“I doubt the wisdom of continuing further,” said the same soldier who had doubted on the plain. “This door bids us depart, before we are destroyed by what lies within.”
“The legends of this place affect even you, an Elite Guard?” Montague asked with a smile. “Then what must it do to the untrained rebels? Perhaps they fear the eternal darkness, and so we must increase their fears by realizing them.”
“But, my lord,” the soldier asked, “How can we, when we ourselves are not demons?”
“Are we not?” Montague asked. He paused. “If not now, then we will be in a moment,” and he drew his sword, pressing it against the man’s chest.
“Will we begin?” he asked, and began driving it slowly and firmly through the soldier’s armor and into his flesh. The soldier’s face was a nightmare, but Montague only derided his death and sent his sword to the man’s heart. The blade came just within the organ of life and the soldier passed from life like a dreamy, lingering spirit. His body sunk to the floor, laying face up before the door.
Montague looked at the corpse for a moment, his face playing with some foul thought. Then, with the tip of his sword, he began to peel the skin from the soldier’s face. The other Elite Guards were at first abhorred, but it grew on them like a moral mold that waited in the air for them be infested. One by one each drew his sword and joined Montague in his devilry, mutilating the body of their comrade. They laughed as they did, calling out to him in mockery and their detail was lucid and horrific: some scratched rude claw marks, others hacked downwards to emulate a powerful bite. All at once they stopped and stepped back, seeing that nothing more could be accomplished. The body lay directly beneath the claws of the eagle, its face staring into the eyes of the lion.
“The only demons within this mountain are those we have brought in with us,” Montague said after a pause, “We are the only evil force here.”
But as he finished, the dead man’s eyes opened. A gurgling noise came from his throat. His hand began to shake. His lips quivered violently until – at last – a deep moan flied off his tongue, “No!”
The soldiers fell back, trembling. Even Montague was startled
“Come,” he said, “Let us go from this place.”
He stepped forward, straddled the corpse, and pushed hard upon the door. It groaned loudly, then swung back on its hinges and opened the way before them. Beyond was the darkness. Montague could see nothing, but the black took many shapes and filled his mind with strange colors and patterns. It was too devoid of light to be understood. He did not move through it, but stood there as before a wall that could not be passed. His nose pressed against the wall of darkness, and he could feel its cold grip pushing back.
A moment before, Montague had placed his lantern on the ground, and its covers had unhinged and fallen over the light; the lanterns of the others, meanwhile, were too far behind to pierce the veil before him. Therefore, he reached down and grasped for the lantern’s handle, to light the way. Yet he moved with a slur, his eyes fixed on the darkness before him and his limbs moving slightly of their own accord. A cold, metallic handle struck his fingers and he jumped slightly at its touch, but when his mind came alongside his body, he curled his fingers tightly around it and stood. His arm trembled as it held the lantern before him, on his side of the wall, and for a moment he did not open its shutters. Then – with a surge of passion – his right hand shot upward and grabbed the foremost shudder, yanking it open and sending a single, intense beam of light shattering against the nothing.
For a brief instant he saw beyond the veil, though the others could see nothing with him standing there. Then Montague screamed and jumped backwards, tripping on the corpse and falling upon its bloodied head as he came down. The lantern fell from his hands and landed on the stone floor with an echoing bang. It bounced once and landed on its side. The light only streamed three feet from the ground: the upper portion of the doorway was left in darkness.
There – revealed in the lantern’s light – were two thick, scaly, pale red legs. The feet were gnarled and horned, clawed as with swords. Behind, a forked tail wriggled back and forth between the legs as a cobra on the attack.
Montague could not move, paralyzed with fear; nor did the soldiers breath. The figure hissed a silent laugh, then turned and vanished completely into the darkness. A moment later, Montague reclaimed his feet, his body soaked in the blood of the mutilated soldier. The other soldiers stood behind him, faceless.
In a weak whisper, “Come, men, we must move on.”
They did not answer.
In a louder voice, “Come, men, we cannot rest here.”
Still, they were silent.
In a bitter command, “Come, men, we have seen what many men have not. But to fear is to acknowledge God.”
They remained still and he laughed bitterly, a furious reaction to the fear he had allowed himself to entertain. But he was Nicholas Montague, he remembered, and he did not fear damnation.
“We came for the blood of God,” he smiled, “But I will not leave without the blood of Satan as well!”
With that, he plunged into the darkness and was gone.
Chapter 67
“What the devil has happened to him?” cried de Garcia, his unruly hair thrown back in disgust. “I have heard the legends of the evil of this place, but I did not believe it.”
“Nor I,” Leggitt answered, “But his companions continued onward.”
“And so must we,” Patrick added, “So come, time flees and we must pursue.”
He walked forward, through the open doorway before them, but Willard held him back. “Time does not exist within this place, be it tower, temple, or mountain. The things we will encounter are not governed by mere time.”
Beyond the doorway, the hall continued forward, though it began to curve along a circular path as it wound up the mountain. The sub-human figures of the mural gave way to ape men, their clothing torn and their surroundings dismal. No windows or doors appeared on either wall, and no outside light came into the tunnel, not even the faint light of the moon. They were arranged in a military pattern, suggested by Leggitt and seconded by de Garcia: Willard – with his plate armor – went first, with Horatio at his side; de Garcia took the center – between Lydia and Ivona – where he could assist whichever side was assailed; and Patrick and Leggitt brought up the rear. Since the walls were unknown, they were to form into a circle should they be ambushed.
After they had walked another fifteen minutes, they came to an open, cavernous hall – or, at least, a room that seemed open, for they could not see. They stopped along a corner of the room, where part of it turned inward at a sharp angle. They made a temporary camp to rest themselves. The lanterns were spread out three feet in front of them – so they could see anyone who came toward them – and the packs were set around them. Horatio and Patrick stood on watch, though the others were no less vigilant. De Garcia sat beside Leggitt, and Lydia rested alone in the corner. Willard and Ivona were left alone in the center. Their conversation is as follows:
“You are silent, Ivona.”
“Should I be loud?” she smiled slightly, “This is not a place to be exuberant.”