• In the Year of Our Lord, 3527

    The library was dark, dusty. Oil lamps gave a bare light from their glass-encased globes. The shelves groaned with the weight of their charges. Little of the battered floral wallpaper was visible under the dozens of devotional images and framed portraits of ecclesiastical men. The floor was just as cramped as the walls, dusty desks piled high with leather bound books and disintegrating scrolls. At one desk, a girl sat in front of a tome.

    The yellowed and cracked pages of the manuscript spoke in sharp tones as she turned the pages. The smell of must and leather, of age itself, met the nostrils of the girl in front of the tome. She sat straight and still in her chair. Her crisp black dress and the starched veil over her hair made a sharp contrast to her freckled cheeks and luminous eyes. The green of them was the only bright color besides the worn velvet armchair that Father Price slept in. His snores blew his mustache to and fro in front of his long face.

    The girl smiled at him, an expression at last bringing life to her face. Then she turned back to the book, tucking an errant auburn curl back under her veil.

    The text was the account of the Order of the Lion. The last pages, newer than the rest, told the story of the last brother of the order, Michael. His bravery, so the illuminated parchment held, had brought an end to the Great Betrayer. Her fingers were light on the pages, nails conspicuously clean and trim. Her forefinger rested on the topmost line.

    In the year of our Lord, 3507, Brother Michael of the Brotherhood of the lion, a most brave and pious man, did set forth upon his quest. Midwinter saw the burning and desecration of the most holy of holies by the brothers turned to evil and wickedness by the Betrayer. It was he, the Betrayer, that Brother Michael set out to slay: in order to purge the world of wickedness and strife.

    Upon the start of his quest, Michael. . .


    Bits of stone crumbled beneath my fingers; a fingernail broke, tearing and bleeding. The tower rose above me, a dying behemoth. He was at the top. His cloak billowing out behind him, great black wings of a vulture crouching, watching his prey. I coughed, the cold attacking my lungs. The cloud of my breath surrounded me, a fog that disappeared with quicksilver haste.

    I had to reach him.

    The broken tower he secured, the last building our order could call home. It sat amongst the trees in icy slumber and the sunken lake of pitfalls and broken stone. From the top one could see the fields and the lands beyond the mountains. The fire and the smoke of the battle.

    Echoes of the cries of my brothers could still be heard, even so far away as we were. And the memories of blood on steel were more than enough to recall the copper of it drying in my nostrils and mouth. The wet tear of arrows sinking into living bodies and the crackle of the fires.

    Hands forced into claw shapes, I grasped and gripped, climbing the remnants of the stairs. A crow cawed, laughing at me. I paused to wrap the bandages more tightly around my hands. The bell would toll soon, we would be called.

    I stretched my arm to grasp the next step in order to pull myself higher. Up to the last steps. Up and onto the floor of the watchtower. The teeth of the ramparts were broken, rotten. Dead ivy and lichen clung to it still, poisoned by the frost.

    “Sir.”

    He turned to me, bits of beard caught by the wind playing in front of him. The gaunt canyons of his face foretold his death mask. The swollen joints of his fingers hidden under black gloves. “Your report?” He raised one unkempt eyebrow.

    “We cannot go into battle sir.” I swallowed the remnants of cowardice and stood tall. “There are women and children, we cannot risk their lives for a relic that might not even be in Hausberg.”

    He stepped away from the ramparts. His steps threw up the sound of frost crunched beneath boots as he drew nearer. “You would dishonor your brothers’ bravery for a few lives? We do what we must. We kill who we must. You know this.”

    I had fought from one edge of this country to the other for whispers of a thing no man
    had ever seen. No feeble challenge from a withering fool with far too much power would break my resolve. “I will not be the cause of slaughter, not this time.” No more would the screams of the innocents wake me from earnest slumber. No more.

    He grimaced, taking a step closer to me. “I will not call them off. If you do not fight, you are a traitor to your brothers and to God.”

    “I would rather be a traitor than a murderer.”

