The Lucifer Sanction (24 page)

By battle’s end the French suffered another loss
- two thousand knights captured including their king.
Another two thousand lay dead in the field. Among them
lay the body of Dominic Moreau.

The scene at the village was totally transformed
as geese scurried from the path of thundering hoof-beats
and five riders destroyed the serene setting. The leading
Frenchman charged forward, pushing fearful villages aside
as Hunter scrambled back across the creek. He reached
inside his surcoat, unclipped the Sig from its holster, gave
the silencer an extra twist and checked the clip. He checked
the nearest rider and took careful aim.

The warhorses pranced about as white foam covered their steaming flanks. The senior ranking rider moved
in Hunter’s direction, halted, distracted by a sudden flight
of doves some twenty or so yards off. Another rider,
adorned in shining armor, entered the fray. His armor was
noticeably unlike the battle fatigued protection worn by the
five Frenchmen.

Günter Neuberg charged headlong into the fray,
his broadsword still in its scabbard. The French horsemen
stared momentarily, glancing from one to the other, unsure
of what to make of this madman with suicidal intent.

Hunter picked up on ‘this guy is . . .’ and assumed
the last words could be something like, ‘fuckin’ crazy.’
The charging rider raised a hand and in the blink of
an eye, two of the French riders tumbled from their saddles.
The remaining three parted and allowed the stranger to
careen on through. Hunter remained hidden, his expression
stone faced. From back of a hedge he spoke softly to
himself as he admired the stealth and precision of this
killing machine. He smirked, “Hellooo, Mr. Neuberg.”
Gunter Neuberg wheeled his mount about as riderless mounts cantered away from the foray. Hunter stayed
crouched behind the thick hedge. He thought
maybe they’ll
do my job for me, if Neuberg goes down; all I need do is
retrieve the sword and get the devise.
It wasn’t to be.
Neuberg raised his weapon, held it in a steady
mounted position and fired off three rounds. The sound of
each rider as he fell to ground resembled a drummer beating
on a trash can. Hunter froze, awestruck at Neuberg’s firing
skill. His training was telling him to take advantage of his
element of surprise, but he procrastinated, remained behind
the hedge, preferred to remain an observer. He momentarily
reflected on his Sig, but in the confusion and speed of
Neuberg’s assault his better judgment suggested he remain
out of sight.
There’ll be a better time,
he thought,
a time
this guy will drop his guard. This guy’s a fuckin’ killin’
machine at its best.
Neuberg sensed he wasn’t alone. He flipped his
helm back, looked about, to the left; slowly looked ahead,
quickly snapped to the right, saw no one. Hunter stayed low,
one hand firmly resting on the butt of his Sig and stayed in
a near breathless pose for a few long minutes.
The killer sat upright in the saddle, absolutely
frozen. He reminded Hunter of a bronze sculpture – a
medieval Remington. And then as quickly as he’d arrived
on the scene, Günter Neuberg cantered off.

The odor of rotting flesh filled the cold night air.
Hunter reined the horse, gazed about; caught a glimpse of
decaying corpses amidst deep undergrowth. The attacker
lurched wildly from an overhead branch as he shrieked,
“Yeeeaaah!” He grabbed Hunter from back, one arm
choking, pulling, and dislodging him from his horse. Two
more attackers emerged on foot, brigands wheeling swords
and pounding on shields. Hunter was more annoyed by
their insolence than their threat as they yelled incessantly
as though the shouting would increase their aggression.
Hunter pulled the Sig and fired off two rounds, casually
disposing of the two drum bangers. The larger man, the
one who’d pulled him from his horse, was confused by the
silent weapon. He saw no arrow, no bolt, had seen nothing.
Hunter enjoyed the man’s idiotic quandary. He smiled and
gestured the man to move nearer, the attacker oblivious to
impending doom. He gave a half-nod to the attacker and
smiled. “My name’s Hunter. I’m your angel of fuckin’
doom.”

