Deus Vult by Newton Webb

A Historical Horror Novella: Haunted by war and guilt, a disgraced Templar must lead one last mission across the burning wastes of the Holy Land—where an ancient, corrupt power is spreading.

Horror Story Compilations

Beneath The Shadow: 59 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Love. Sex. Death.’, ‘The Hunger’, ‘The Braemoor Incident’, ‘Dark Waters’, and ‘Strings Attached’.

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DEUS VULT

AD 1208
By Newton Webb

Prologue

Brother Gabriel's knees ached against the ancient stone floor as he directed the excavation. The chamber they had discovered lay deep beneath the monastery, untouched for centuries. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight that penetrated from narrow openings above, illuminating walls inscribed with prayers in faded pigments.
"Careful with that section, Brother Matthias," Gabriel cautioned, his voice echoing in the confined space. "The mortar has deteriorated significantly."
Three monks worked methodically around him, removing debris with reverent care. Brother Jeremiah, the eldest among them, muttered continuous prayers as his gnarled fingers swept away centuries of accumulated dust.
"Brothers, brothers!" Brother Lucas said suddenly, his voice tight with excitement. He used his chisel to gently lever free an ancient stone panel.
The monks gathered as Gabriel carefully pried loose the carved stone, revealing an alcove behind. Within lay an object wrapped in deteriorating silk cloths, untouched for centuries. "It's here."
With trembling hands, he peeled back the ancient wrappings. A spearhead gleamed in the dim light, its surface remarkably free of corrosion despite the passage of time. The shaft had partially deteriorated but remained largely intact.
"The Holy Lance," Gabriel whispered, carefully lifting the bundle. "The spear of Longinus, soaked in the blood of our Saviour." A wave of awe washed over the monks. "Brothers. We must ensure it reaches Jerusalem, where it can be properly venerated and protected. The Patriarch must be informed immediately."

Three days into their journey, as evening approached, Brother Gabriel noticed movement on the horizon. A group of people in desert garb, their outlines dark against the setting sun. Eight of them stretched across the track, blocking their path.
"Brothers, look ahead." Brother Lucas squinted into the distance.
"Bandits?" Gabriel’s hand instinctively moved to the wrapped Lance he carried strapped to his back. "They don’t appear to be armed."
As the monks rode closer, Gabriel could see they wore rough clothing typical of some local desert tribes. He still couldn’t see swords or bows, yet they continued to block the road and showed no signs of moving aside.
"Something is wrong," Brother Lucas’s voice was taut with fear.
"Ride through them, we can’t stop for—" Gabriel’s command was cut short. His eyes widened in horror. "Lord preserve us."

Chapter 1

The rhythmic scrape of Brother Thomas's knife against stone filled his small cell as he scratched another notch into the wall—the 1,095th day, marking three years of his self-imposed penance. Dust motes caught the light from the narrow window, dancing like sparks. Thomas watched them with detached interest, the familiar emptiness a welcome shield against memory.
The ghosts that haunted him threatened to surface. He lowered himself to the floor and began another round of brutal calisthenics. Exercise and prayer were his only bulwarks against the poisonous whispers in his mind.
Grunting through the exertion, sweat darkening his simple habit, he barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps until they stopped outside his door. Thomas lowered himself into a seated position, legs crossed, breath steadying. He glowered towards the door. He had made his desire for isolation unequivocally clear. Interruptions were unwelcome assaults on his fragile peace.
The wooden door creaked open without a knock, revealing John, a young novice.
"Sir Thomas," John stammered, eyes darting nervously around the bare cell, avoiding the intense gaze of the former warrior. "The Abbot requests your presence immediately."
"It is Brother Thomas." Thomas angrily rebuked the boy. He took a deep breath, climbing to his feet, stretching his muscles.
Novice John swiftly turned his back as Thomas rose, his tall, powerfully built frame seeming to shrink the small space. Thomas quickly stripped, splashing water over his torso, towelling away the sweat before donning his rough, grey habit again. The coarse cloth itched, a constant, welcome reminder of his chosen path.
"Lead on."
Novice John nodded quickly. "Yes, Brother." He carefully avoided the forbidden 'Sir'.
Thomas followed the novice through the cool, stone corridors. A momentary sense of panic flooded him as he left his sanctuary for the first time in three years, he took a deep breath, quelling it with military efficiency.
The Abbot's office smelled of beeswax candles and old parchment. Sunlight streamed through the arched eastern window, illuminating the portly figure seated behind a desk of dark, polished wood. The richness of the Abbot's furnishings stood in stark contrast to the monastery's austerity.
Rank hath its privileges.
"Brother Thomas," the Abbot acknowledged, dismissing the novice with a wave. "Please, be seated." He gestured towards a sturdy wooden chair, two glasses of honeyed wine already poured on the desk.
"I prefer to stand, Father Abbot." Thomas remained at attention, ignoring the offered drink.
The Abbot frowned but conceded. "As you wish." He studied Thomas, his eyes lingering on the scarred knuckles, the disciplined set of his jaw. "I understand you seek the final vows, to become a lifelong anchorite."
"I believe I can best serve our Lord through perpetual prayer and solitude," Thomas replied evenly. "I have found my place, away from the world."
The Abbot considered him. "What happened was a tragedy, but it was a shared sin, you cannot accept responsibility for the actions of the many."
Thomas's expression remained impassive, though his right hand clenched almost imperceptibly.
The Abbot waited in vain for a response. "Your dedication to penance these past three years has been… exemplary. I am minded to grant your request." The Abbot steepled his fingers, his gaze sharp. "Yet, I fear our Lord has other needs for you right now. Redemption often comes through service."
Thomas's eyes narrowed. "What service do you require?"
The Abbot sighed, leaning back in his chair. "A small monastic outpost to the east, founded near some ancient ruins, has gone silent. Brother Gabriel and his monks were searching for something there. We sent Master Reynard with his Templar brothers to investigate several days ago, after Gabriel’s mission fell silent. But we've had no word from Reynard either."
"Any force that can overcome Templars, Father Abbot, is unlikely to be too concerned by me."
"We are a small monastery. Reynard took our only knights, our protectors." The Abbot sighed again, a sound heavy with worry. "We have managed to hire a few men—hedge knights, mercenaries. It is all we can muster quickly." He looked directly at Thomas. "And we have you."
"I am no longer a soldier," Thomas stated flatly. "Even when I was, I wouldn’t expect untrained, undisciplined men to succeed where professional soldiers failed."
The Abbot sat up straighter. "That monastery was reported to hold a reliquary of immense importance. If Brother Gabriel found what we believe he found… we cannot risk losing it. I have sent urgent word for reinforcements from Acre, but they will take weeks. Time is of the essence." He tapped the desk. "The hired men need a seasoned commander, someone they can respect. You were a commander of men, Thomas, even if you try to forget it."
"Respect," Thomas repeated, the word tasted like ash. "They shouldn’t respect me."
The Abbot met his gaze steadily. "You are Brother Thomas du Saint-Gilles, Knight of the Temple, veteran of seven campaigns, defender of the faith for over twenty years. Our Lord has need of your sword, one last time. Your equipment has been maintained by the Templars, in preparation for if this day ever came."
Thomas turned away, staring through the window at the sun-baked landscape beyond. The silence stretched.
The Abbot spoke quietly, his voice softer now. "Lead this one mission. Secure the outpost, investigate what happened, recover what you can. Then return, and I will personally officiate your vows as an anchorite. You will have your silence. You have my word."
After a long, internal battle, Thomas nodded once, sharply. The movement felt stiff, unnatural. "One final mission. Then the anchorite's cell, without further delay or interference."
"Agreed." The Abbot relaxed visibly, the lines of worry on his face smoothing slightly as he picked up his glass. "Thank you, Brother. The caravan leaves at dawn."
Thomas returned to his cell. Waiting for him was not the familiar emptiness, but a large, wooden chest. He opened it slowly. Inside, meticulously cared for by the monastery armourer, lay his Templar panoply. The chain mail hauberk gleamed dully, freshly oiled. The great-helm sat beside it, padding renewed. His long sword and shield, the latter bearing the red cross on white, rested beneath. Seeing them, touching the cold steel after three years, filled his mind with fragmented memories: the smell of burning flesh, the screams of Christian women. He clamped his eyes shut, feeling a mixture of revulsion and a deeply buried, unwelcome sense of homecoming. Opening his eyes, he ran a finger over the familiar heft of his sword’s pommel.
He took out the white surcoat, the red cross a symbol of the life he had renounced. Pulling it on over his mail felt like donning a funeral shroud.
One last mission.
He picked up the sword, the weight familiar, comfortable, hateful. He touched the cold blade to his forehead in a salute he hadn't made in years.
Then peace.