    “Then you will pay the price.” He rushed forward, more life left in his frail form than I had thought. His hands found my shoulders and he pushed me back. My legs hit the ramparts, low in this section. “God be with you.” He let go of my shoulders and I felt myself falling back; I reached for a hold, any hold.

    They danced just out of reach. This then, was my fate. I clamped my lips shut, spread my arms wide, and welcomed the ground.


    . . . and armies would fall before him. For he was one with God and God was with him.


    A bell rang somewhere in the depths of the halls outside the library. Father Price snorted and stirred. He looked about, blinking sleep reddened eyes.

    “Nadia. What are you still doing in here? That was the bell for evening prayers.”

    The girl, Nadia, turned to Father Price. “It was.” She stood, carefully closing the book.
    “Shouldn’t you be there as well?”

    He sputtered. “Of course, of course. We will go together.” He stood, knees creaking. “You are a bad influence on me.”

    “You only say that because I showed you where Sister Caroline keeps the strawberry preserves.” She smiled.

    “Well-- perhaps.” He shook his head. “Off we go then.”

    She nodded, looping her arm through his. “Would you like to raid the kitchen after prayers? Sister Mary Anne made tarts today.”

    He rubbed wrinkled hands together, a smile on his face. “What kind?”

    “Apple.”

    “Well--one won’t hurt.”

    Nadia smiled. “Of course not. Now, let’s get to prayers before Father Gregory notices our absence.”

    “Hmph. He’s a stuffy old codger.” Father Price cracked his knuckles as they hurried along the corridor to make evening prayers.

    “You are hardly in the spring of youth,” she laughed. “But I suppose everyone is young compared to Father Gregory.”

    The “old codger”, had turned ninety-seven this past winter, leaving everyone in the monastery to question if he would make it an even ninety eight. Father Price laughed. “You are the only one who is ever honest with me,” he patted her hand. “You know, I remember when you arrived here. A little rag doll with a wild mop of curls on your head. You’ve grown up quite a bit since then.”

    “Thank you.”

    “Your seventeenth birthday is just around the corner, isn’t it?”

    “April twenty-second.”

    “A big decision.”

    An unhappy smile lit her lips. “Yes.”

    “You would not do well to stay here, Nadia. Stop listening to the Sisters and listen to your heart,” he paused. “You will be very unhappy if you take vows.”

    “Someone has to look after you.”

    “I did, believe it or not, look after myself before you came along.”

    “Poorly. Besides, who would distract Sister Caroline while you steal sweets?”

    He shook his head. “You are priceless.” He squeezed her hand and let her lead him into the chapel.


    The morning was clear, the horizon a sharp line where the sky met the earth in startling blue and white. A cloud of breath, quick to disappear. Nadia rubbed her hands together, blowing on the reddened digits to warm them. “Are you certain they’re coming?” She turned to look at Father Price. “It’s ten past.” She kicked a bit of gravel off the road, it landed in the snow just off the side of the lane.

    He nodded. “They’ll be here, Nadia. Have faith”

    She raised an eyebrow, pulling her coat more tightly around her slim shoulders. The brass buttons flashed in the sunlight, stark gleams against black wool. She bounced up on her toes to get a better view, her short stature preventing her from seeing past the far hill. “I still don’t see why I had to get up. I was perfectly comfortable in bed.” She gave a quick glance at the grey stone cathedral behind them.

    “If they let you, you would sleep all winter.”

    “Bears hibernate; why can’t I?”

    “Chores, Nadia. They need someone to do the things they are too old or too fat to do.”

    “Father, I don’t think--”

    “Here they are.”

    She looked away from Father Price, towards the road. At the point where the hills started to interrupt the gravel lane, trotted four riders and more than ten hangers-on walking. Wool coats in varied shades of brown on grey on every man, drab enough to blend into the road, but not the snow. The dust rose in meager bursts from gravel and dirt, encouraged by soles of heavy leather and hooves shod in steel.

    “So they are. Can we get breakfast now?” She shuffled in place, wrapping her arms around a shiver.

    “Patience. You’re so testy in the morning.” He took a look around, eyeing the snow. “Spring comes so late here.”

    “We’re in the mountains, spring always comes late.”

    “I think someone needs their morning tea.”

