The Heretic: Templar Chronicles Book 1 (7 page)

Like most of the Order’s equipment, the interior of the aircraft was spartan. Gone were the leather seats and the recessed minibars, the inflight entertainment centers, and the four-star meals. Only the bare necessities had been spared, though the privacy curtain that separated the main compartment from the smaller, private compartment to the rear remained.

Riley was up front with the pilot. Duncan was seated in the middle compartment with Olsen, who had spent the time since boarding searching through a variety of databases on his laptop. He hadn’t yet said a word to his new teammate, so Duncan was surprised when Olsen suddenly sat back and asked, “So what’s your story?”

Duncan looked up from the magazine he was idly flipping through and across the aisle to where the other man was seated. “My story?”

Olsen was older than Duncan, though not by more than a few years. He carried himself with the assured confidence of a man who had seen and conquered all that life had thrown in his path. His rust-colored hair was cut short in military fashion, and his beard was trimmed so that it neatly framed his narrow face.

“Yeah, you know, where you’re from, why you joined this crazy outfit in the first place?” The other man acted casual, but Duncan knew there was more than idle interest in the question.

“Not much to tell,” Duncan replied. “I was born and raised in Georgia. Undergrad and grad degrees in religious studies, then spent some time in the missionary field before being asked to join the Order.”

“Missionary work, huh? Where?”

“Mostly in Southeast Asia. Thailand, Laos, even spent about six months in mainland China.”
And I hope I never set foot in that country again,
he thought grimly, the events that had led him to the Order still fresh in his mind even after all this time.

Nick must have picked up on his discomfort, for he didn’t pursue that point further. “How long have you been in?” he asked.

“Ten years. Three in the general forces and the last seven on the protection detail for the Preceptor. I’ve seen my share of things get ugly, but I’ll be the first to admit it pales in comparison to Echo Team’s exploits. From the unit’s record, you seem to see combat fairly often.”

Nick smiled, and it was not a friendly smile. “You bet your ass we do. More than any other unit. When the higher-ups can’t figure out how to solve something, they call us in. This new job might seem quiet now; but I guarantee it’s going to get sticky, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“Can I ask you something then?” Duncan inquired.

Nick opened his mouth but before he could reply his laptop beeped. Muttering under his breath, he began to tap the keyboard with sure, quick strokes. “Go ahead, I’m still listening,” he said to Duncan, without taking his eyes off the screen.

Duncan nodded toward the rear of the aircraft and asked, “How do you feel about working for him?”

Nick stopped what he was doing and eyed Duncan in silence. Just as Duncan began to suspect that he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have crossed, the other man finally answered. “What you really mean is what’s it like working for the Heretic, right?”

Duncan grimaced at his transparency, but nodded nonetheless. “Well, he does have a certain reputation.”

Nick snorted. “Let me give you a piece of advice. If you’re going to be a part of this squad, then you need to get something straight, and it’s best that you do it from the start,” he said, the casual air now gone from his voice. “In our unit, no one ever calls Cade the Heretic. It’s a bullshit name given to him by someone not even fit to be in the same room with him. You’ll understand that the first time you find yourself facing something that belongs inside someone else’s nightmare, and it’s Cade that saves your ass.”

Nick laughed suddenly at his own harshness and softened his tone. “I’m not trying to be hard on you. Even I have to admit that things are a little, um, different on the team. Cade doesn’t always follow the Rule precisely to the letter, and he has certain abilities that, frankly, scare the hell out of me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect him or that he doesn’t deserve my respect. He’s the best damn commanding officer I’ve ever served under, that’s a fact.”

“So the stories are true?” Duncan asked.

“That depends on which ones you are talking about,” Nick answered, with a sly smile.

*** ***

From his position at his work area in the rear cabin, Cade could hear the soft hum of conversation between Sergeant Olsen and their new team member, reminding him that he had yet to go over the man’s personnel file.

