had stood beyond this stone passage, seen with his own eyes, heard with his very soul the power of such a relic. He understood more clearly now than perhaps thousands before him why the master sought it so. Never mind the mindless other rumors or theories held by the Elders and so many of his predecessors. To him, it was simply... perfect .
“Prepare to storm inside as soon as the door is open.” The men drew their swords, expecting a siege of defenders beyond. Everard removed a studded glove from his left hand and inserted fingers into three holes that were angled to make them invisible to the casual observer. He pulled. His hand was damp with sweat. His fingers slipped free and the door crashed closed. He cursed, wiped his hands on his leather wrist shield and tried again. This time he kept his body leaning hard into the gesture. The door opened.
“You,” he indicated the squire, focusing his voice since the lad was beginning to consider their surroundings a bit too hungrily. “Stand here and hold this door open. If anyone other than us comes along, in either direction, cut them down.”
“Sire!” The boy named Marcus leaned against the door. Everard led his men down the long hall, turned the corner. He stopped, knowing what he would see. The others continued past him but soon they, too, froze in their tracks at the realization of what stood before them.
“My God,” one of the men said, and fell to his knees.
Everard shouted, “You shall not utter that name here! Do as I say and the world shall be yours to command!” There was enough controlled cadence in his voice to get their attention. Time was running out. There was no one here. Another, narrower passage opened on their right. It had not been there the last time.
He gestured to two soldiers armed with long, crooked staffs. They believed they were carrying lances. The staffs were actually well-trimmed branches of acacia wood.
Then Everard realized two things simultaneously. The first was that the Ark’s lid was partially open. Someone had defiled it! His blood boiled; his face burned in rage. A moment later, all color drained from the expression.
A fat man—a bishop if his attire was any indication—appeared in the entrance to the side passage. Something was clutched against his chest, glowing softly in the darkness. With his free hand, the bishop gripped a wooden lever beside the doorway.
Something in the fat man’s eyes told the knight he had to run now ! Before he could do anything, the bishop pulled down on the lever. The room filled with the sound of grinding stone. The holy man was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Everard of Dampierre wondered for half a second if the man had escaped down a trap door; then the ceiling crushed down upon him and his men in a deluge of boulders and stone.
When the remaining horde of crusaders charged into the cross-shaped basilica of the Apostles, they found a young squire digging at a mound of rubble filling a doorway. Two of the newcomers eagerly joined him, assuming riches lay beyond. They soon lost interest for easier pickings among the sarcophagi. A moment later, even the squire Marcus stopped digging. He joined the others in search of spoils.
Chapter Seventeen
Nathan gently brushed a gray strand of hair away from Margaret Conan’s forehead. When he finished speaking a prayer to comfort her in her pain, she opened her eyes and smiled. The gesture dropped a decade from her sunken, wrinkled face.
“Thank you, Pastor, and may the Lord bless you and your work as well.”
Nathan sat back in his position at the edge of the bed, careful not to brush against her thin legs under the sheet. As advanced as Mrs. Conan’s diabetes had become, she never complained, but he knew enough about the symptoms to be cautious. As always, she was overjoyed to share prayer and scripture, even asked about his parents. Margaret Conan had once been his neighbor, three doors down from the Dinneck home. She would babysit him
“Prepare to storm inside as soon as the door is open.” The men drew their swords, expecting a siege of defenders beyond. Everard removed a studded glove from his left hand and inserted fingers into three holes that were angled to make them invisible to the casual observer. He pulled. His hand was damp with sweat. His fingers slipped free and the door crashed closed. He cursed, wiped his hands on his leather wrist shield and tried again. This time he kept his body leaning hard into the gesture. The door opened.
“You,” he indicated the squire, focusing his voice since the lad was beginning to consider their surroundings a bit too hungrily. “Stand here and hold this door open. If anyone other than us comes along, in either direction, cut them down.”
“Sire!” The boy named Marcus leaned against the door. Everard led his men down the long hall, turned the corner. He stopped, knowing what he would see. The others continued past him but soon they, too, froze in their tracks at the realization of what stood before them.
“My God,” one of the men said, and fell to his knees.
Everard shouted, “You shall not utter that name here! Do as I say and the world shall be yours to command!” There was enough controlled cadence in his voice to get their attention. Time was running out. There was no one here. Another, narrower passage opened on their right. It had not been there the last time.
He gestured to two soldiers armed with long, crooked staffs. They believed they were carrying lances. The staffs were actually well-trimmed branches of acacia wood.
Then Everard realized two things simultaneously. The first was that the Ark’s lid was partially open. Someone had defiled it! His blood boiled; his face burned in rage. A moment later, all color drained from the expression.
A fat man—a bishop if his attire was any indication—appeared in the entrance to the side passage. Something was clutched against his chest, glowing softly in the darkness. With his free hand, the bishop gripped a wooden lever beside the doorway.
Something in the fat man’s eyes told the knight he had to run now ! Before he could do anything, the bishop pulled down on the lever. The room filled with the sound of grinding stone. The holy man was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Everard of Dampierre wondered for half a second if the man had escaped down a trap door; then the ceiling crushed down upon him and his men in a deluge of boulders and stone.
When the remaining horde of crusaders charged into the cross-shaped basilica of the Apostles, they found a young squire digging at a mound of rubble filling a doorway. Two of the newcomers eagerly joined him, assuming riches lay beyond. They soon lost interest for easier pickings among the sarcophagi. A moment later, even the squire Marcus stopped digging. He joined the others in search of spoils.
Chapter Seventeen
Nathan gently brushed a gray strand of hair away from Margaret Conan’s forehead. When he finished speaking a prayer to comfort her in her pain, she opened her eyes and smiled. The gesture dropped a decade from her sunken, wrinkled face.
“Thank you, Pastor, and may the Lord bless you and your work as well.”
Nathan sat back in his position at the edge of the bed, careful not to brush against her thin legs under the sheet. As advanced as Mrs. Conan’s diabetes had become, she never complained, but he knew enough about the symptoms to be cautious. As always, she was overjoyed to share prayer and scripture, even asked about his parents. Margaret Conan had once been his neighbor, three doors down from the Dinneck home. She would babysit him
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