The Lucifer Sanction (23 page)

With each blow came extra effort, Campion’s
response required energy he couldn’t muster. He strained
to take one tentative step after another. He glanced at his
side, the bleeding had increased.

He shouted at Moreau, “Dom - I can’t make it, go
on without . . .”
Hearing the cry, Moreau stopped in his tracks and
shouted. “Get your ass up here. You can’t quit now, we just
need to make it to that hill.” He pointed ahead.
Between them and the hill, men on horseback
wheeled swords about, the final clash of cavalry, most of
which had perished in the blood soaked marshland. Moreau
heard the noise – galloping chargers, men shouting. Four
English riders circled the perimeter and entered the fray.
They shouted as they drew nearer, eventually colliding
with those fighting on the hill. Their attack wreaked havoc
on the French horsemen all too weighed down with fancy
armor. They became battle weary - were defeated.
Denis Campion was so engulfed with the battle on
the hill that he failed to notice the man dragging himself
through the mud, dagger in hand. Moreau saw the man
reach out in an effort to stab at Campion’s leg. He brought
his sword down with a powerful lunge and severed the
man’s hand at the wrist. Campion stumbled back in surprise
as Moreau made a second more aggressive plunging stab
into the screaming man’s stomach. He twisted the blade
with renewed anger, disemboweling the man with a two
handed upward thrust.
“By God,” he said eagerly as he put on a very
English voice, “these French make for such good sport.”
Campion gave a look of disbelief as Dom Moreau
reveled in the bloodbath, his hauteur attitude placed more
than a little fear into Campion. He stared into Moreau’s eyes
with severely mixed feelings about his friend’s sanity.
“Jesus Christ,” Campion said in disbelief. “Dom, I
think you’re really losing it, man.”
“Losing it?” He made a fist, punched the air. “Good
observation.”
They locked eyes, stayed that way for a half
minute. Campion slipped a hand inside his tunic, felt the
stickiness, the warmth. He turned away, walked ahead - felt
uncomfortable with Moreau trailing. He thought about it
and slowed for Moreau to draw alongside. Again – a long
disbelieving stare.
Moreau glanced at Campion’s side and acknowledged the fresh blood flow. “You’ve gotta rest,” he said
sympathetically. “Let me take a closer look at that.”
The remnants of a church appeared in the distance.
It was severely damaged and smoke still billowed from an
adjoining structure. Moreau leaned into Campion’s ear and
groaned as he pointed at the building, “We gotta reach that
hill.”
Campion grunted, “Don’t think I can make it.”
Moreau pulled a shield over both their heads as a
fresh rain of arrows pounded into the ground around them.
“Can you make it to that grove of trees?” Moreau asked
with his head turned to the side and one eye squinting
through a muddied puddle.
Campion didn’t reply immediately. He was suddenly
preoccupied trying to focus on three figures huddled over a
French knight some fifty yards off.

Blake, Dal and Bellinger hovered over the fallen
knight as Moreau and Campion stumbled toward them.
Blake recognized the two men even though they were
bearded and mud splattered. Moreau raised a hand and
shouted as he waved his sword, “Are you with . . .”

Moreau’s head jerked back and he dropped to his
knees and blood trickled from a small hole in his forehead.
Campion’s eyes darted about and scanned the surroundings.
He knelt, stared at the small net hole in Moreau’s head.
No
weapon in the 14th century did this,
he thought. His face
was mottled with confusion as he raised Moreau’s head and
leaned nearer the pencil sized hole in the center of Dom’s
forehead.