Chapter 2

The caravan assembled in the pre-dawn chill. A motley collection of warriors bantered with each other. Thomas stood apart, his white Templar surcoat bright against the fading night, observing the men with a critical, assessing eye. They were loud, undisciplined, a far cry from the elite brethren of his past command.
A weathered man with the bearing of a professional soldier approached him, extending a calloused hand. "Sergeant William. Served with the Order twenty years." His lined face showed the harshness of the sun and the weight of experience.
"Brother Thomas." Thomas shook his hand firmly.
"Brother?" William raised a questioning eyebrow but didn't press.
Thomas gave him a steady, unwavering look. "Brother."
William shrugged, accepting it. "Fair enough. Long as you remember which end of that sword bites." He gestured with his chin towards the milling soldiers, a mix of hired swords and a couple of younger knights eager for experience. "The men are ready, Brother Thomas. Four knights besides yourself, plus me."
"You are a Templar, why didn’t you ride with the Master?"
William grinned, showing his few remaining teeth. "Me? With the Master? I’m too old for military service, I look after the knights now, a glorified servant. Who do you think maintained your armour?"
Thomas flexed a mailed gauntlet, a small smile breaking his austere expression. "You did a fine job. So, the Abbot hauled you from retirement too?"
"Given a week, we might have been able to get together a proper squadron of knights. The Abbot feels the Lord can’t wait that long. So here I am." He shrugged. "Can’t say I regret it. It’s been too long since I wore armour. Retirement wasn’t my choice. The mail pinches a bit more round the armpits than it used to. But otherwise feels good."
Thomas grunted, nodding. "Who are these others?" He asked, his gaze suddenly shifted to a pair of civilians preparing to mount their horses nearby—an elderly man struggling slightly and a younger woman moving with composed grace.
"Sir Balian and his wife, Lady Isolde," William explained. "They require escort towards Jerusalem. The old knight has business with the Patriarch, apparently. They travel with us only as far as the main pilgrim road south."
Thomas observed the couple. Sir Balian, despite his mail shirt and belted blade, moved stiffly. Lady Isolde sat her palfrey with confidence, her pale complexion shielded from the anticipated sun by a fine linen veil. She met Thomas's gaze briefly, before turning to adjust her husband's cloak.
"Absolutely not," Thomas stated, his voice sharp. "This is a military expedition, there is no place for women in our ranks."
"Sir Balian might be a few years older than even me, but he was a capable warrior in his day. He also knows the area well from his trading. It’ll save us from needing a local guide," William said diplomatically. "Besides, the two men with them are competent." He indicated a giant of a man checking the straps on a massive war-horse, and a surly-looking fellow leaning against a wall, polishing a dagger. "Sirs Hugh and Andrew. Hired blades, good in a fight. In exchange for the escort, Sir Balian was willing to donate their services for this mission specifically. They are under your command, Brother."
Thomas regarded the sellswords, scowling as Sir Hugh roared with laughter.
"Very well," Thomas conceded, turning back to William. "But they ride under my authority. Hugh and Andrew report directly to me. The civilians stay in the centre of the column, and they do not deviate or delay us. If they fail to follow those rules, I’ll leave them behind."
"I’ll be sure to pass that on, Brother Thomas. Otherwise, we have Geoffrey, lovely lad, but spends too much time in the library, not enough time in the training yard." William leaned in. "Officially left behind so the monastery had a knight to protect it, unofficially, the Master thinks he is a coward. Blood-shy was the term he used. He looks the part, but I wouldn’t rely on him in a fight, Sir—Brother." William hastily corrected.
Thomas regarded the knight. Sir Geoffrey stood quietly by his horse. "We could have used a few more cowards in the Fourth Crusade."
Thomas walked towards the two hired knights. Hugh, the giant, grinned broadly, revealing a mouthful of brown teeth in his heavily bearded face. A huge two-handed sword was resting on his shoulder. "Sir Hugh, at your service! Most powerful knight in the Holy Lands and the terror of the heathens!" His laugh boomed across the courtyard. Andrew slouched, giving Thomas a look of thinly veiled disdain.
"Form up," Thomas ordered William. "Civilians at the centre. We ride."
"Civilians?" Sir Balian scowled at him. "Civilians!"
Thomas took a breath. "My apologies Sir Balian, but it would be best if yourself and your wife stayed in the centre."
Sir Balian muttered angrily but obeyed. Isolde flashed an amused look at Thomas through her veil.
He looked away quickly. Offering a swift prayer to the Lord. Civilians would slow them down, distract them. In this land, distraction was death. He would have to keep an eye on the men.

