Finally, after months chapter 11 is here. This has been put off for far too long, but once again the adventure continues. I do hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 11: Forgive us our Sins

Dust motes gently floated in the coloured rays, where the light of dawn forced itself through the stained glass windows of the chapel. Gwenhwyfar stayed close to the walls; in the shadows away from the colourful patterns arrayed across the rows of pews facing the altar. Her eyes however were locked on Elishka kneeling before the altar, draped in a heavy cloak so the sun would not burn her.

Gwenhwyfar watched curiously, unable to clearly hear the whispered words that flowed from the woman's lips, directed towards the heavens despite looking down towards the ground.

"She prays for forgiveness," a monk standing nearby said, noting Gwenhwyfar's look of confusion.

"Forgiveness? What kind of God would demand his followers ask forgiveness for doing what they must to survive?" Gwenhwyfar muttered angrily; she had never liked the prospect of the white Christ that had spread to her island and caused so much upheaval, chaos, and even death.

"A kind God. The one true God. Perhaps you should open your heart to him," the monk replied.

Gwenhwyfar cast a glance his way and shook her head, but kept her mouth shut. She had never trusted the Christians, not since the final war that claimed her husband's life. Not since they had risen up in arms against him in favour of a corrupt, power hungry man who merely claimed to worship their God.

A frown creased her face as she pushed the memories back down. After hundreds of years they still stung like knives. Behind all the wrongs done to her, every act of cruelty done to her, was the bitter truth of what happened all those years ago. Lust, betrayal and the destruction of everything she loved; it had been her fault.

The scrape of leather against stone brought Gwenhwyfar from her thoughts as Elishka stood from her confession. Moving over to the monk and Gwenhwyfar, Elishka lowered the hood of her cloak and met her companion's gaze.

"We should get some rest if you still plan on leaving at sunset," she said simply.

"Two of our monks are heading down to Vienna. They can accompany you south for two nights before they must turn East. Beyond that you are on your own the rest of the way to Venice," the monk said, waving his hand towards two men in brown robes, black crosses stitched across their backs and long swords hanging from plain belts at their hips.

"The Brotherhood is kind to offer assistance," Elishka said with a small smile, while Gwenhwyfar remained silent. She didn't trust this particular monk, finding his missionary attitude distasteful. In times past she had seen men like him rally peasants into a frenzy, turning once peaceful villages into a blood bath that turned neighbour against neighbour.

"It is the least we can do for the Clan of the Wolf, who march now to save the kingdom's of God," the monk said with a gentle bow.

Gwenhwyfar turned from the man and moved towards the doors at the back of the chapel that led down into the small crypt. The Brotherhood publicly said it was for fallen brothers, but in truth they kept the crypts mostly empty for vampires who needed sanctuary from the sun. There were not many amongst the living who knew of the existence of the Brotherhood of the Moon, a secret order of the monks formed by the Pope to keep a truce between the Church and the Vampire Clans.

As for how well relations were going with the Rose Clan, Gwenhwyfar could only guess. She doubted they would openly act against the clan however, they did not have the recourses for open war, like the other two clans did.

Stepping down into the damp crypts Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes and pushed thoughts of politics from her mind. Politics had ruined her before, and they could again. She was always meant to be a warrior, not a noble woman.

With leather boots tapping softly against the cold floors of the crypt, Gwenhwyfar crawled into one of the long alcoves dug into the walls. Folding her hands over her stomach she laid and rested, slipping into something akin to sleep.

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The heat of the sun heated his back through his travelling cloak, fighting off the chill that settled in his bones from the wind. It made Andrzej wish he were back in Italy where it was warm, and he didn't need to spend the nights struggling to keep himself from succumbing to the cold.

With eyes fixed on the small chapel, the hunter spent most of the day thinking on the events he had seen as dawn began to break the sky. The Church had hired him, so why were they helping his targets now? Was this a gathering of heretics?

It would have been so easy to believe, but for the past few years Andrzej has learned not to so quickly jump to conclusions. He was pushing deeper into a world he thought he knew, and the amount of secrets lurking beneath the night sky was starting to frighten him now.

Monks occasionally left the chapel, making Andrzej freeze in place, watching them intently as they went about their duties, or prepared the vampires' carriage for travel once more. Sitting stock still, the cold sank through his clothes and flesh, especially as the shadows of the day grew longer and darker.