    She muttered something under her breath.

    “I didn’t catch that.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your birthday is in three days Nadia, have you made a decision?”

    “Is this really the best time to talk about my future?”

    “It may be the only time we have.”

    She sighed. “This is the only home I’ve ever known. How can I leave? What would I do? Get married? Sell embroidery? There aren’t that many options for me. Women do three things, remember? Bear children, tempt men and go to hell.”

    He pursed his lips in a half frown under raised eyebrows. “Just keep your eyes and ears open. You might have more options than you think.”

    “Yes, and someday the chickens will recite the rosary.”

    He sighed and shook his head. “It--”

    “Here they are.”

    She was right, the riders had made good time.

    Father Price stepped forward. “Welcome.”

    The lead rider slipped off of his horse, holding his arms out to draw Father Price into his embrace. “It’s been too long, Uncle. I was somewhat surprised by your invitation.” He drew away, pushing his hood back. His hair caught the sun, dark and short. His eyes were the same grey as his uncle’s, and his smile had the same slant. “And who is this?”

    “Nadia, this is my nephew John. John, this is Nadia. She is a ward of the church.”

    Nadia cast a strained sort of smile in John’s direction. “We shouldn’t leave them in the cold, Father,” she said.

    “Quite right, I should think breakfast is being served. Let’s get you and your people inside.”

    “I could do with breakfast.” John smiled and mounted his horse. “Lead the way.”

    Nadia stepped off towards the stone courtyard next the cathedral, smoke rising from the building along the side of the courtyard. The tantalizing scent to identified the outbuilding as the kitchens. Father Price kept pace with her, the men and horses just behind. Nadia leaned close to him, a strange sort of look on her face. “Who is he? Other than being your nephew.”

    “The Duke of Hausburg.”

    She frowned. “What are you up to?”

    “Nothing.” He pat her shoulder. “Nothing, my dear.”


    The battle was fierce. Michael fought bravely with the Holy Grace of God on his side. His faith kept him strong and no wound could keep him from his duties. . .


    Everything was hot and cold at the same time. Opening my eyes only revealed the
    darkness. It was the sky, I then realized, before me, its stars winking. How had I survived? With all possible care, I pushed myself away from the snow-covered earth. My shoulder was out of joint, the arm dangled, nearly useless.

    I swallowed the taste of fear and grabbed hold. With a hard jerk, I pulled ball back into the socket. Spots waltzed in front of my eyes and my knees shook. When the pain passed, I took more careful stock of myself. My knees were skinned and a deep laceration on my forearm bled sluggishly. I grabbed a handful of snow and washed the wound.

    The snow slowed the blood further. I wrapped it with scrap from my coat. It seemed that
    God was with me after all--but I had to hurry. Perhaps there was still time. It could not have been long ago that I fell, the pain was too fresh.

    The smoke in the sky came from the same direction as before. The woods were quiet. I gathered my coat more tightly around myself, and headed through the snow towards the smoke.


    . . . his bravery knew no boundaries. His mighty sword could cut down any evil, be it seraph or fiend.


    It was a quiet night, the temperature having dropped to accommodate the moon. Nadia slipped into the kitchen, setting the water bucket next to Sister Caroline. “Is that all you needed?”

    “Yes, thank you, Nadia.” Sister Caroline lifted the bucket up onto the table, pouring it into the stock pot on the adjacent oven. The empty bucket banged onto the stone floor. The sister turned back to chopping leathery carrots on the heavy central table.

    Nadia smiled, ducking under the drying herbs and one unfortunate chicken hanging from the ceiling by it’s feet, and slipped out of the kitchen.

    “The night comes quickly here.” John stepped into pace beside her.

    She raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you always lurch out at people from dark corners?”

    “It’s a bad habit, I know.”

    “Is there something you wanted?” She stopped at the door to the library and waited.

    He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Well, yes. My uncle tells me you’re about to turn seventeen.”

    “I am.”

    “And that you must decide whether or not you are going to stay here.”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, I have proposition for you.” She crossed arms over her chest, nodding for him to continue. “Come live with me.”

