17.

I awoke the next morning to find Juan and a fair-haired young priest talking quietly next to our rekindled camp fire.  I threw my blankets off and stretched out my travel weary muscles, then looked over to find Antonio still asleep.

The priest and Juan looked in my direction and the priest nodded to me.

“This is Father McFagan from the Church in Edinburgh, come to aid us in our quest,” Juan told me by way of introduction; beside me Antonio stirred under his blanket.

“Father,” I said as I nodded to him and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

A light rain had moved in off of the sea overnight, and the clouds seemed to hang just above our heads.  There was a wet chill in the air, and I remember thinking what a dreary day it was going to be -- I had no idea how dreary.

“Is Father McFagan to accompany us then?” I asked in jest as I girded myself for the day ahead.

“Oh no, I’m no warrior,” Father McFagan told me seriously.  “Word reached us last night of your arrival, and the Bishop sent me with all haste to aid you in any way I could.  I brought supplies, and I will tend to your camp while you are away.”

Beside me Antonio laughed, of course McFagan wasn’t traveling with us; he would only be a hindrance.  Priests were rarely trained in the art of war.  Without a single word between the three of us, we made ready to do battle with the Dracua Crowe.

Father McFagan was a good man, even though he was no warrior.  He helped us make ready for that day.  He cooked us salted meat to break our fast, and laid out our bread.  He wiped the skillets when we had eaten our fill, and stowed away our supplies.  It was the only way he could give us aid in this quest, but it was good enough, and it was appreciated.

 

18.

We traveled west, till we struck a rocky creek.  In the fog and drizzle it was difficult to get our bearings in this strange land.  But we all knew it was the creek described by the old gaffer, and following it would take us to Orlden Hill -- and Crowe.

The tension of the situation was building, even in Antonio and I, who knew not the meaning of fear.  Anxiety was practically emanating from Juan, who seemed to jump at every movement.  Juan’s dark eyes were wide and haunted looking as he led us to Orlden Hill.

In the fog it felt as though we were the only people on Earth, save for maybe Maxmillius Crowe, who we knew was out there -- somewhere, waiting for us.

Gradually the creek bottom narrowed, and its rocky sides grew steep as it cut its way out of the highland hills.  We still could not make out Orlden Hill through the gloom, but I think we could all feel it bearing down on us like some titanic lodestone.  The air around us seemed to thicken, and the drizzle gave way to a fog that clung to us like cobwebs.

The nags we were mounted upon felt our uneasiness.  They snorted, and pawed at the rocks with their eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.

I remember it seemed hard to breathe out there in that lonely creek bottom.  We seemed so isolated from the world, and everything around us seemed like a threat.  At every bend I expected to see him, falling on us in ambush.  We were as utterly alone as it was possible to be, and we were all aware of our danger.

19.

It was Juan’s horse that bolted first, snorting and kicking his back feet high in the air -- barely missing Antonio’s head in the process.  Juan, who was far and away the best rider of us three, would have I think, easily stayed aboard this nag but for the top heavy weight of his armor.  One jump, then two, and on the third, Juan -- overloaded by his armor and gear of war, was unseated.  Coming down with a resounding crash that shattered the silent gloom of the creek bottom.  Seeing the success of the rebellion afoot, mine and Antonio’s nags began to pitch as well -- making short work of us.

 

20.

As we all lay in a heap amongst the rocks of the creek bed, my only thought was how vulnerable we were.  I rolled over and finally got my knees under me in time to see Juan make it to his feet.  In the heavy air we could clearly hear our horses galloping gleefully back down the creek bed in the direction from which we had come, and there was something else -- the sounds of pebbles skittering down the steep sides of the creek bank.  At once we were on our feet, our backs pressed one to the others, swords in hand.  We were trained fighting machines, in our prime -- schooled in the arts of war, and free of doubt -- still we were overmatched from the very beginning.

On the creek bank above us there was nothing, only the swirling fog in the still air.  But something had been there -- the pebbles were still clattering down the bank.

“Ward and sword Venatore,” Juan said under his breath, as his hawk like eyes scanned the creek banks.  “We are not alone.”

The smell struck me first I think, the salty sweet smell of blood -- cloying in the damp mists.  No, of course we were not alone, death was with us at that moment, caressing us with her ghostly hands -- choosing among us, like a victor going through the spoils.