As they departed the monastery gates, Thomas rode at the head of the column, his senses alert, scanning the terrain. The landscape grew increasingly barren as they left the more fertile coastal plain, heading east into the arid hills. Scrubby vegetation clung stubbornly to rocky outcroppings, the wind, already hot, carried sand that stung exposed skin. His armour began to feel like a second skin again, the weight and restriction paradoxically comforting. The familiar sounds—creak of leather, jingle of mail, snort of horses—and the smells of dust, sweat, and horse flesh evoked memories he’d fought for three years to suppress. He found himself gripping the rosary beads around his neck, his lips moving in silent, automatic prayer. For forgiveness, for strength? Maybe both.
By midday, the heat had become oppressive, radiating off the rocks in shimmering waves. After consulting Sir Balian, Thomas called a halt near a small, trickling spring shaded by a cluster of wind-stunted olive trees. Horses drank eagerly while the men refilled their waterskins and sought respite from the glare.
Isolde dismounted with an easy grace that surprised Thomas, requiring no assistance despite her travelling dress. As she moved to help her elderly husband, Thomas noted the faint, healed calluses on her palms—inconsistent with the pampered life of a typical noblewoman.
"You handle your horse well, Lady Isolde," Thomas observed neutrally when she approached the spring to refill a waterskin.
"My father insisted," she replied, her voice carrying a distinct Syrian accent beneath the Lingua Franca. "He was a merchant in Edessa before… before the troubles. He believed practical skills were as valuable as embroidery, even for a woman."
Before Thomas could formulate a response, Sir Hugh approached, his massive frame casting a welcome shadow, a large wineskin slung over his shoulder. "Wine, my friends! To wash away the dust and boredom!" He offered the skin first to Isolde, who accepted with a grateful nod and took a modest sip. Thomas shook his head curtly. "I drink only water."
Hugh’s jovial expression faltered slightly, replaced by mock exasperation. "God's teeth, man! Water? We're soldiers, not monks!" He took a long pull from the skin himself.
"You are a soldier, I am a monk," Thomas stated flatly. "And you are a soldier on duty. Keep your wits about you."
Hugh bristled instantly, his good humour vanishing like mist. He stepped closer, looming over Thomas, the smell of wine strong on his breath. "Are you questioning my readiness, Brother? I am a soldier after all." The title was spat out like an insult. "Perhaps you’ve spent too long praying and forgotten what it’s like to be a real man."
Thomas stood his ground, meeting the giant’s glare without flinching. The air crackled with sudden tension.
"Enough." Sergeant William’s voice, quiet but firm, cut through the standoff. He had positioned himself unobtrusively nearby, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. "Save your piss and vinegar for the enemy, Hugh. We’ve miles to cover before dusk."
Hugh held Thomas’s gaze for another moment, then abruptly grinned, the anger vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He clapped Thomas on the shoulder hard enough to make a lesser man stagger. "Aye, the Sergeant’s right! Plenty of fighting to come, no doubt!" He took another swig of wine. "But a little cheer keeps the spirits up, eh?" He winked, apparently forgetting the flash of animosity. Thomas remained glowering at him as Hugh moved away.
As dusk approached, they made camp in a defensible hollow, rocky outcrops protecting their backs, offering a clear view of the approaches. Thomas assigned himself the midnight shift despite William's offer to take it.
"Old habits," Thomas explained curtly. Penance required vigilance.
The desert night brought a penetrating chill, in contrast to the day’s burning heat. Thomas stared into the flickering flames of the campfire, the faces around him indistinct in the dancing light. He felt Isolde's gaze on him from across the fire. When he looked up, she didn't look away immediately.
Her voice was quiet, carrying easily in the still air. "You didn't flinch when Hugh challenged you. Would you truly have fought him?"
Thomas turned his gaze back to the fire, offering no answer. In the distance, the unsettling, high-pitched calls of hyenas echoed through the darkness.

Chapter 3

The merciless sun beat down on a scene of carnage. At midday, they found the remains of the monks' caravan scattered across the rocky terrain, half-hidden by boulders and thorny bushes. Vultures erupted into the air at their approach, circling impatiently above, their black wings casting fleeting shadows over the grisly tableau.
Thomas dismounted, the crunch of his armoured boots on the sandy soil the only sound breaking the eerie silence. He approached the nearest body – identifiable as one of the monks by the tattered remnants of a habit – with the detached efficiency of long experience. Flies buzzed angrily as he knelt. Ignoring the stench of death and decay, he examined the corpse carefully. There were no obvious signs of sword cuts or arrow wounds. Much of the body had been ravaged by scavengers, making a definitive assessment difficult, but the initial impression was unsettlingly odd.
"Mother of God," Sir Hugh whispered, his boisterousness gone, replaced by grim awe as he made the sign of the cross.
Sir Geoffrey knelt beside another body, his expression grim. "I spent time with the surgeons during the Fourth Crusade. These injuries aren’t from weapons." He moved to another corpse, turning it gently. "Look here." He pointed to deep, parallel gouges in the flesh and bone of the monk's arm, partially obscured by torn cloth. "Claw marks. Teeth. No marks consistent with weapons."
Thomas scanned the surroundings. "Nothing seems to have been looted. Their packs are ripped open, but the few valuables they carried appear untouched." He stood and walked the perimeter of the site. "Hoof prints here… shod horses. A mounted party came this way, after the attack perhaps?"
"The Templars?" William suggested.
Thomas nodded.
Isolde remained mounted, her face pale but composed behind her veil, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the reins. Sir Balian mumbled prayers in Latin, his eyes fixed on the carnage.
"We need to know what happened to Reynard's men," Thomas said, his gaze sweeping the landscape. "William, take Geoffrey, follow that trail of shod horses cautiously. See where it leads, but do not engage if you find anyone. Report back immediately. Hugh, Andrew find suitable ground nearby. We give these monks a Christian burial."
Hugh nodded, his face set. He retrieved a shovel from one of the pack-horses, shedding his outer garments despite the heat. "Right. Let’s get to it."
Andrew started to complain. "Why do we get the digging detail? We’re knights, not—"
Hugh rounded on him, grabbing the second shovel and thrusting it into Andrew’s chest. "Men died here today. Men of God, you whining cur! Now dig, or I’ll use your face to break the ground!" He took a swig of wine, before plunging his shovel into the stony soil.
Andrew took the shovel, muttering under his breath, glancing reproachfully at the giant. "I was only going to say, it’s a bad idea to split the party."
As William remounted, Thomas approached him and pointed at Geoffrey. "Blood shy? He showed no hesitation with those bodies. Give the coward knight a chance, he might surprise you."
"As you say, brother." William looked doubtful but moved his horse to join Geoffrey and follow the tracks.
Thomas removed his helm and surcoat, laying them carefully aside. He rolled up the sleeves of his mail shirt and took the third shovel. The physical labour was a welcome distraction, the familiar ache in his shoulders and back grounding him. He worked with a steady, powerful rhythm.
Beside him, Hugh attacked the stony ground with ferocious energy, his immense strength making short work of the task. Sweat soon plastered his hair and beard to his face, coating his exposed skin with dust, but he worked with a grim intensity. Despite his exertions he still found the energy for jokes, mostly directed at Andrew's clumsy efforts, his volatile mood swinging back towards a gruff camaraderie born of shared unpleasant work. Andrew, clearly unsuited to manual labour, struggled and complained intermittently.
They were nearing completion of the shallow graves, the sun was falling lower in the sky when William returned at a canter, his horse kicking up sand as he came to a stop.
"We found them!" William called out as they reined in. "Or what's left of them."
Thomas stopped digging, leaning on his shovel. "Reynard’s men?"
"Aye. Ambushed, looks like. Same kind of… damage as the monks." William grimaced. "But we found one survivor. Master Reynard himself. Barely alive. He’s delirious, wounded badly."
"Where?" Thomas asked, straightening up.
"He crawled into a cave about two miles east of here. Sir Balian thinks he was trying to reach an old hermitage to the North. It’s carved into the cliffs further east. Geoffrey is binding his wounds as best he can, I left him water." William pointed. "The hermitage is maybe two hours’ ride from here, an hour from where Reynard lies."
Thomas calculated quickly. "We’ve lost most of the daylight burying the monks. Finish this quickly." He helped Hugh lift the last body into its grave. "William, Andrew, ride back to Reynard. Make a stretcher. We’ll join you as soon as the monks are interred. We’ll take the Master to the hermitage for shelter." He looked pointedly at William. "Keep a sharp watch. Whatever attacked them could still be nearby. Any sign of trouble, fall back to us immediately."
After the graves were filled, Thomas led a brief prayer. Hugh poured a small amount of wine onto each grave. They fashioned crude crosses from the wreckage of the monks' cart and hammered them into the earth at the head of each grave.