The aggressor wielded his blade and Hunter raised
the Sig. When the screaming aggressor was ten paces off,
Hunter squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.
He squeezed it a second time.
Click.
He turned the gun sideways. Mud had jammed the

A few seconds later they tumbled, rolling through
mud, with leaves and stones adhering to their clothing and
neither man able to stop the roll. Hunter freed one hand and
grabbed hold of a branch. The jarring motion dislodged his
attacker. He pulled a dagger and made an animal-like leap
at Hunter, missed, and fell to his knees.

Hunter drew his broadsword and in a full threesixty move brought it down across the dazed man’s neck.
His head tumbled forward and began a fast roll down the
slope, his body still kneeling – pumping blood from the
neck. Hunter raised a foot, kicked the body to one side,
as the head bounced between saplings, over mounds and
finally came to a slow bloodied rest at Neuberg’s feet.
Gunter Neuberg took a quick step back, swung about and
raised his weapon in the direction from which the head had
tumbled.

Hunter remounted, guided his horse to the precipice
and leaned forward in the saddle to catch a glimpse of the
man’s cranium. As he did his horse began to nervously
prance about. He stroked its neck in an effort to settle the
animal but the mount whinnied, stretched its head down
the slope, laid its ears flat, and in an unexpected move
charged down the hill at full gallop. Gardner Hunter held
on for dear life, swallowing hard as tears streamed from
the corners of his eyes. He thought
this fuckin’ horse has
no intention of stoppin’,
and his life and surrounding trees
simultaneously flashed by his eyes.

Neuberg was bewildered by the madman hopelessly
careening down the hillside. He raised his handgun but
found that the rider, now mud soaked, blended with the
color of the horse and became a difficult moving target.
Hunter laid full forward, arms around the charger’s neck
as Neuberg lowered his barrel. The horse continued to race
down the slope, closer, closer, fifty yards, forty, thirty.

The German gently squeezed the trigger, got off a
single shot that caught the charging horse between its eyes.
Hunter catapulted off to the left, bounced off a soft rainsoaked embankment and rolled – rolled – and rolled a few
more times until he came to rest beneath a large fallen tree.
Mud added a brown earthy appearance to his chain-mail
and made him indistinguishable from his surroundings - a
perfect camouflage. His head throbbed as he drifted in and
out of consciousness. Gardner Hunter’s world had entered
an endless spin, spinning around – spinning – dizziness –
black – black.

From his vantage point, Neuberg watched the
English army storm through devastated French infantrymen,
intent on bringing Prince Edward to battle. He struggled to
keep his involvement at bay as sweat peppered his brow.
He exhaled in frustration and mulled over the ease in which
he’d eliminated the first five riders. With his confidence high,
he cantered into the fray. A hand chosen group of French
moved ahead of the Black Prince’s men, forcing them to
swing their massive Andalusians back into the marshlands.
Neuberg dismounted and for a brief moment considered
lying among the fallen, considered playing dead. He lifted
one leg and began to dismount. As he swung the leg over
the saddle the mount reared. He turned to steady the animal,
saw two arrows embedded in its rump. The horse tugged
away with anguished fury as Neuberg released hold of the
reins. Ahead of him, the two armies slashed away at one
another on a bloodied field, muddied by the overnight rain
and constricted by woodlands on either side.

Neuberg frowned, gave another thought to lying
among the dead as soldiers stumbled clumsily over body
parts. And then he heard shouts of a different nature, these
voices were English, not 14
^th
century English, these shouts
came from Americans. Neuberg shook his head as though
the shaking would improve his hearing. He raised both
hands, placed them either side of his eyes to sharpen his
search, binocular-like eyes scanning – searching out the
voices.

The German darted to the nearest group of bodies,
dropped and lay among the dead as Blake and his two fellow
agents shouted to Sir Nicholas who was totally unprepared
for their sudden appearance.

Blake’s tone was unflinching. He exhaled deeply,
shouted, “We can go two ways here – stay with our knight
or go find the two Libra guys!”

Nicholas, now just a few yards off, failed to catch
the words. “We must move away from this marshland,” he
cried, “or our God will greet us before He allows the sun
to rise.”

