Thirty-Seven

Bones long dead stirred slowly but unmistakably. The helmeted head lifted, the shield rose, and the corpse’s other hand uncurled from around the dagger’s hilt, falling to the side. A reddish glow suffused the bones as they rose, and two points of brighter red shone from inside the helmet.

Draugr, thought Erik at first: the shepherd-eater, the blood-drinker, the monster that had stalked through half the old tales of his childhood. When he drew his sword, he was trying to remember how the walking dead killed, and what killed them.

Memory of the old tales was what stopped him at first. Draugr in the stories had always been swollen and fleshy, gray-black from death. There’d never been skeletons. Thus pausing, he further thought that the red light had helped them before, at least once.

Erik stepped back, guarding himself with his sword, until the opposite wall of the cave hit him in the spine. Toinette was there already, eyes and lips narrowed as she focused on the skeleton, knuckles white around her knife.

For all of that, she was the first to speak, in quick, nervous French like a stream in flood: “In Christ’s name, whoever you are, we have no quarrel with you. Leave us in peace, and we’ll do likewise.”

“Ahh,” came a man’s voice. It was impossible: a man without lungs—and likely without a tongue, though Erik had no desire to lift the helmet and check—could never speak, and yet he did, if only in a sad whisper. “I’ll not fight you, child, but there’s only one way to find peace in this fell place.” Rusty metal squealed and dead sinews creaked as the helmet turned toward the graves.

“Is that how they died?” Erik asked, through a throat so dry and closed he almost sounded like the revenant.

“Oui. I was the turcopolier, the commander of those who were left, and so, in the end—” The apparition shrugged. “The duty was mine. When the corruption became apparent, we talked it over. They knelt, and I gave them mercy, and then myself, as best I could, and we hoped that would make an end. We knew not that Its power would grow, nor that It would reach out for new prey. Would that any of the chaplains had escaped with us. Would that much had been different.”

“It?” Erik asked, noticing the weight of the word.

“Our ‘treasure.’” A chuckle emerged from the helmet, likely hollow for reasons beyond the obvious physical limitations. “Whether Philip knew or… But here, I am getting ahead of myself. Sit. Take refreshment as I talk. At the end I’ll make you an offer, but I doubt you’ll take it without hearing the story in full. I wouldn’t have done so, in life.”

“Ah,” Toinette eyed the skeleton warily.

“I swear by Christ and all the saints,” said the dead man, “I’ll not raise a hand unless you ask it of me.”

* * *

And so Toinette sat on the floor, ate dried meat and boiled nettles, and listened to the tale of a dead Templar. She’d never made many plans for her life—a future that might stretch several hundred years was hard to arrange in advance—but what ideas she’d come up with had all been very far from where she found herself.

She took comfort in the minor things: the taste of bread, Erik’s fingers brushing against hers as he passed the wine, the green-blue shine of his eyes even in the darkness. Many such bits of reassurance involved Erik. Toinette couldn’t not notice. It was far from the time and place to think about what her reaction might mean, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she regretted that.

“To begin,” said the ghost, “you must understand that I don’t know all, or even most. The first part of my story takes place a hundred years before I was born, and I know what the chaplains told me, but they did not have the time or I the rank for them to explain everything. Had they… But there I wish again to change the past, and it cannot be.”

Toinette knew the sadness in the phantom voice, even if it was for greater cause than hers had ever been. Had he been living, she would have offered wine. “What was your name?” she asked.

“Adnet, in life,” he replied, after a moment’s startled pause. “My titles mean nothing here, and I’d as soon not speak my family name in my state. Why?”

“I like to know who I’m talking to.” She caught a glance from Erik, and a quick smile, and cleared her throat. “Pray continue.”

“The simple fact is this: when my order was but nine men in Jerusalem, a man came to them bearing a great burden. A fisherman had pulled It up in his net, or so the story went, and the history thankfully makes no mention of his fate, nor of those who handled It before It reached us. Perhaps, if they realized the danger and passed It on quickly, they escaped harm—but I fear most men are neither so learned nor so fortunate.”

“No,” said Toinette.

“What was It?” Erik asked.

“In outward appearance, a wooden chest, with black iron fastenings and many odd symbols. We recognized a few. Over time, scholars told us the meaning of more. None were wholesome. You yet remember the Scriptures, I hope, and the story of the Ark of the Covenant.”

“Aye,” Erik said slowly, frowning already. It took Toinette longer to call the reference to mind, and Adnet was already speaking by the time she caught her breath.

“This is similar, yet not so. Men built a chest, with much effort and many symbols, and a presence did dwell within it, but the two are as night and day. If the Lord has any kinship to the spirit within that box, all we’ve heard of Him is a lie. And I do not believe that it is.”

Toinette remembered the voice in her dreams, mocking and hateful, and the images of the dead. “What does It want?”

“Want,” said Adnet, “is a troublesome word. In all our time with the thing, we have never yet known if It has enough mind to want, or in any way greater than a fish wants a worm. It twists, should It get close enough, and devours. It seeks to feed, but so does any squirming maggot on a corpse.”