Juan spotted what looked to be a red bundle of rags just upstream from us -- half in, and half out of the churning waters of the stream.  I noted a slightly red tinge in the water that flowed past my feet.  I thought of how I had drunk so deeply from that cool stream just a couple of leagues down from here, and my stomach threatened revolt.

“So that is what spooked the horses,” Antonio said beside me.

Cautiously Juan stepped forward, waving his sword in a low menacing arc.

“What is it?” I asked, as I fought back a second wave of nausea.

“A child,” Juan said quietly as he sheathed his sword and bent forward to examine the remains.  “By the Virgin Mary, what manner of creature would do such a thing?”

Antonio and I followed Juan’s lead and sheathed our swords.  Then we too stepped forward to gaze upon the remains.  It was a child, that was sure, though I could not have told you if it was boy or girl.  Both its legs were gone, and one arm as well.  What remained was a bloody swollen mass of flesh with parts unidentifiable.  Only the eyes, those blank clouded eyes that held so much terror, told us it was human at all.  It had been chewed on, and whatever had done it, had cast it aside like leftovers -- its appetite appeased.  For a while at least.

Another wave of nausea washed across me.  This was my first real encounter with death, and I had quite literally drank my fill.

 

21.

I knew I was being watched, and by whom, before I ever looked up.  Instantly, the hair stood straight up on the back of my neck as my head craned upwards.  I scarcely saw the foot that connected with my chest, literally collapsing my breastplate like paper, and flinging me backwards almost ten feet, where I struck the creek bank with stunning force.

It felt as though I had been hit with a mallet and driven into an anvil.

Stunned and struggling for breath that would not come, I looked up to see Antonio reach for his sword.  Then our assailant was on him -- Antonio with his sword only half drawn.  There was the ring of metal striking something hard as Antonio took a scorching blow to his jaw from an iron gauntlet.

Antonio was unconscious before his twitching body ever hit the bed of the creek.

Then our dark assailant was bearing down on Juan, who had drawn his sword and was slowly backing up the creek.  I fumbled for the straps of my breastplate, but the leather was pulled taught, and the buckles would not give.  I could not breathe, and I feared if I could not get my damaged breastplate off soon, I would lose consciousness.

It was Maxmillius Crowe, I was sure of this, though from my vantage I couldn’t see our dark assailant’s face.  Juan held his sword low as Crowe carelessly advanced on him.  There was a flash in the mist, and the clang of iron, as Maxmillius brought his sword down sharply at just the right moment on Juan’s blade.

The clang was followed by the clattering sound of the broken blade of Juan’s sword falling among the rocks.

Maxmillius pounced on Juan, whose arm was undoubtedly still numb from Maxmillius= parry.  Grabbing Juan by the throat, Crowe pushed him back against the steep creek bank.  I felt sure he was going to kill him, and I jerked more desperately at the straps of my breastplate.  Panic took me, and stars began to explode in my field of vision, as I gasped for the air that I could not breathe.

“Leave this place Venatore,” I heard Maxmillius tell Juan softly.  “Only death awaits you here. Abandon this charge, and leave knowing I will attend to this matter.”

Juan struggled in Maxmillius= grasp, but it was fruitless.  Even from where I sat, struggling with my crushed breastplate, I could feel the fastness of Maxmillius= grip.

“Our charge is to slay thee Maxmillius,” Juan chocked out.  AAnd how can I reject this charge with the evidence that lies on bank of yonder creek.”

Maxmillius glanced over his shoulder at the remains of the child, then dropped his chin to his chest, spilling his raven hair across his face.  His vice-like grip on Juan’s throat relaxed, and his hand fell back to his side.  Juan took a gulping breath of air and slid down to a sitting position with his back to the creek bank.

“You are Dracua,” Juan accused in a raspy voice.  “Deny this!”

“I cannot,” Maxmillius said softly, his dark hair still covering his face.

“And can you deny the child that lies cold and mutilated on the creek there?” Juan asked, rubbing his sore throat, his eyes ablaze in righteous fury.  “Can you deny that this chewed up child is your handiwork Dracua?”

“No,” Maxmillius said as he turned to walk away.  “I will not deny my responsibility in this.”

Maxmillius turned from Juan and approached me, drawing a knife from his belt as he did.  I looked deeply into his ice blue eyes -- they were cold and lifeless.  His features were pale as that of the child on yonder banks.  Still, he was beautiful, and I was drawn to him.  As he approached me, knife in hand, I found myself admiring him.

“They are all my responsibility, mine alone Venatore.  Leave this place with all haste.  I do not need your blood on my hands as well,” He said as he bore down on me.