Two crazed warriors clanked one blow against
another, shield to shield, each in turn, each shouting as
they drew nearer to where the German lay. When they were
about to stumble over him Neuberg pulled his handgun
and prepared to fire. They skirted around the body pile,
oblivious to the German’s presence. Neuberg took quick
aim and froze as he caught sight of Blake and Hunter some
sixty yards off. He thought
I must lie quiet, must play dead,
cannot give myself away.

A fresh flurry of longbow arrows stung the ground
around him. He raised a shield in time to block one missile
and it bounced off the cover. The onslaught caused the
combatants to cease their attack. They dropped to their knees
and huddled beneath their shields in turtle-like fashion. The
incessant bashing of metal on metal came from all quarters
as arrows zapped into the muddied battleground.

Neuberg strained to regain the location of the three
agents he’d lost track of during the flurry. Again – a pause
from the archers. He was surprised by the change in sound
as the shrill pounding of arrows gave way to the slapping of
swords on shields. He moved in a crouched position, eyes
darting to the left, to the right, then to the skies, cognizant
of the peril from above.

French
forces
were
vastly
outnumbered
as
Edward’s knights dismounted and continued the fight
on foot, supported by their archers. The sound of arrows
bouncing off shields recommenced with a nonstop rat-atat. Neuberg made a sideways glance, catching sparks from
an occasional strike. One missile deflected from a shield
ricocheted sideways barely missing his arm. He lifted his
eyes, looked at the underside of the shield and waited –
but the arrows had once again ceased. The two swordsmen
paused and stared skyward. A half-minute later they turned
to face one another like prize fighters exchanging taunts,
each hoping for an impulsive attack from the other.

Clermont’s knights struggled to support themselves
beneath the weight of their heavy armor, their mounts unable
to maneuver with their riders wearing long coats of steel
that extended below the knees, with heavy leg harnesses,
plate armor and hooded helmets. The weighted horses slid
about and eventually sunk into the marshland. Their riders
flailed about, restricted in their movement by the quagmire.
French forces advancing from the rear were being trampled
by their own retreating cavalry. The bottleneck made easy
targets of the French infantry as their retreat and forward
rush became compacted by the diminutive size of the
battlefield.

Neuberg was torn between awareness of the battle
raging one hundred yards off, the two men battling nearby,
and Blake and Hunter now just a hand’s throw away. With
peripheral awareness of their nearness, he began to slide
away, snake-like, crawling between bodies. The rank stench
of excrement mixed with nausea and blood created a foul
taste. Although he blocked his nose and breathed through
his mouth he could still taste it.

Edward’s archers fired off a further lethal storm
of arrows into the compact mass of humanity. Those of
Clermont’s men who were still able to retreat attempted
to do so as horses stumbled among bodies until they too
fell to archer’s arrows. Now a safe distance from Blake,
Neuberg’s interest peaked, as far off archers lowered their
bows. He stole a quick look as English longbow men
scurried about, searching between the fallen, salvaging
weapons and joining their English knights in compounding
the bloodbath.

The battlefield was strewn with bodies of thousands
of French knights and the cream of France’s ruling class.
Edward’s forces had dealt their enemy another disastrous
blow. Neuberg, a man accustomed to death, had never seen
such horror. For each fallen Englishman Neuberg estimated
there were, at the very least, six Frenchmen. He slipped
on blood soaked muddied soil, stumbled and thrust both
hands forward to break the fall. He laid there momentarily
stunned, face down, cursing those men in Zurich, cursing
Libra.

He thought of Blake, then with a strange awareness
of being watched, wiped a glove across his face, tried to
clear away mud from his eyes, and turned his face to the
left. His mouth quickly dried as the man’s eyes pierced
him. Neuberg recognized the face.