Thomas found Master Reynard lying on a bed of hastily gathered leaves inside a shallow cave, barely conscious. A long, thin, crudely built case lay beside him. His Templar surcoat was shredded and stained dark brown with dried blood. His armour bore deep, strange gashes, consistent with the claw marks on the monks. He looked like he’d been mauled by a monstrous beast.
Thomas knelt beside him, lifting the man's head gently as Geoffrey offered a waterskin. Reynard's eyelids fluttered open at the touch of moisture on his cracked lips. His eyes were unfocused, clouded with fever and pain.
"Easy, Commander," Thomas said softly. "You're safe now."
Reynard's eyes struggled to focus, finally fixing on Thomas's face. Recognition flickered. "Thomas?" he rasped, his voice thin and dry. "Of all the people to be rescued by."
"What happened here? Who attacked you?"
"Hashshashin of some kind, like nothing I’d fought before, they were more beast than man." Reynard took another sip of water, coughing weakly. "The Lance..." he whispered, the effort costing him. "They knew... the monks found the Holy Lance." His eyes widened. "They want it, Thomas. It must be taken to safety, at any cost."
"The Holy Lance?" Sir Geoffrey murmured, overhearing. "Longinus’s Spear?"
Reynard managed a weak nod. "Found… beneath the old monastery. We were dispatched to retrieve it… when they came." He shuddered violently, his gaze darting towards the cave entrance as shadows lengthened outside.
"Why didn’t you ride back towards the monastery?"
"There were only eight of them, so we charged them to avenge our brothers. We—We didn’t know."
"Didn’t know what?"
His eyes locked onto Thomas's, filled with genuine terror now. "They aren’t human, they are demons… nightmares given flesh. They hunt… they hunt in the dark."
"But you escaped, didn’t you?" Thomas looked at him suspiciously.
"I had to!" Reynard rasped, triggering a coughing fit. "I saw one of them holding the case, I put my spear through his heart, it was a perfect strike, Thomas. It should have been easy."
"One of the Hashshashin did this to you?" Thomas pressed gently but firmly.
Reynard gave a choked, ragged sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "My spear barely distracted him. He tore my side open, my chain mail was worthless. I grabbed the case and escaped. My men formed a rearguard. My horse was injured, I knew he wouldn’t make it to the monastery, so I headed for the hermitage." He struggled to sit up slightly. "We must find shelter. Stone walls. Before nightfall."
Thomas exchanged a look with Sergeant William. The urgency, the sheer terror in Reynard's voice, was undeniable.
"The hermitage," William said immediately. "It's built into the rock face. Defensible."
"No, whoever these Hashshashin are. They’ll just attack us there and then we’ll be trapped. We ride back towards the monastery." Thomas decided, rising. "Hugh, Andrew, carefully lift the stretcher. William, take point. We’ll ride through the night."
"No, you fool. They hunt at night. Too fast."
Thomas studied Reynard's face. The man was clearly terrified and gravely injured, yet something felt off. With the sun rapidly descending and the chilling memory of Reynard's terror fresh in his mind, those questions would have to wait. The distant, cackling howls they’d heard the night before seemed closer now, carried on the evening breeze.
The Hashshashin who had massacred the monks, who had torn a full squadron of Templar knights to shreds, were waiting somewhere out there.

Chapter 4

Twilight painted the desert sky in bruised colours of purple and orange as the small party assembled.
"Thomas, look!" Sir Andrew pointed, in the distance, eight figures were approaching with a slow measured gait. They were spreading out, fanning out to cover all the entrances to the road.
"They’ve found me." Reynard’s forehead dripped with sweat, his eyes widening.
Thomas took a long look at the Hashshashin. They were tall, muscular. Surprised, he looked at the terrain for scale.
They are huge.
He held his rosary beads, even at this distance, he could see that they had to be close to, if not exceeding, seven feet in height. Wrapped in black cloth, they advanced without hurry, exuding a terrifying patience that showed a deadly inevitability.
Sir Hugh drew his enormous blade. "We’ll ride them down. They are only infantry." He spat on the sandy ground.
"No, no. That’s what they want you to do." Reynard hissed.
"The Templars tried that and failed." Thomas squinted at them.
Where are their weapons?
"We’ll ride around them, cut left, loop around them, then return to the road. As Sir Hugh said, they lack mounts." Thomas tightened his grip on the reins. "Form up, loose formation. We ride." He glanced at Reynard. "Forget the stretcher. The Master will ride with Geoffrey."
"A hard ride could kill him." Sir Geoffrey warned.
Reynard snorted, wincing in pain before giving a fatalistic smile. "They’ll kill me either way. Can’t outrun death."
The group formed up in a loose group around Sir Balian and Isolde, leaving room for speed over the poor terrain. The Hashshashin continued their slow approach, unconcerned by the knights’ manoeuvres.
"Ride!" Thomas led them at a trot. The Hashshashin matched their speed with a loping run. Thomas looked back, they were gaining, slowly but surely. He urged his horse into a canter, the others following him, spreading out further as they sped up. He looked back. The dust obscured his vision. When they achieved more distance, he’d lead them to the road. Behind him, he heard high-pitched whoops that chilled his blood.
William, riding at the back of the formation, shouted out. "They are keeping up. The heathens are fast."
"Hugh, take the lead, I need to see." Thomas waited until Hugh had ridden alongside him, before slowing his horse and letting the others ride past him. He clutched at his rosary. The Hashshashin moved with a terrible, inevitable gait, spreading out behind them.
We are being herded, like boar.
Geoffrey called out. "Reynard says the hermitage is less than an hour's ride at this pace."
Thomas reached for the hilt of his blade. Every instinct told him to turn and charge the Hashshashin, save his memory of the Templars' fate.
They want us in the hermitage, it’s easier than chasing us down.
"What do we do? The horses can’t ride like this forever?" Andrew’s voice had risen in pitch as panic set in.
Thomas shook his head. They were heading in the direction of the hermitage anyway. The Hashshashin had made sure of that.
What if more of them are waiting at the Hermitage?
Muttering a prayer, he resumed his position at the front of the formation. "We ride for the hermitage. We’ll shelter there until daylight and then break out if need be."
If the hermitage is occupied, we’ll turn and charge the heathens.
"Sir Hugh, ride ahead, check the Hermitage for any signs of life. If it is unoccupied, then wait outside and raise your blade to us and we’ll join you."
Hugh nodded. "And if it is occupied?"
Thomas gave him a steady look.
Hugh gave a manic laugh. "If it is occupied by the enemy, then pray for them, not me." He lowered his body and urged his horse faster, the poor beast taking him ahead of the group.
The riding got easier as they reached the road, the Hashshashin blocking the road back to the Monastery.
Doubt racked Thomas as he rode. He gritted his teeth and prayed.