“But It speaks,” Erik objected, “and It shows images.”

“It spits out what you give it, reflected darkly. Whether that’s will or reflex or simply force, I couldn’t say.” Adnet sighed. “And we truly only realized as much of Its power as we did once we’d had to bring It here. In the Temple, we had spells, material, a hundred years of scholarship containing It, and enough men of God trained to pit their will against It and succeed.”

“And how many of you came here?” Toinette asked.

“A dozen. Four had died on the voyage over—we fled with no time to prepare, and no knowledge of where we went, only that we must not let the un-ark fall into the hands of a mortal king.”

Erik swallowed his dried meat and asked, “Was he trying for It? Would It be of any use to a king?”

“If one lived who could master It, likely he could turn Its power against his enemies. It would be a terrible thing to face.”

To that, Erik said nothing. Toinette studied his face, but found nothing save long thoughts, and couldn’t think of the words she wanted herself.

Adnet continued. “All our treasure was only a disguise for what we truly guarded, and it may have been our undoing in the end. Whether Philip knew of the un-ark or not, we fell because men enough knew of our gold, and cared for nothing else. When that became clear, the Grand Master taught me a few of the most basic spells and then sent me away with the others, men low-ranked enough that we could be overlooked. I suspect I know the fate of those who stayed behind.”

“The order’s no more. I’m sorry,” said Toinette. “And the men—”

“Yes. But they would likely be dead by now in any case. I have some sense of time, erratic though it often is, and I mark well this body’s state.”

“Yes,” said Toinette. Dead was enough. There was no need to tell the ghost about the torture, or the burnings. He’d likely thought of that already: punishments for treason were no secret.

“And you came here,” said Erik, “and then the…un-ark…was harder to contain.”

“Likely It was slipping past Its bindings once we took It from the Temple. I don’t know that the wind that sent us here was chance, and what will It does have is likely set against returning to the sea, where It would have even less prey. It prefers thinking beings, you see. It doesn’t eat flesh.”

“Souls?”

“I hope not. Suffering, certainly, and perhaps sanity. Perhaps life as God made it. It undoubtedly blights all such things and twists them to evil. That became clear soon after we landed, and all our protections didn’t suffice. In the end”—Adnet gestured to the bodies—“I’d hoped It would starve after us. It’s learned to hunt instead. Or to trap. I’m sorry.”

He spoke as a man announcing a death.

“You’re saying there’s no way off the island,” Toinette said dully. She’d known that was possible, but having traveled so far, through so much of hell, only to find out now—everything within her wanted to protest. She held it back with what felt like the last of her strength.

“It will not let you leave without It,” said Adnet.

That was an excuse, if Erik needed one. Toinette could even halfway agree with the thought. If they had to take the un-ark to save themselves and her men, then it would be hard to blame him for suggesting it. Back on land, skilled magicians—and Artair was one, undeniably—might be able to contain It, or even to use It without harming their own forces overmuch. The English would be most unlikely to win any wars then, or even start any once they’d seen the un-ark’s power.

She felt Erik’s gaze upon her, and said nothing. There was nothing to say; they all knew the same facts. She knew his oath and his loyalty. Toinette looked at the remains of her food and waited.

His breath echoed in the cave. “Well, then,” he said, “how might we destroy It? And what would happen if we did?”

* * *

Erik had tried to put his feelings about Toinette, and what he knew she thought, to one side when he decided, and thought he’d largely succeeded. The facts of the matter were weighty enough. Even Artair, when he heard them, might well agree that the risk was too great. If not, which was quite possible, Erik would bear the displeasure of his clan’s patriarch and survive. The man was no tyrant. His final decision was rational, or so he hoped.

Still he glanced at her after he spoke, and rejoiced in her smile.

Adnet’s next words banished pleasure quite effectively. “We tried,” he said. “Over the years. Destroying the box will likely banish the spirit within, though none know if It can die as mortal flesh does, but no weapon could leave a mark on it. My predecessors dropped a block of stone on it once. The block shattered. The chest remained.”

“Fire?” Erik asked.

“The records say that came closer than most other methods. The wood smoldered, but the flame died, and the burnt places healed in a matter of months.” Adnet shrugged, armor and bone moving together with a discordant screech. “We tried holy water and the relics of saints, and if they wounded either the box or the being inside, none could see it. We tried exorcism. Seven men went mad.”

“Magic?” Toinette was chewing on her lower lip, looking less sunk in despair than Erik was beginning to feel.

“Such spells as we could discover. Most of ours went to protection and to defense—it’s why I can keep a small part of this place less uncanny than the rest. And it kept that thing from feeding on us, in the end.” He touched the dagger’s hilt. “We tried, in truth. But it did no good. Human flesh and blood can barely stand against the un-ark enough to keep It imprisoned. To make an end of It…” He shook his head.

“Well,” said Toinette, lifting hers, “neither of ours is entirely human.”