found of possible use, he put to the side.
 
He also dared a look at his wound. “I’ve been stabbed in the side, Aavi. We need to clean the wound and then apply some bandages around my chest tightly. Then I need to get to a healer, soon.”

“You’ll be all right though, yes?” she asked with great concern.

“I’ll be fine if we can get to a healer.” He took care to sound more certain than he was.
 
His wound was potentially fatal if they didn’t get to a skilled healer with magical abilities quickly. He could feel fluids sloshing around in his chest whenever he moved, and an intense pain in his rib cage when he breathed in. “Go around the camp and see what else the Mayans brought with them. Bring it all here.
 
They might have something that will help too,” he wheezed.

Aavi searched the encampment, looking for bags, clothing or any other items that the Mayans had left lying around. Not knowing what D’Molay needed, she gathered everything she could find and laid it within his reach. As she brought each thing, he slowly selected what might be helpful. He found potions, soap, a bucket, a pile of fabric to use as bandages and a small bottle of rum.
 

She brought the last small items she found, none of which were going to help at the moment. “What do you need me to do next?”

He pointed to the bucket. “Fill that half way with water from the water bags. I’ll rip some of these clothes into rags so you can clean my wound.” Aavi filled the bucket and brought it, then sat next to D’Molay as he passed her the rags. “Use this soap to wash the rags in the water, and then carefully wipe the blood and dirt away from my wound,” he breathlessly told her. He knew this was going to hurt, but it had to be done.

“All right.” She got a few rags wet and started to wash the blood off him. Since getting dirt on herself was not really an issue for Aavi, it was yet another new experience removing it from someone else. D’Molay had to tell her to be more forceful with the rag and then in pain, tell her not to be so rough. Through excruciating trial and error she finally found the proper pressure, and eventually got the area all around his wound cleaned. “You’re still bleeding,” she said with concern.

“That’s why we need the bandages.”

They tied together strips cut from the Mayans’ store of fabric and even D’Molay’s own cloak. When they had a very long bandage, D’Molay held one end firmly against his ribs and explained what Aavi needed to do. “Stand up and take the other end of the strip and walk around me until I tell you to stop.”

She had no idea how this was going to help him, but she complied. Holding the fabric bandage in her hand, she circled him as he cinched it tightly around his chest and under his arms.

“Good.
 
Now bring the rum and more rags.” When she did, D’Molay liberally wetted the rags with most of the rum before handing them back to her. “You have to press these rags against my wound. I may cry out, but don’t stop. They have to stay there, then we need to wrap the rest of the bandage around them tight.” He took a drink from the bottle and stiffened himself in anticipation as Aavi moved in with the alcohol-soaked compress. She pushed it onto his side and he immediately lurched in pain. “Ahhh! Damn!” She stopped at his cry of pain, but continued at his prompting. Tears of empathy formed in the corners of her eyes, but she did not let that stop her.
 
With a little more agonized instruction from D’Molay, she arranged the rags on the wound and circled him until the bandage was wound around his chest more than a dozen times. Shaking, he took the ends and tied them together so they would remain in place.

“What now?” Aavi’s soft voice was almost inaudible above a strange ringing in D’Molay’s ears.

“My extra tunic. I’m cold.” Aavi brought him the garment and helped him carefully put it on. He huddled miserably in it, the tight bandages providing no relief from the trouble he was having breathing. “I have to rest now. We have a fire and this is a good spot.”

“Can I lie here beside you? I don’t like the dark.”
 

Using Aavi’s cloak as a blanket, they stretched out together, warmed and protected from the night thanks to a burning man.

The nightmare returned. It always lurked in the corners of his mind, waiting for an opportunity.
 
There was no stopping it once it sank its fangs into D’Molay, for it was not truly a nightmare at all. It was the last memory of his life on Earth.

It always began the same way. He was back in Paris on a cold, windy March evening of 1314. D’Molay stood on a small island in the Seine River. The tiny dot of land had a few bushes and sparse grass, its only feature was a stone-walled platform about six feet high.
 
Two charred wooden stakes were sunk into the ground in the center of it, and the smell of burning oil and hot coal hung heavy in the air. D’Molay and his old comrade Geoffrey de Charney were about to be executed.

They could see Notre Dame Cathedral, the tallest building in Paris, in the distance. Scaffolding cocooned some upper towers, but from this distance it seemed fully completed. “It will perhaps be the last great thing we ever see, my friend,” D’Molay said, looking over to his old comrade. Geoffrey had stood by his side all these long, sad years as the Pope and the King of France fought over the fate of the Knights Templar. The guard standing next to them glared at D’Molay with hatred.

“Old heretic! You think we chose this spot for your view? We deal justice here so the King may watch you burn from his balcony. And when you’re done burning here, you will burn in hell for eternity.”
 
The guard spit at D’Molay, splattering mucus on his shirt and beard, just missing the dark, red cross that had been painted in the center so many years ago by his fellow Templar Knights.

D’Molay shifted his view. He could see the palace across the river and was able to pick out figures on the balcony. One of them would be King Philip, here to see the end of a man who had been a thorn in his side for almost ten years. The king and his courtiers, as ever, would be sheltered from the harsh realities of life and death as they watched the execution from so far away. All they would see of D’Molay would be a bright blaze.

In truth, D’Molay was a pathetic sight. He had been in prison for seven years, numerous confessions had been tortured out of him, and the poor food and care he been given would have broken a lesser man. His tunic, once the proud sign of an honored knight, now hung like a tattered rag and was caked with filth. Most of the hair on the top of his head had fallen out, and he had a long scraggly white beard to emphasize his elderly appearance all the more. D’Molay looked very old and worn out, like a door whose hinges creaked and strained each time it was opened. Despite all that, he still retained a spark of defiance and pride.
 

Ignoring the guard’s hatred, he gazed up at the night sky. The sun had disappeared below the horizon and the moon now cast its light upon the city of Paris. It was cloudy and the air was chill, but there was no rain. He had prayed for rain; prayed that the rain would come down in buckets. He knew they would kill him either way, but D’Molay had hoped that it would be a sign to the Pope, and perhaps King Philip, that God still favored the Knights Templar. Of even greater comfort, it would be a sign that God still favored him. The sky showed no hint of any rain.

“God has truly abandoned us,” Geoffrey muttered.

An official of the King’s court approached the condemned men. His long face, with small beady eyes and a very small chin, reminded D’Molay of a snake. He had greasy, thin hair that was meticulously combed and topped by a burgundy cap with the symbol of the King embroidered on the front. There was no doubt this man spent most of his time at the royal court. The burgundy tunic that ended just above his knees, his black tight leggings, and leather boots were more for fashion than for utility. He unrolled a parchment scroll and began to read aloud to the gathered guards and scattered officials who had come as witnesses to the execution.

“Jacques D’Molay, you have been found guilty of the charge of Heresy, and of the charge of being a traitor to the King of France. You have admitted that you denied Christ and trampled on the cross. Further, the Knights Templar, of which you are the leader, have committed numerous crimes against the King, by keeping secrets, stealing money from his nobles and refusing to pay taxes. His Royal Highness, Phillip, has decreed that you and your accomplice Geoffrey de Charney, shall be burned at the stake for your crimes against the King and your heresies against God.”