Thomas finally sighted the hermitage. It was a modest, sturdy structure of stone, built directly into the face of a rocky cliffside, appearing almost as an outcrop of the rock itself. Its weathered walls seemed to absorb the last light, narrow windows like dark, watchful eyes overlooking the desolate landscape. Sir Hugh was waiting outside, the doors open, his horse presumably inside. He raised his giant two-handed blade above his head, signalling the all clear.
"Thank God and all His saints," Sir Balian breathed, his elderly frame slumping with relief in the saddle.
Thomas, acting purely on instinct now, organised their approach with precision. "William, Andrew, scout ahead cautiously. Secure the entrance. Geoffrey, I’ll help you with the commander."
The wounded Reynard had drifted in and out of consciousness during the hurried journey, his occasional fevered mutterings doing little to soothe the nerves of the group.
Hugh reported as they approached, his voice echoing slightly from within. "Looks abandoned, but solid. Stone walls, heavy door. There's a main room, small chapel, a few cells, store-room. Looks defensible if we bar the entrance properly."
Thomas nodded curtly. "Everyone inside, secure the door. William, help me get Reynard settled."
The interior smelled faintly of dust, dried herbs, and old incense. Simple, functional furnishings – a rough table, benches, sleeping pallets – lay undisturbed. A large stone hearth dominated the main room. Narrow corridors led off to the smaller cells and the chapel Hugh had mentioned.
Hugh’s horse stood in the corner of the chapel. Thomas looked at it with regret. Its days as a war-horse would be over, few horses could handle a ride like that without being lamed.
Thomas quickly assigned tasks. "Hugh, secure that door. Find the bar – there must be one." Hugh located a heavy iron reinforced bar set in brackets nearby and slid it into place, the sound echoing reassuringly. "William, check the perimeter windows, they won’t be far behind us. Andrew, find the water source – there must be a cistern or well – and fill every skin we have." He turned to Isolde and Sir Balian. "Get the fire going. Keep away from the windows and doors. Everyone secure your horses in the chapel."
Geoffrey, without waiting to be asked, had already knelt beside Reynard, opening his small satchel of medical supplies. He cursed as he looked at Reynard’s wounds.
Thomas came over. "Is it bad?"
"I can’t explain it… his wounds have closed." Geoffrey lifted Reynard’s rent tunic. Sure enough, when the dried blood was wiped off, there was only the remains of the stitches and puckered scar tissue.
"The holy lance. Christ is healing me." Reynard smiled, his eyes glinting. "I have been blessed."
Thomas shook his head. "It’s impossible." He glanced at the lance’s container and folded his arms. "No, it can’t be."
"Perhaps now you see why the lance is so important. Monk." Reynard spat the last word as if it were an insult and then chuckled.
William returned from his check. "The building forms a small, defensible courtyard against the cliff face," he reported. "Single main entrance, now barred. Four windows, we have enough knights to hold, unless they have something capable of destroying the door." He stopped to look at Reynard, whistling in surprise. "God in Heaven." He made the sign of the cross.
Thomas nodded in cautious agreement. Then looking at his knights, he issued orders. "Worry about the enemy. Hugh, Andrew, William and I will each take a window."
Sir Balian started towards the closest window to him.
"Not you. You’ll stay in reserve with Geoffrey." Thomas moved to a window. The Hashshashin had formed a semi-circle surrounding the hermitage.
"I am a knight, Sir. I will not be cossetted." Sir Balian snapped.
"If they get past any of us, we’ll have need of a reserve. Surely with your experience you can appreciate that?"
Balian held Thomas’s gaze for a moment before storming to the centre of the room and drawing his sword in preparation.
Thomas took up a defensive position next to him.
Trapped...
As darkness fully enveloped the desert outside and they could no longer see the Hashshashin in the moonlight, the first sounds began. Not the distant hyena calls from before, but something closer, more deliberate. A strange, high-pitched chittering and guttural clicks echoed from the rocks around the hermitage. Then, a low, drawn-out howl rose, answered by another, closer still – a sound filled with predatory hunger and unnatural glee.
Sir Balian clutched the silver cross hanging around his neck, his lips moving in silent prayer. Hugh gripped his greatsword, peering out a narrow window slit. Andrew nervously checked the priming on his crossbow.
Suddenly, Andrew, who had leaned slightly out of his window for a better look, cried out.
He stumbled back from the window, clutching his face, blood erupting between his fingers. Four deep, parallel slashes ran from his forehead across his left eye and cheek, laid open to the bone.
Thomas reacted instantly, dragging the screaming man away from the window as Geoffrey rushed forward, pressing a thick pad of cloth against the horrifically injured eye. Sir Balian had raced to the window, but staggered back cursing as a giant, feral wolf-like head pushed itself through the window. Behind them, Isolde screamed as claws gripped either side of the frame, as the beast tried to pull its huge body through the gap.
A huge steel blade swung through the fire light and thunked into the creature’s skull. It quivered and then fell still. Sir Hugh returned to his window, gripping his hilt tightly. Sir Balian resumed his position, blade held in front of him, a determined look on his face belying his shaking body.
The assault began. Heavy bodies slammed against the barred wooden door with terrifying force, the thick timbers groaning under the impact. Bestial faces appeared at the windows, claws reaching in for the knights who slashed with their swords against the furred flesh. The high-pitched, cackling whoops intensified, surrounding the small building, echoing off the cliff face – a chorus of feral madness.
The body of the first attacked was pulled from the window. Thomas took over from Sir Balian, hacking at another creature wearing the black garb of the Hashshashin.
"What in God's name are they?" Sir Balian stammered, his face ashen with fear.
Master Reynard, roused by the commotion and surprisingly lucid despite his fever, pushed himself up against the wall where Isolde had been tending him. His eyes burned with a mixture of terror and grim certainty. "Demons. They cannot be allowed the lance."
"Why?" Thomas demanded, suspicion hardening his voice as he battered his opponent away from the window. "You knew about these things?"
Reynard's fever-bright eyes met Thomas’s as he took a position with his sword next to him. "I don’t think now is the time for this conversation."
"Maybe not, but we will continue it," Thomas stated flatly, glancing at the Templar who had been on the verge of death only hours before.
Reynard’s blade hissed down, slicing into a thick, hairy arm. A yelp sounded from outside. The bone broken, the creature was unable to pull it back in time before a second slash completely severed the limb. As the hairy, clawed limb hit the stone floor, the coarse black fur seemed to retract like shadow, the thick claws shrinking, cracking, pushed out by pale human nails. The skin lightened from dull black to the dark, sun-baked brown of a desert dweller.
Thomas crossed himself, bile rising in his throat. He staggered back and then steeled himself to return to the fray.
The night had barely begun. Andrew lay grievously wounded, likely blinded in one eye, and they were besieged by creatures out of a nightmare.