With a sigh he turned away from his research in the
Apostolicae Sedis
and opened his laptop. Powering it up, he called forth Duncan’s service records.

He skimmed over the early details - born and raised in Georgia, the son of a preacher, home schooled for most of his elementary years, attended a parochial high school and later a Jesuit university, where he majored in religious studies - it was all fairly ordinary. Instead, Cade focused on the present, noting the short span of time Duncan spent in seminary before an unexpected departure for the Orient and a long missionary tour, then the equally short courtship to bring him into the Order. His zeal and desire to succeed once he had been christened a Knight was evident, and his service record over the last ten years was exemplary. He’d been selected early on to serve on the protection detail and had remained there, rising to his present position as detail command three years ago.

A series of photographs were included as scanned images embedded into the report, and Cade took the time to study each of them in turn, hunting for evidence that his hunch had been right, that the flash of Power he’d seen centered on Duncan’s hands in the Preceptor’s office was an earthly indicator of his ability to heal with just a touch.

He stopped to look more closely at one of the older photographs. The image was creased and worn; whoever had scanned the photo did not bother to clean it up. It was clear enough, however, to show a young Sean Duncan standing unhappily in front of an older man dressed in a suit. Duncan looked to be around ten or eleven years old. The man, looking stern and serious, rested his hands on young Sean’s shoulders. The pair stood beneath the entrance to a revivalist tent, the sign marking the doorway partially obscured by the older man’s arm.

Special Engagement

Tonight and tonight only

Pastor Patrick Duncan

Faith Hea…

Now we’re getting somewhere,
thought Cade.

He printed a hard copy of the photo and settled back in his chair, staring at the photo as if it might suddenly reveal some long-lost secret that only Cade would understand.

Perhaps, in a way, it did.

*** ***

Duncan was startled out of a light sleep by a hand on his shoulder.

It was Nick. “Boss wants to see you,” he said, gesturing to the smaller cabin at the back of the plane, where Cade had been sequestered since the fight began.

Nick returned to his seat. Duncan unbuckled his seat belt, walked down the aisle, and drew aside the curtain hanging at the end of the forward cabin.

The lights were on low but provided enough illumination that Duncan could see the area served as a functional work space. The standard aircraft seats, like those in the forward cabin, had been taken out. In their places were two reclining chairs with a table between them and a large drafting-style worktable. The lights were on over the worktable, shining down on several stacks of papers, a few open reference books, and a long black case.

Williams was nowhere in sight.

Noting that the lavatory lights on the rear wall were illuminated, Duncan guessed that Cade would be back momentarily. His curiosity getting the better of him, he made his way over to the worktable.

The books were old, centuries so, if the fine calligraphic script and the carefully drawn illustrations in the margins were any indication. A glance at the text revealed it to be Latin, a confirmation of the authenticity and age of the volumes. Judging by the images and the few snatches of text he quickly translated, each of the books dealt in some fashion with angels and demons.

His personnel file lay closed on the table nearby.

Resisting the urge to peek inside it, he turned his attention instead to the long, narrow case that rested on the table beside them.

It was a sword case. Duncan had no difficulty identifying it, for he had one of his own; every Knight in the Order did. They were given out by the Seneschal during the investment ceremonies, a symbol of the oath of fealty that each man gave as he joined the Order.

But Cade’s was different.

Where Duncan’s case was made from simple black fiberglass without ornamentation, Cade’s was covered with a soft supple skin of dark leather and held shut with three simple silver clasps. In the center of the lid, a word had been branded into the covering, its harsh, rough edges providing a stark contrast to the rest of the case’s beauty.

The word was in a language Duncan did not recognize.

Duncan glanced up at the lavatory lights, saw that they were still lit, and gave in to a sudden impulse. He reached down and opened the case.

Inside, lying on a bed of smooth, white silk was Cade’s sword, as Duncan had expected.

The weapon itself was an unadorned English longsword. Along the length of the blade that was facing upright in the case, the word
Defensor
had been inscribed in silver.