I was facing sure death with a knife in his hand, and for the first time I realized I was not invincible -- I was not immortal.  I realized that day, that I too would die -- sooner maybe, rather than later.  And I was afraid for the first time.  Frozen with terror I cannot find words to describe.  Now I too knew doubt.

Bested there on that creek, I found my own mortality, while staring into the blue eyes of death.

Had I not been so utterly terrified, I might have cried out as he knelt down in front of me and brought the glittering knife blade up under my armpit.

Now my death is here, I thought.

            Then his blade sliced through one of the leather straps, releasing the pressure of the dented breastplate with an audible pop.  Air flooded back into my lungs, and I almost lost consciousness.  He cut the remaining straps.  Then he stood, and with one last speculative glance down at me, turned and evaporated into the mists with alarming quickness.

 

22.

We arrived back at our encampment late that evening, soaked to the bone, tired, sore, and dejected.  We had been bested -- our virginity taken from us by a rapist.  No longer would we have that surety of skill.  Our arrogance was vanished.  Our egos bruised.  Antonio and I would never be the same, for this was a pain we would not soon forget.  It was our edge we lost that day, and our though our wounds were minor, our shame was great.

Antonio had gotten the worst of it, his jaw had swollen to roughly twice its normal size, and he could barely open his mouth to take in food that night.  Our horses had returned to camp -- another blow to our cracked egos.

Father McFagan had been worried of course, and he doted on us upon our return, as a mother hen dotes on her chicks -- only making matters worse.

“Father McFagan,” Juan said, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion.  “I need you to make report in all haste, directly to the Vatican in my stead.  Say this: We have confirmed that Maxmillius Crowe is in fact Dracua, and that he has turned from God -- his confession we have heard this day.  He is guilty of these murders, and we will attempt justice, though I know not whether we are able to complete this task.  Tell them that his lair is at the foot of Orlden Hill, in the Highlands of Scotland, and that all measures should be taken to ensure his defeat.  He is evil, and a threat to both our Church and our lives.  Sign this dispatch Juan Diego de Gonzales, Venatore, Knight of the Vatican.”

As I listened to Juan’s diatribe the thought occurred to me that I had betrayed Maxmillius somehow.  He had asked us to leave the matter to him, yet we of course were not going to do that, and worse, we had reported his guilt to the charges against him.  To the Church this would be enough, as good as a trial of judges.  If Venatore judged him guilty, then guilty he was, and his life was now forfeit.  Yet he had admitted it had he not?  Admitted that he was Dracua, and that these murders were his doing.  How could we do anything less than what we were doing?  Yet all the justification in the world would not ease my mind.  This was not how I had envisioned this quest.  Not how I had envisioned the first meeting with my mentor.

Part of me died that day, the child in me.  My innocence was lost, and my hero debunked.  Where were my dreams now?  How could I face the new day?

 

23.

To make matters worse our old nemesis, the Monk Samuel from the Cathedral of St. Peter, came strolling into our camp just then – uninvited.  And to our amazement, he sat down at our fire like an old comrade come back from a long journey.

“At last I’ve found you,” Samuel said as he warmed his hands over the fire.  I noted his clothing was dry, despite the dreary day that had just passed.

“Aye,” Juan said distrustfully.  “You have found us, but why?”

“The Bishop bid me follow you and aid you in any way possible as an afterthought to your departure.  Alas, I lost your track yesterday evening, and found myself off of the beaten path,” Samuel explained.

“How would you aid us Monk?” Juan asked.

Samuel looked at a loss to explain.  All I could think of was the way Samuel’s eyes had lingered on Antonio and I that afternoon in our chambers at St. Peter’s.

“Well, I will gladly accompany you, and I can tote supplies or packs if need be,” Samuel offered lamely.

There was something wrong with Samuel’s offer.  While I had no doubt the Bishop sought to aid us in our quest, I did not believe it was his idea to send Samuel.  It also seemed that Samuel had come quite empty handed of aid for one charged with such a mission.  But I said nothing.  Samuel was a Monk, a respected man of the cloth who had given his life to the Lord, and despite my feelings that afternoon in our chambers; Samuel had not actually done anything that would be considered inappropriate.  As Samuel and I sat there looking at each other from across the fire, my first thought was to openly reject this offer of aid, but I knew I could not.  Samuel was owed a certain amount of respect, and he had not entirely used up that currency in our chambers that day.  Beside me, I could feel Antonio weighing those same options in his own mind.