Chapter 5

Fire light from the hearth threw long, dancing shadows across the hermitage's main room as the defenders braced for a long night. Sir Balian and Sir Geoffrey wedged the heavy wooden table against the already barred door, adding extra reinforcement. Outside, the chorus of whoops and snarls rose and fell, punctuated by heavy thuds against the door and walls.
"Fought Saracens at Arsuf, faced down charging Mamluks," Hugh muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm already stained with blood. His usual boisterousness was muted by the unnerving reality of their foe. "Never faced… this."
Thomas checked on Andrew. The man’s breathing was shallow, his face a mask of agony despite the laudanum Geoffrey had administered. Isolde sat beside him, freeing Geoffrey to guard his station, while she applied fresh bandages to the blood-soaked dressing on his ruined eye with steady, competent hands.
"He's fading," she said quietly, her voice low so only Thomas could hear over the din outside. "The bleeding won't stop. I fear the wound is too deep."
Thomas nodded grimly. "Has he made his peace?"
"My husband heard his confession while I gathered supplies," she looked into Thomas’s eyes. "How do you remain so calm? Have you seen demons before?"
"Yes, but mine were in the hearts of men," Thomas replied curtly, unwilling to elaborate.
She studied his face for a moment, her expression unreadable in the flickering light. "I heard about you. The Templar who locked himself away from the world, what happ—"
Before he could respond, a tremendous crash shuddered through the door. The iron-reinforced wooden bar groaned, and splinters flew inwards from the wood. Hugh and William threw their weight against the table, straining to hold the barrier.
"They are breaking through!" Hugh grunted, his knuckles white on the edge of the table.
Thomas drew his sword, the familiar weight settling in his hand. "Prepare to retreat into the chapel." He looked at the night sky through the window. They were still hours away from daybreak.
"We can’t fight in a room full of horses." William shouted.
He looked at the horses, considering them. "Hugh, remove the table."
"Are you mad? Did the sun boil your brain?" Hugh looked at him aghast.
Reynard ran to press the table firm against the door. "As a Master, I’m taking command. I’m the ranking soldier here. The table stays." Reynard pointed his sword at Thomas. "Relinquish command immediately. If we hold out long enough, the Templars will be able to dispatch reinforcements."
"Just moments ago, you were dying. You are no condition to take command." Thomas snapped. "You will move the table, then we are going to stampede the horses out through them."
"Like Hell we are!" Sir Balian looked towards the chapel. "That’s my horse! I’m with Reynard. All you’ve done is make bad decisions since we started. We need the horses to escape."
"We don’t have time for this." Thomas pointed his sword at Reynard. "Cease this madness, or I’ll bind your hands."
William, seeing the conflict moved to Thomas’s side, sword drawn. "Sir—Brother, what is happening?"
"No condition?" Reynard’s eyes glowed gold in the fire light. He seemed taller than before as he straightened his spine and flexed his sword arm. "I am a Master in the greatest knightly order in Christendom. I feel stronger than I’ve ever felt, and if you—"
THUD.
Sir Hugh’s fist smashed into the side of Reynard’s head.
Reynard staggered, looking up at the big man, his sword clattered to the floor tiles. "You miserable… bog-trotting… peasant." Then as consciousness eluded him, he collapsed.
"Prick." Hugh sneered at the fallen body before returning to bracing the door.
Thomas ran to his unconscious form to tie his wrists, before Isolde dismissed him. "I know knots. He’ll not escape."
"Stand aside!" Sir Balian loomed over Isolde. "You obey me, not him."
Thomas looked over his shoulder at Sir Balian. "Fight with us or join him."
"Just say the word, brother." Hugh raised a fist.
Thomas smiled gratefully, turning to raise his sword in preparation to strike, but there was silence.
Everyone looked at each other.
"Reckon they’ve had enough?" William raised an eyebrow.
Thomas gingerly peeked out of the window, ready to pull back if he saw any signs of the creatures.
The eight Hashshashin had resumed their positions, standing and watching the hermitage. As Thomas looked at them, he felt a silent despair.
"I killed at least one of them," Hugh stared at them. He drained his wineskin and then let the few drops left drip to the floor despondently. "I know I did."
"None of them are showing signs of injury," Geoffrey muttered, peering through the window. "How does anything, even a demon regrow an entire limb?"
"Thomas?" Isolde spoke from behind him.
Thomas ignored her, staring at their impossible enemy.
"Thomas?" Isolde tried again. "Thomas, please! It’s Andrew… he’s dead."

Chapter 6

Reynard sat restrained, his eyes glittering with a silent fury, as he remained motionless in the corner watching them.
"He fought well. I pray that St Peter takes that into account." Thomas closed Andrew’s eyelids, then removed his Templar cloak to lay it over his body.
"I only knew him for a few months. He had a venomous tongue, complained too much." Hugh drank from a fresh wineskin. "But, he fought well, without hesitation and with enough drink could make a laugh, proper laugh." Hugh smiled at the memory.
Andrew was funny?
Thomas struggled to imagine it, but he bowed his head regardless as the group shared a moment's silence.
"Brother, something is happening?" William said from the window.
Thomas hurried to join William.
"It’s hard to see in the dark, but I think four of them have left." William was peering out. "Maybe they are giving up?"
Thomas joined him, in the dark sky, the faint moonlight showed four silhouettes. "No, they’d either all leave or none. This is some dark stratagem."
"It could be reinforcements, they might be splitting their forces to intercept our brother knights!" Hugh’s eyes lit up and he grinned. "We should mount the horses, lead a charge, with our combined—"
"No." Thomas interrupted him mid-flow. "We aren’t leaving a defensive position, with food and water, on a whim. Hugh, Balian, William, try and get some rest. I’ll stand watch with Geoffrey after I’ve investigated the rest of the Hermitage."
Hugh glowered at him, but with a frustrated growl went to the store-room to forage.
Thomas peered through the horses at the chapel. There was little of use there. He faced the altar and gave a swift prayer for their deliverance.
The cells were austere, as you’d expect in a hermitage, just cots in tiny rooms carved into the mountainside.
The store-room was filled with barley, dried meat, pitch barrels and hard wheels of goat’s cheese. They didn’t need to worry about food. A well gave access to fresh water. A trapdoor led to a small underground cellar. He moved the sacks looking for a secret exit, but the walls were solid stone, carved into the rock of the mountain. He returned to the store-room. They could hold out indefinitely if they could keep the Hashshashin out. Thomas’s eyes returned, contemplative, to the barrels of pitch.
"Hugh, help me."
Hugh came over and joined Thomas. He grinned when he saw Thomas pouring the pitch into the far corners of the hermitage lining the walls away from the hearth.
"If the hermitage falls, we’ll ignite the pitch." Thomas emptied the first barrel and then using his dagger, levered off the hoops to pull apart the wood and scatter it among the pitch. "Add any cloth, anything that will burn that you can find. There are oil amphoras in the store-room."
"That I can get behind. If the bastards break through, we’ll take them to a fiery Hell with us." Hugh boomed, giving a loud belly laugh that contrasted with Thomas’s sour resignation.
The task complete, they rubbed sand to remove the worst of the pitch from their hands. Hugh found himself a cot and was instantly asleep. Thomas listened to his snores with envy before returning to the main room. "Geoffrey, lock Reynard in one of the cells, then I suggest you and Balian find cots and get some sleep."
Balian nodded wearily. "Isolde, come."
She remained where she was, sat in the corner of the room.
Balian paused and turned to her. "I said, 'come'."
"No, I think I’ll stay out here." She said coolly.
Balian started towards her, before Thomas intercepted him. "Rest Sir Balian. If Isolde chooses to wait out here, then let her."
Sir Balian reached for the hilt of his sword. "She is my wife! You can’t tell me what to do with her."
Thomas regarded him evenly. "I think we’ve had enough posturing today. Everyone needs to calm down and rest when they can."
"Calm down?" Sir Balian spat on the floor. "If I were twenty years younger—"
"—But you are not, Sir Balian. So, I suggest you get some rest."
Balian looked at Isolde. "We’ll talk about this later." Then stormed off to find a cot.
Thomas stood by a window and looked out, watching the four motionless silhouettes.
What are you planning?