Moreau didn’t feel death coming.
A blood-bubble formed on Dominic Moreau’s thin
lips. It burst and sprayed a red mist across Campion face
as he gazed into his friend’s dead eyes. He turned away as
though hoping it was all a bad dream. Wishful thinking.
He wiped tears from his eyes and focused on the body of
a French knight lying just a few feet away. The Lord of
Castelnau.
Jean le Maingre would never again strike out at a
juggler. The Lord of Castelnau lay face up, lifeless eyes
staring at a few straggling clouds that intruded on an
otherwise star filled sky.
Patrice Bellinger recognized Campion. She recalled
him suspended in the chamber and aside from looking
more haggard and blood splattered, there was no mistaking
the man - no doubt this was the same person she’d looked
down on in Zurich.
Blake and Dal approached with caution as Campion
remained kneeling alongside Moreau.
Bellinger
called
aloud,
“Campion
–
Denis
Campion!”
The red bearded man looked about with inquisitive
eyes.
Dal and Blake arrived at his side and stared down
on Moreau. Dal knelt, felt for a pulse, shot his eyes from
the body to Blake - back to Moreau. The disbelief in his
voice was mixed with anger and hesitation. “He’s dead?
What the fuck’s going on here? None of us can be dead!”
Blake pointed at the hole and said disbelievingly,
“Look at this,” and he placed a finger on the wound.
“If I didn’t know better I’d say this came from a nine
millimeter.”
Dal grumbled, “Impossible,” as more arrows
pounded into the ground, forcing them to raise their shields.
Bell caught a glimpse of Campion quickly removing a
small item from Moreau’s pocket. He placed it into his
waist purse and caught Bell’s glare as she huddled beneath
a large muddied shield. Campion smiled, looked about,
gestured to Bell to move ahead.

Blake, Bell and Dal pushed forward amidst arterial
spurts and dismembered bodies. She’d seen horror movies,
but nothing portraying the reality of hand to hand medieval
combat. Men with heads dissected, horses hobbling about
missing legs, some with noses hacked away, ears loped
off, and so many severed arms and occasional limbs still
clutching weapons, the host body nowhere to be seen. But
the horses shocked her most and she’d turn away from the
maimed equines. She thought
the movies never show the
horses.

Nicholas brought his mount to a stop, stepped down
and leaned over Moreau. He removed a glove and placed a
finger on the edge of the neat hole above the man’s eye. He
turned to Blake with a confused look. “What witchcraft is
this that strikes a man down yet leaves no bolt or cut?”

Blake ignored the question. He gestured at shouting
men clashing not too far from their position. It was then he
caught his first glimpse of the man with the raised weapon.
He was aiming in Bellinger’s direction. Blake began to
shout a warning as a crazed knight stormed by, his sword
about to strike a savage blow on Patrice Bellinger.