Latin again and easily identifiable to Duncan.

Translated, it meant Defender. It was etched into every sword carried by the Templars, for that one word neatly formed the foundation of the Order’s mission — to defend mankind against the evils in the world.

Awed by the beauty and craftsmanship that went into creating this particular weapon, Duncan couldn’t resist. He reached down and carefully withdrew the sword from the case. He held it up in the aisle, turning it slightly to and fro so that the dim lighting of the cabin made the script sparkle and shine.

Doing so, he noted something else.

On the opposite side of the blade, a second word had been inscribed, in a fashion similar to the first.

Ulciscor.

Vengeance.

Seeing it made Duncan pause, both for its very presence and what it said about the weapon’s owner. According to the Code, a Knight was allowed personal ownership of only a few, specific items. The sword given to each of them during the investiture ceremony was one of them, a symbol of their fidelity to the Order and their unrelenting dedication to its ideals. The weapons were supposed to remain undecorated, chaste, if you will. Enhancing the weapon in any manner after it is awarded is cause for a variety of punishments, for doing so is considered a sin of pride.

Duncan’s new commanding officer had clearly ignored this aspect of the Rule.

How many others does he ignore?

He didn’t have time to ponder the answer.

“Like it?” a gruff voice asked from the darkness at the rear of the cabin, startling the younger knight and almost causing him to drop the weapon in surprise as he looked up to find his new commander leaning against the door of the lavatory, watching him.

Embarrassed to be caught, Duncan mumbled an apology beneath his breath and quickly replaced the sword in its case. Cade moved farther into the cabin and took a seat in one of the reclining chairs, gesturing with one gloved hand for Duncan to do the same.

“Tell me about your gift,” Cade said.

Duncan started, clearly expecting to be taken to task for his transgression and unprepared for the question. “What?”

Duncan’s eyes followed Cade’s gloved hands as his new commander reached up and removed his eye patch.

“Could you heal this?” Cade asked.

Duncan stared.

He was unable to look away. The destruction to the right side of Cade’s face was worse than Duncan had expected. It appeared as if someone had taken a blowtorch to the tender flesh around his eye socket, the skin flowing and surging together in a grotesque parody of the natural order of things. The eye itself was still intact, but was nothing more than a milky white orb floating in a sea of damaged flesh.

“Good Lord,” Duncan breathed.

His hands drifted up from his lap toward Cade’s ruined face, seemingly of their own accord, but he snatched them down again as soon as he realized they were in motion.

Duncan glanced away, unable to continue to meet his commander’s gaze. When he again found his voice, he replied, “No. No, I couldn’t heal that.”

“Why not?” Cade asked, making no move to cover his face or lean back out of the light.

Duncan shook his head in frustration. “It’s too old. I can only heal things that are fresh. Tissue that hasn’t scarred over.” He stared at his hands, not for the first time cursing their limitations. Without looking up, he said to Cade, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” came the reply, and to his amazement Duncan heard humor in Cade’s voice.

“I’m long since over it. I was more interested in your reaction than anything else.”

“You were testing me,” Duncan said matter-of-factly.

“Of course,” Cade replied, nodding. Referring to the other man’s ability, he asked, “Does the Order know?”

“It’s not general knowledge, but it’s probably in my file somewhere,” Duncan replied.

“Have you tested its limits?”

Duncan’s mind swept back over the years spent overseas, the endless lines of the sick and the injured, the bright sparkle of hope in their faces, their utter belief that he and he alone could heal them of their afflictions. Wearily, he said, “Yes. I’ve tested it.”

Cade nodded but didn’t push him any further, for which Duncan was grateful.

“I suspect that you are going to learn a lot in the next few months,” Cade told him. “Things that you will probably wish you had never learned. You’ll see things the ordinary man will most likely never see, but that is one of the crosses that we bear in service to the Order. I’ll expect you to do your duty no matter what the situation. If you can do that, you’ll have the respect of every man in this unit. Understood?”