As Thomas leaned against the ancient stone, and watched his inscrutable foe, Isolde walked over, offering him a water skin.
"Thank you for speaking up for me. I couldn’t rest back there knowing that those monsters were out here."
Thomas nodded. "I mean no disrespect when I say this, but you are holding up better than I had expected."
She managed a wan smile. "My family endured the siege of Edessa for weeks before the city fell. One learns resilience, or one perishes."
"I was there. It was a brutal siege." Thomas looked towards the back of the Hermitage. "How did you find yourself married to Sir Balian? If you’ll forgive my impertinence?"
"My father died at Edessa. My uncle, a fat, disgusting merchant concerned only with profit, saw a chance to secure favour and rid himself of a niece. He bartered me to Sir Balian for livestock." She gave an emotionless smile. "I fetched a good price." Her voice was flat, devoid of self-pity. "Survival, Brother Thomas. We make the arrangements we must."
Thomas looked out the window. "Survival, sometimes I wonder—"
The sound of the horses crying out came from the chapel. The sickening sound of rending flesh, and a high-pitched whooping sound followed it. Thomas shoved Isolde to one side as the horses crashed into the main room. A loud, inhuman cackling followed them. Thomas pushed himself against the wall, sliding towards the table.
"To arms! They are inside the hermitage." Thomas dodged past a panicked stallion. Its eyes rolling back in its skull as it whinnied in fear and panic. He tried to push back the table, but the rampaging horses drove him back against the wall. He raised his shield. A heartbeat later, a hoof crashed against it, crushing it against his chest, causing him to grunt in pain.
Sliding down, under his shield he tried to see if he could spot Isolde in the frenzy. He heard her scream over the mayhem and tried to move over towards the sound, but the maelstrom of hoof and muscle was too much. He was forced to remain in his corner, praying for her.
Then, like a storm lifting, the pressure lessened as the horses fled the room, bursting through the open door. Thomas raised himself on unsteady feet. The bloodied form of Sir Geoffrey lay by the open door, the iron bar across his crushed form. The table had been crushed by the horse hooves in their desperation to escape.
There was no time to grieve. The sounds of battle came from the chapel.
Thomas lumbered, his head ringing and his body bruised, his sword drawn. Isolde struggled to stand, and took up a position behind him.
A dark, hunched shape leaped to the doorway coming from the chapel, landing with uncanny agility in a low crouch, its eyes gleamed red in the lamplight. Its elongated jaws snapping, revealing needle-sharp teeth. It lunged towards Thomas, only to have a sword thrust through its back. It turned, ripping the weapon out of its owner’s hand.
Thomas moved without thinking, his boot hitting the pommel of the blade, Balian’s by the sigil, driving it deeper into its back. It let out a piercing shriek, twisting with impossible speed and flexibility, lashing out with its claws, scoring deep gouges across his shield. The force of the blow sent him staggering back. It pushed through the doorway, standing to its full height.
Before the creature could press its advantage, Hugh was there, roaring a battle cry, his massive two-handed sword whistling down in a silver arc. The heavy blade sheared through the creature’s neck and shoulder, nearly cleaving it in two. It collapsed in a heap, twitching horribly for several moments before lying still. Even in death, its half-formed features seemed locked in a rictus of unnatural hunger.
"God's Blood!" Hugh spat, breathing heavily, surveying the mangled corpse. "Ugly beast."
Sir Balian lay dead on the floor, his body shredded.
William emerged from his cell, his blade and shield in hand, eyes wide with panic.
"They're inside!" Thomas shouted, pointing towards the well as another form climbed out. More scrabbling sounds indicated others were trying to follow. "Fall back!"
"Like Hell I will." Hugh brought down his blade and lopped off the next beast’s arm at the elbow as it charged towards him. Thomas dodged round the side of the beast slicing down at the Hashshashin’s hamstring. As it fell to its knees, Hugh decapitated it with a savage blow.
Thomas grabbed the crate from the altar and handed it to William. "Retreat to the store-room, take Isolde." He nodded, taking the long storage box and moving. Isolde raced after him.
Hugh roared with rage. "Come to me sewer rats, I’ll send you to Hell!" Slashing down at the next creature to try and come through the well, he severed its hand. A splash sounded as it fell back down.
"Thomas, the front door." William warned, pulled shut the store-room door behind him and stood in front of it. Thomas ran to block the chapel entrance. His heart sinking as he saw four more Hashshashin enter the hermitage.
"Fall back!" Thomas ordered. "To the store-room! Barricade the door."
"Never!" Hugh raced to attack the new assailants. The first hashshashin bared its fangs at him. Hugh lifted up his wineskin. "Fetch." He threw the skin into the corner of the room. The hashshashin tracked the skin with its eyes, before snapping back to growl at the knight, just in time to see Hugh’s blade decapitate it.
Thomas looked down with horror to see the wounds healing on the fallen hashshashin. "Fall back, you fool!"
A cell door splintered outwards and a creature wearing a templar tabard lunged out, jaws snapping around Sir Hugh’s neck, twisting with a loud crack. Thomas and William ran at the new threat, their blades slashing at the fallen templar’s form. Reynard turned, his claws slashing through William’s chain mail and tearing his arm, before they cut deep into his stomach.
Thomas stabbed Reynard through his furred throat and pulled William back towards the store-room.
As they crowded into the small store-room and barricaded its sturdy wooden door with sacks of grain.
The sounds of thudding began, as the creatures attacked the door.
Sergeant William leaned against the wall, pale and sweating. Isolde was dressing his wounds. She pressed down on his stomach, blood seeping sluggishly through its dressing.
"We lost the hermitage," Thomas stated the obvious, his voice rough. "We can't hold out." He didn't need to finish the sentence.
Thomas paced the three strides the store-room allowed, his mind racing, assessing their options. They were down to two knights and a civilian, their position compromised.
"You know what’s next, brother." William began. His voice strained. "Two options, go down swords swinging and inflict wounds that'll just heal anyway. Or…" He wiggled his fingers, miming a fiery inferno.
"Thomas…" Isolde lifted the dressing off William’s arm. The flesh was knitting together.
"The holy lance…" William said with reverence. He looked up at Thomas who in contrast was despondent.
Thomas shook his head, his eyes pained.
"Oh, it’s like that is it." William leaned back, his head against the cool stone. "I’m turning into one of them, am I? Like that slimy wretch Reynard."
"We can’t be sure of that." Isolde protested.
"I wonder how long Reynard suspected he was turning and kept quiet?" William huffed.
"Perhaps, prayer? Like an exorcism?" Isolde tried. She looked at the two of them. "You are both Templars, Soldiers of God."
They remained silent.
"Thomas, you are the most holy man I know, you spent how many years in prayer? Maybe that was preparation for this very moment."
"Maybe," William took a deep breath, "but just in case the good Lord is busy elsewhere, we have another plan."
"It will mean sacrificing the lance." Thomas put little energy into his protest.
William snorted with mock laughter. "That’s a shame. We could have added it to the collection of lances and grails we’ve collected over the years." He reached up for a lantern, pulling out his flint and tinder. "Christendom has managed over a thousand years without it, reckon we can last another thousand or so."
Thomas nodded.
"Let’s just kill as many of the hairy shits as possible, eh?" William grinned, his eyes glowing gold in the weak torch light. "But let’s do it soon, because who knows how long I’ve got."
Thomas held up his hand. "Wait, Reynard was always a bit of a—"
"—Goat-buggering wretch? Piss-souled heretic?"
"Yes, obviously, but you aren’t. Just because you are healing, and maybe feeling a bit hairy, it doesn’t mean you are going to turn evil." Thomas reached towards the lantern.
William held out his hand. "Don’t you fucking dare. I’m lighting this lantern, then I’m going to bathe in the biggest fucking bonfire I’ve ever seen and listen to those furry sons of whores scream." He started to scrape his flint over the tinder box’s steel. "Don’t you ruin my send off son. This is the only chance a man like me has of passing St Peter." He pointed to the cellar hatch. "Get in, odds aren’t great for you, but you might survive down there."
"I’m not leaving you."
"Then who is going to commission my bloody statue?" William snarled. "Go on, get in, because I’m ravenous, and you are starting to look bloody tasty."
Isolde kissed William on the cheek.
"If I’d known that was going to happen, I’d have tried being selfless earlier." William laughed, before wincing as his stomach hurt. "Ah, my demon host hasn’t got round to fixing that then yet."
Thomas clambered down the ladder into the cellar, helping Isolde down after him.
He opened up a vinegar amphora and cutting off part of his cloak, soaked it, then offered it to Isolde. "It’s going to get hard to breathe in here. The smoke will mostly rise, but hold this to your face and breathe through it, it’ll protect your lungs."
Above them they heard splintering wood.
Then there was an almighty whoosh.
The air turned hot and dry, light glowed through the hatchway, the timbers smoked.
Thomas pulled away the ladder and anything he could find that was inflammable.