Blake shouted, “Bell, get down!”
There was a blinding flash and the rider was flung
backwards off his mount. Gardner Hunter raised his Sig Saur
to his forehead and tilted his head at Blake in salutation.
Blake yelled, “Hunter - is that you?”
Bell swiveled about and mouthed, “Gard – is that
really you?”
Hunter sprinted across five fallen chain-mail clad
figures, two drowning in their own blood and making
gurgling sounds. One of the men grabbed out, causing
Hunter to stumble. As he did he let loose of the handgun
and it slid into the mud. Bell’s look of glee quickly changed
to horror as the Frenchman thrust a blade at Gardner
Hunter, but the blow bounced off his shoulder. Somewhere
between horror and instinct, Patrice Bellinger lunged with
her foil and the point slid easily into a soft spot under the
man’s Adam’s apple. His head jerked back in spasmodic
movements as blood trickled from his mouth. Bell stepped
back, wiped the blade on the man’s hose.
Hunter retrieved the Sig and fired off another shot
at an approaching rider, then realized Blake, Bell and Dal
were all staring, wide eyed. Before he could reply, another
knight charged toward them, his broadsword waving above
his head.
With peripheral awareness of the approaching rider,
Blake began a counter move. Before he could retaliate,
Hunter reeled off two silent shots and the knight stormed
on by - a dead rider held upright solely by his armor.
Cries from French footmen rang out through the cold
night air as the two forces continued the battle. Edward’s
men-at-arms pressed forward, while archers now spent
of arrows continued hand-to-hand combat with whatever
weapons littered the field.
A nearby knight had seen Hunter aim the strange,
silent weapon. He reined in and swung his mount about in
an attempt to take in the stranger’s moves.
“You see this,” Hunter said pointing the weapon.
“This is a Sig Sauer, has fifteen nine millimeter slugs. The
next one of you primates that crosses this fuckin’ line is a
dead man.”
He gestured an imaginary line and fired off a single
warning shot. The shot placed a hole in the corner of the
Frenchman’s shield, causing a moment of indecision. The
knight and two comrades behind him inquisitively inspected
the hole. To Hunter’s dismay it served to enrage them even
further and all three lunged toward him.
He fired another two shots as Blake shouted, “Time
to get out of here.” He moved forward and grabbed a hold
of Hunter’s arm. “You’ll have the whole French fuckin’
army lying dead with bullet holes in ‘em. That’s gonna
look great in the annals of history.” He lowered Hunter’s
gun hand and shouted, “Let’s go. Go, go!”
Six minutes later they broke through an expanse of
tall trees and into a cleared field and three hundred yards
ahead sat the smoldering ruins of a church.
Blake guardedly led the way as they passed through
remnants of the arched doorway. Only the stonework
remained and the floor was littered with fragments of
wood beams, old doors and possibly the roof destroyed by
missiles flung through the air during the mêlée.
They dropped to the floor as a hefty object crashed
through the gaping hole that was once the ceiling’s dome.
It bounced off a side wall, and came to rest by Bell’s feet.
She pushed it away as Blake kicked it into darker shadows.
He raised a fast hand, placed it across Bell’s eyes and said,
“Leave it. It’s a head. They’re using trebuchets to catapult
body parts.”
Bell trembled at the sight of the man’s head lying
just a few feet from her. Dal caught Bell’s look of horror,
and using his foot, shuffled it farther from sight. He pointed
at the Sig as Hunter slipped a fresh magazine into the butt.
Dal: “You got another one of those?”
Hunter passed Dal the second handgun.
“I was under the impression we couldn’t bring
modern day shit on this mission,” Dal said.
Silence.
Dal fondled the handgun. “Okay then – so you got
preferential treatment, wise ass – then you’ve also a plan to
get us out of here, right?”
“Yeah well – I was under the impression you guys
didn’t need babysittin’ to get back home.” He made a face
at Dal, mimicked his words. “Yeah,
I got a way
. I’ve got us
each a disc.”
The side door of the ruined church sprung open as
a tall man clad in blood-spattered armor stood silhouetted
in the opening, his helm had been discarded, chain-mail
hanging loosely around a ghostly face.
The tall man drew his sword, widened his stance,
took three steps toward the huddled group as Hunter jumped
to his feet and pointed the Sig. The tall man ignored Hunter’s
reaction and grunted in barely discernible English, “I fear
no man. Are you cowards that hide from the battle?”
Blake stepped between Hunter and the man. “We
are with Sir Nicholas Mansfield. We are Irishers.”
Hunter threw Blake a curious look. The tall man
wavered, his demeanor giving up a little of its aggression.
Bell said, “He’s wounded,” and pointed to the blood
by his feet. “Look at the floor.”
A pool had formed around the man’s leggings. He
lowered his eyes, dropped the broadsword, and scowled.
“God has spared me this night, but I fear I shall not greet
the morn.”
The tall man wilted as Blake and Hunter rushed
to support him. They moved the heavily armored knight
to an oak bench where Bell went about unfastening his
breastplate. A sword had found a gap beneath the tall man’s
armpit and blood was running freely from the wound.
Bell glanced at Hunter. “If we can clean this wound
it could make a difference. It’s deep but might have only
cut into his muscle.”
Hunter made a quick assessment. “Doesn’t look
like arterial blood.”
A few minutes later a tourniquet made from belts
and old burlap was wrapped around the man’s chest. A few
minutes after that – he was dead.
Bell wept, shuddering as she wiped at her tears. She
whispered in a trembling voice, “When will it end?”
“It’s the hundred year war,” Hunter said, “any
fuckin’ clue there?”
“Aw, that’s not nice,” Blake said, and flashed him
an icy look.

The air was damp with a smoke-filled fog as cries
carried through the dying hours of a frigid French evening.
Small birds lay dead on the ground outside the church, and
flames whipped about the remnants of bushes that were a
onetime hedge that formed the perimeter of an adjoining
priory.

Blake held his breath as another missile whistled
overhead,
a
sporadic
bombardment
that
continued
throughout the night and disallowed sleep. Another head
ricocheted off the altar, sending stones flying about them
and coming to a stop some ten yards away.

“Wha’dya think,” Blake muttered, “about two
hours to sunup?”
Dal looked skyward. “Dunno, can only figure out
time when the sun’s up.”
“It’s three forty-five,” Hunter said. “I’d say we’ve
got about ninety minutes.”
Dal: “How’d you do that without the sun?”
Hunter held out his wrist, tapped on his watch, and
Blake gave Dal ‘the look.’
The few seconds of humor at Dal’s expense was
short lived. Hunter reached into his surcoat and passed a
green disc to each of them.