Dominic Moreau.
Every ounce of breath left his body as he disbelievingly searched the man’s face. He focused on the
wound, on the neat hole. He slipped his gauntlet off and
placed an index finger on Moreau’s forehead, smeared the
blood away and mumbled, “Slug.”
Screams wavered through the early night air as men
begged for mercy, some screaming through sheer pain,
others in hope of salvation. With no help coming for the
wounded, they were indiscriminately terminated where
they lay. Their end was swift, a sharp blade through the
throat. Many, seeing the approaching death squad dragged
themselves off to quiet hideaways only to be found days
later as searchers smelled their decaying bodies. Corpses,
mostly those of Clermont’s and Audrehem’s French filled
every corner of the marshland. Burial patrols had the task
of retrieval. The dead were rolled onto carts, a countless
parade of horse-drawn hearses that ferried their remains to
long ditches, mass graves that took little time to fill. Such
was the multitude of corpses at the Battle of Poitiers that
after two days there was insufficient consecrated ground
for burial. One trench joined to another, the stench giving
rise to fears of a fresh outbreak of pandemic as fattened
black rats added to the fear as they scurried among rotted
remains of body parts.
Huge trenches accommodated bodies by the
hundreds, trenches filled with corpses of both English
and French. There was no regard for country of origin,
no segregation. They were stacked in the wet ground like
bricks in a kiln; each body covered with a minimal amount
of earth in a mortar-like application until each trench
reached capacity.
Neuberg sat on his haunches and stared into the
man’s glassy eyes. He took in the silence of his friend.
“Dom, Dom, Dom,” he sighed, “whoever thought it would
end this way?” He exhaled and raised his eyes to God,
gathered his thoughts and tried to feel inside the man’s vest
but there was insufficient room to fit his hand. He tried
lifting Moreau’s arm but it was stiff, hardened. He tugged
and heard a crack as the arm loosened from the elbow. He felt
the small package, carefully extracted it, and unrolled the
wrapping. It held three red ampoules - Lucifer. He placed a
hand on Dominic Moreau’s eyelids and slid them shut. He
groaned. His eyes stayed on the body as he reminisced of
early days when the two were mere Libra apprentices. For
a fleeting moment, Günter Neuberg considered his loyalty
to Libra. Considered how he truly despised Danzig, Bosch
and even Beckman. He placed a hand on Moreau’s shoulder
and grated, “Auf Wiedersehen mein Freund.”
The sound of approaching horses pulled him back
to the present, his vision impeded by the incoming mist.
He backed away from Moreau as his eyes locked on the
nearest rider.
Neuberg mounted a nearby horse, pulled his
handgun, but the sudden jerking movement caused his
mount to throw back its head. Caught off balance, the
German slid to one side and tumbled to the ground.
Hunter pulled his mount to a sliding stop,
dismounted and placed the Sig at Neuberg’s head. Blake
rushed forward, pushed the Sig aside and shouted, “What
the fuck are you thinking?”
Bellinger half leaped, half stumbled from the
saddle and was caught by Dal. She gave a smile and moved
to Neuberg who was now on both knees. No one saw the
bowman. The arrow pierced Neuberg’s breastplate with
ease, digging deep into his stomach. He dropped his chin,
looked down, stunned by the missile’s velocity.
Whap. Whap.
Two more arrows zapped by, one just scrapping
Hunter’s chin. Blake dropped behind Moreau’s body as
Dal dived alongside a slain English bowman. Bell emerged
from behind a fallen horse, saw the arrows protruding from
Neuberg and quickly resumed her cover.
Hunter pulled the Sig and fired four rapid shots.
One of the bowmen reeled about, convulsed momentarily
and slumped to the ground. The other whipped an arrow
from his sheath, took aim, and in the time needed to draw
back on the longbow, Bell scrambled and lunged forward,
her foil bouncing uselessly off the Frenchman’s armor. Dal
reeled about, his mind in automatic mode and stopped the
bowman with a single round.
Neuberg forced a chuckle – a strange sound. Blake
was unsure if it was a laugh or a painful, shuddering groan.
Both he and Hunter dropped to their knees as Dal placed a
hand on the lower arrow that had penetrated the German’s
abdomen. He grimaced as deep purple blood seeped from
the edge of his mouth. He moaned, “Did you get him?”
The question eluded Blake. Neuberg sensed the
question mark on their faces. Hunter flicked his eyes to
Bell and back to the German. Dal shrugged, “Get who?”
“The . . . the shooter, the archer, did you get him?”
Dal looked about, stared into the mist and squinted
at where the archers had stood. He began to reply. “Yeah,
we g...”