As the smoke filled the room, he lay on the floor next to Isolde and they tried to breathe the thinning air.
Lungs burning, they endured the hellscape. She reached out with a frightened hand. He looked into her eyes, until consciousness fled him.

Chapter 7

Thomas woke up coughing. He hacked up phlegm onto the stone tiles. The taste of blood in his throat.
He reached over to Isolde. Her face was grey as he gently shook her.
Tears pricked at his eyes.
He slapped her face. "Wake up." He slapped her again. "Please Isolde, you can’t die like this." He started to despair. "Please, don’t leave me alone."
She coughed weakly.
As relief flooded him, he realised for the first time that he didn’t want to be alone, that he didn’t want to be locked away as an anchorite.
Thomas lifted her gently, he placed her over his shoulder, willing energy into his tired, battered body. Gripping the handle of the lance’s crate in his spare hand he staggered towards the hatchway, now reduced to ash. He dragged the ladder and climbed up it, his legs unsteady.
He ascended into a scene from hell. Painful memories assailed him. Smouldering flesh and giant bones from the Hashshashin mixed with the human forms of his friends and allies. The battered door at the entrance to the hermitage seemed to sway before him as it lay open, sunlight streaming in.
He blinked as he staggered out, his eyes unaccustomed to the sun.
Then paused. He looked at the sky and then chuckled ruefully. Dropping the case onto the sandy ground, he shook his head.
"I should have known you’d survive."
Reynard stood before him, as a man. His tabard covering his body, his chain mail bent and broken by his transformation the night before was ragged on his form. "I take that as a compliment. Before my ascension I was the greatest of all knights. Now, I am death itself."
Thomas put Isolde down, resting her against the stones of the hermitage. He looked back at Reynard. "You are looking more weaselly and less foxlike this morning."
“Reynard the Fox? Please penitent. A bit of originality would be appreciated.” He held up his hand, wiggling his fingers. "I think it’s the sun. Nice to be able to wield a sword again though. Thumbs, it isn’t until you spend a night without them that you begin to appreciate them." He gave Thomas a sinister smile.
Thomas nodded. "Go on then, how did you survive the flames?"
"I am the reason your plan worked. Do you think I couldn’t hear your plots from my cell?" He laughed. "When you locked yourself in the store-room, I knew what was coming. The Hashshashin ignored me as I walked through them, saw me as a member of their pack, I guess, and secured the front door. I bent the iron bar to make it difficult to remove. Then climbed out of a window and waited. The flames spread quickly. Almost instantly. Some tried to climb out of the windows, but they were too big to do it quickly. I was waiting with tooth and claw to push them back into the inferno."
"I almost feel sorry for them, but they aren’t the first people to trust you." Thomas wanted to sit down. His vision was hazy. "Take that off."
Reynard narrowed his eyes.
Thomas pointed at the knight’s tabard. "Take. That. Off."
"Happily," Reynard tore off his tabard, his pale flesh exposed under the patchwork of damaged armour. He tossed a waterskin to Thomas.
"So, if you aren’t a Hashshashin, what are you?" Thomas asked, his voice bitter. He unstopped the skin and swilled the refreshing, if warm, water around his mouth, swallowing slowly to protect his damaged throat.
Reynard’s eyes flashed with anger. "I am a Christian. God’s champion. I will recruit a new knightly order, bestowing them with my gift, the Order of the Wolf—"
"Hyena."
Reynard looked at him confused.
"You and your demon pals are more like hyenas."
"Don’t be a pedant. What I am, is the right hand of God, the man who will finally purge the holy land of heretics. Bringing forth a new Christian civilisation that will wield the lance as it conquers the world."
Thomas snorted, reaching down he unclasped the crate and lifted out the battered, wooden lance. "This?" he threw it into the sand between them. "You and your motley pack of mongrels think you can conquer the world with an old spear."
"Don’t anger me, brother Thomas, or I won’t let you join me. You couldn’t oppose me before, you certainly can’t oppose me now."
Thomas drank more of the water. Then spat grit onto the sand. He walked over to Isolde, kneeling to help her drink a little of the water. She coughed and spluttered. "Gently," he muttered. Leaving her with the waterskin.
Rising he returned to Reynard, drawing his sword. "My name is Sir Thomas du Saint-Gilles, Knight of the Temple." His tired limbs raised his blade into a ready stance. "And even if you weren’t some kind of hellhound, I wouldn’t serve under you." The water had given his body some life, as he walked forwards with grim resolve.
"So now you are a Templar again?" Reynard scoffed before lunging, his blade moving with blinding speed and unnatural strength. Thomas met the charge, parrying the sword thrust, steel to steel. They each grunted, boots seeking purchase on the loose ground as they crashed against each other. Thomas’s armour saved him as he failed to block Reynard’s blade, though his chain mail didn’t stop a rib cracking.
Thomas was skilled, experienced, but Reynard possessed inhuman strength and ferocity, amplified by the dark power surging in his veins. Thomas blocked, fighting defensively, conserving what little strength he had, seeking an opening. Reynard bashed his blade away with contemptuous ease. Thomas managed to score a cut on Reynard's arm, the wound closing almost instantly as the corrupted flesh healed itself.
The creature that was Reynard laughed, driving Thomas backwards with a savage series of blows.
With a sudden feint, Reynard swept Thomas's legs out from under him. Thomas crashed to the stony ground, his sword flying from his grasp. Reynard loomed over him, holding his sword above him, ready for the killing blow.
"Non nobis, Domine…" Thomas gasped, scrambling backwards, bracing for the end.
"Prayers? Pathetic, you aren’t even worthy to join my order." He raised the blade to his full height. A waterskin smacked against his cheek. He yelped with surprise and then growled at Isolde who was glowering at him from her resting place.
Thomas caught sight of the holy lance and lunged. Thomas grabbed the ancient wooden shaft with both hands. Using the last of his strength, Thomas pivoted. With a final, desperate heave, he drove the spearhead forward, into Reynard's own chest. The lance shattered on impact, the aged wood cracking in two.
The moment the sacred point pierced Reynard's corrupted heart. Reynard screamed, a sound of pure agony that transcended human or animal, his body convulsing violently. His sword fell to the ground next to Thomas.
Thomas lay on the floor, gasping for breath. Exhaustion washed over him. He rose to his feet, and looked at the remnants of the lance, covered with Reynard’s tainted blood.
He sighed, and abandoned it, walking back to Isolde. He helped her back onto unsteady feet. Half carrying her as they began the long walk back to the trade road.
"Wait, Thomas, the lance…"
"The lance is broken, and even if it once was holy, it is now tainted. Reynard’s blood saw to that."
As they walked through the desert scrub, he blinked. "Is that…" he hobbled closer with Isolde and then uttered a short laugh, before his lungs turned it into a painful, hacking cough. He had found his horse, escaped with two of the other mounts, after the stampede.
"You live." A smile crossed his lips, as he stroked his horse’s nose. Gingerly he helped Isolde onto the back of the mount, rising behind her to hold her steady as they rode, tying the reins of the other two horses to the saddle. Then he guided the small group back towards the main road and the monastery.
"What will the Abbot say?" Isolde asked, held steady in Thomas’s arms.
"That’s out of our hands." He looked ahead and a grim smile crossed his lips, "Deus vult."

THE END

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