    She laughed.

    “No, no, not like that. You could be my ward, my protégé, I can introduce you to society, find you a husband. Or if you don’t want one, I could see to your education. You don’t have to stay here. My mother would love you as her own.” His eyes were eager.

    “I don’t want any more charity.”

    “I’m not offering you charity. My uncle wants you to have a choice in how you live your life and that’s what I’m giving you. Please consider it, for him if nothing else.”

    Shaking her head, “Just leave me alone.” she pulled open the library door, slipped inside and slammed the door closed behind her.

    John blinked. “That went well.”


    The library was dark, darker than usual. A single candle flickered on a single desk. Close cropped curls caught the light, red winding bits of soft hair. A white veil lay discarded on the back of the chair she sat in. She turned the page, eyes locked on the darker words of the newer pages.

    Her lips moved as she read, forming each word. Again, it was the account of the Brotherhood of the Lion--more specifically the account of the order’s last brother, Michael, as written some years later by a monk who knew him.


    Nothing could deter him from his quest. His most fortunate and humble squire, John, being of faithful and honest nature, was quick to aid his master. . .


    Only signs of the battle remained, soldiers were either dead or gone with the fog. There was but smoke, blood and rotted flesh on these fields. “Dammit.” They had left already. Have I slept longer than I thought? Or had this battle been shorter than I thought it would be? Either way, I have to hurry. The people of the relic house were in danger. First, however, I need supplies. I can’t keep going on an empty stomach and dry throat.

    I stalked through the ruins, char and snow crunching beneath my feet. There were a few intact houses, but no life. I dug through the jumble of furniture and smashed ceramic in the kitchen of the least damaged house, coming up with dried meat and cheese. More scavenging rewarded me with a pack and water flask.

    Feeling more like a thief than a knight, I took a coat from yet another house. Gleaning as well a change of clothes warmer than those I was wearing. The original owner must have been something for them to fit me. Whose side had he been on? Was he among the dead? I shook my head to clear away the thoughts.

    I shouldered the pack, filled my flask with clean snow and tucked it under my coat. When I needed water, it would be melted.

    No one else was going to die over some bit of withered flesh packed in mothballs.


    . . . the Betrayer was defeated. Michael and his squire were given their righteous reward. Both ascending into the heavens on clouds of virtuous white.


    The last page swept through her fingers. She closed the tome, leaning back in her chair.

    A question lit her eyes; she looked at the book and then at the shelves. She sighed,
    standing from her seat. The book went in one arm, the candle cradled in the other. She found the gaping hole it had left in the third highest shelf easily, and with some difficulty, managed to put it back--only to have several other books fall down from the shelf above. She jumped back to avoid the books, using words she had learned last spring in the kitchen from old Martin the groundskeeper when he dropped a bag of potatoes on his toe. After a moment’s indecision, she lit the lamp closest to the shelf and blew out the candle.

    Kneeling, Nadia scooped up the fallen manuscripts and tried to put the first back but the shelf was just out of reach. She muttered something else that she doubtless learned from the farrier and hooked her foot around a stool, dragging it to a spot in front of the shelf. Nadia stepped up onto the stool, eyes now relatively level, and began putting the first volume back into it’s place.

    It balked, leaning out over the shelf and ready to topple back down upon her head. She sighed, pulling the book back out and reaching a hand into the shelf. Another volume stood in the tome’s way. She took this slender volume out and replaced the books. “Where did you come from?” she whispered, examining the cover whilst stepping down from the stool. It was not a volume that she knew. The cover was made of a strange, scorched leather, an M embossed on the front.

    Nadia sat down on the stool and opened the book. Something slipped out of the pages and fell to the floor. She bent over, picking the item up from the floor. It was a lock of red hair, held together with a bit of tattered ribbon. She frowned, tucking the lock back into the book for safe keeping.

    Turning back to the first page, she leaned more into the light to read the faded ink.


    The following is the account of the events following the battle at the Ruins of Leo by Michael, Order of the Lion.

    It is cold here. The village is burned and we await orders. I do not know why the Father has given us these orders. I don’t understand most of them. I should put my faith in God, but, what if God is not listening? How could He let so many people die? I’ll talk to Father Benedict. I’m certain he will be reasonable about this. He has to be.


    “What are you reading?”

    She started--but it was only John. “It’s rude to interrupt someone like that.” She glared and snapped the book shut. “What do you want?”

    “Aren’t you up a bit late?”

    Nadia stood, clutching the book tight and stalking to the chair to reclaim her veil. “Aren’t you?” She stepped past him.

    “Are you always this hostile to guests?”

    “Are you always this nosey?”

    He laughed. “My uncle was right about you.”

    “Oh?” She paused, her hand on the door.

    “You don’t belong here.”

    She rolled her eyes, and stalked out of the library.


    ...I am tired of wishing. A wish for things we cannot have sent up into the heavens to a God that perhaps hears but chooses not to listen. And what am I to do? I do not belong here. Perhaps I do not belong anywhere. Is it so difficult for one grain of sand to topple into place? I am stuck between who I am and who I wish to be. And all I can manage to do in the dark hours of the night, is scribble the meaningless poetry of my life into a volume losing it’s pages…


    A gathering in the dark of night, deep in the heart of the cathedral catacombs. A room long unused. High vaulted ceilings carried voices into the dusty shadows.

    “It’s no secret.”

    “If she takes vows--”

    “She can’t. Think of the cost--”

    “The cost? I have thought, long and hard. This is--”

    “You’re a fool if you think--”

    “Gentlemen, ladies, stop.”

    The group fell silent immediately, eyes on the man in the front of the room. His age was apparent, eyes sunken and age spots scattered across a sagging face. The bones of his hands stood out from his skin as clear as they would on a chicken carcass picked of meat as he folded them.

    “Father Gregory, she will not be safe if she stays here.” Father Price said, standing from his seat. “She should go with John; he can protect her.”

    “She would be far safer here; has she not been well cared for, protected, up to now? For more than ten years she has stayed here, safely.” Another man stood, his eyes locked on Price. “She will remain safely.”

    “While I admire your optimism, Brother Franklin, I have my doubts.” Price said. “The war is coming--peace is a fool’s dream now. She is no longer safe with us.”

    “Her family entrusted her to our care. We cannot send her away.” Sister Caroline said. “If she takes vows, the church can continue to shelter and protect her.”

    “If she takes vows, she will be bound to the order, to this place. What then? What if she must leave? Will you absolve her promise? She would never accept that.” Father Price sat back down, his arms folded in front of his chest. “John can protect her from the dangers she faces and give her a chance at something more.”

    “I can.” John said, hands on the table. “I have more than enough men, and more than enough funding. Even if the war comes to my door, she will be safe.”

    “Do you think she will submit quietly to whatever decision we make here?” Father Gregory asked. “She doesn’t even know. As good as our intentions are, the real choice is entirely in her hands.”

    The group sighed collectively, staring at each other across the long table before them.

    “Is there nothing we can do to persuade her?” John asked.

    “No. And I will not force her.” Father Gregory’s decision was final. Slowly, the group dispersed, slipping out the door in small groups. Alone now, Father Gregory stared at the far wall, at the image of God. He was kindly looking with a long white beard and gentle eyes. Hell raged below him and angels flew around his head. Gregory sighed, the sound echoing through the room. “God be with her.”

    Nadia slept, innocent of the goings on of the people she trusted. She turned over, clutching the blanket closer to her chest. The moonlight washed her room blue, peering in through the high window. Her room was sparsely furnished; just a small chest, the cot where she slept and low table to hold a pitcher of water. The pitcher had seen better days, a crack ran along the lip where it was held together with resin. Next to the pitcher lay a thin silver chain, it’s burden a thin, round medallion no bigger than a fingernail.

    It caught the moonlight, a worn image cast in near visibility in the light. A lion’s head roared in the center. The scorched leather of the journal’s corner stuck out from under her pillow.

    The midnight bell tolled, and slowly the moon rose out of the window, sinking the room in darkness. She shifted once, and then fell still, finally, to the deepest reaches of sleep.

    TBC