Finally the sun had dipped beneath the tree line; it's brilliance a fading memory with only a brilliant orange and purple sky as its testimony until the dawn. That's when they emerged, the two vampires in travelling cloaks that concealed their forms save their pale faces. Both of them turned their eyes directly towards him as they moved alongside the carriage, and Andrzej felt his blood run as cold as his skin. They knew he was here, yet they simply stood there and stared, while the two humans that had been with them the night before guided the unnatural horses from the chapel's small stables.

Andrzej held his breath, hoping not to give himself away with misty breath. His lungs were starting to burn as the horses were finally prepared, and the two vampires climbed up onto the carriage, their gazes finally looking away. He let out a the trapped air in his lungs, mist pouring from his mouth as he watched the two humans from the night before climb inside.

Then two more men came out from the stables astride horses of their own, clad in brown robes and as they turned Andrzej could see black crosses sewn across the backs of their garments. Swords hung from ropes tied around their waists; these were no mere monks. Thinking back through time, Andrzej remembered seeing warrior monks like these men back in Italy, talking with a priest in one of the many churches that dotted the landscape.

These were not heretics, and that prospect scared Andrzej. Why had the church hired him then if they had a secret branch that worked with the undead? As the carriage pulled away from the chapel, back out to the road to continue their journey south, with the two riders following closely behind, Andrzej slunk back into the shadows. He had to return back south, had to find the priest that hired him, and demand answers.

He would not be anyone's political pawn.

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One of the Afghan nomads led them through the desert beneath the blistering heat of the sun. Salaam had mentioned the man's name was Karim, but other than that the Saracen knew very little about the nomad warrior.

Alan had left his English made armour back at the encampment, wearing instead the thick tan cloth of the Saracens, and a white wrap over his head and face. The red surcoat with the English lions emblazoned proudly upon it, he refused to leave behind. He may be working with the enemies of his king, but he was still English. Salaam had no problem with it, and Curtis had smiled even as he dyed a yellow lion across the chest of his own borrowed robes.

The small group of a dozen men clambered over dunes, struggling through the shifting sands beneath their feet, and taking long drinks from their water skins. This was not a journey one would make normally. No it was always best to travel at night, or follow the water to stay alive. Necessity however drove them forward, though Karim seemed unbothered by the heat and hardly seemed to drink from his canteen.

Finally Karim stopped, perching atop one of the many dunes. With a wave of his hand he signalled for Salaam, Curtis and Alan. The rest of the men sat down, trying to get into the shade of the dune as much as they could.

Crouching beside the nomad, Alan followed his gaze to a small mountain that was only about an hour's walk away, but out here Alan wondered if someone would yet fall to the uncaring nature of this land.

The Afghan began to speak, however Alan did not recognize the dialect of his words. Even Salaam seemed to be concentrating as he listened, nodding once in awhile. Finally Karim stopped speaking, and Salaam turned to face Curtis and Alan.

"There is a cave not far up the mountainside. Karim says there are ghouls dwelling within," the Saracen explained, and Alan let out a sigh.

"Best get moving then, before the sun falls," Alan said, curious to the reports Salaam had given about these creatures not moving until after the sun set.

Lord Du Lac must have some followers still alive then, Alan had seen him with a retinue back in Acre, during broad daylight. He had said as much to Salaam, who agree that there would have been others to willingly follow an evil creature, and some who might not be aware.

"Agreed," Salaam said, before turning to speak with Karim once more. Glancing over his shoulder Alan saw Curtis merely shrug before standing and starting off towards the mountain side by side with the Afghan, perhaps wishing to prove his scouting capabilities.

The journey across the flat desert to the mountain was long and tedious, and Alan feared the return journey, hoping they would find an oasis or some other source of water soon. He had been right though in his estimation of travel time. It was only a little more than an hour's walk to the mountain.

Standing at the rocky base, Karim pointed up to a large opening in the stone, with a path leading up towards it. Someone was definitely using this place.

Without a word the group began to ascent, each lighting a torch and pulling their swords free from their scabbards before stepping into the darkness of the cave. They were greeted with a long tunnel that went down and deeper into the mountain. Walking carefully, with someone only occasionally kicking a rock that skittered down the floor, they made their way deeper and deeper into the darkness. The tunnel curled and wound around beneath the mountain, quickly losing sight of the sunlit entrance, the torches becoming the only source of light.

Eventually the tunnel opened into a broad cavern, with more tunnels carved into the walls and leading away into a labyrinth of stone. Bodies littered the floor, all clad in blood stained armour and soldier's uniforms, both Saracen and Crusader. They all clutched weapons, and didn't even twitch as the twelve men stepped into their domain.

"May the souls of the departed forgive us the desecration of their bodies," Alan whispered, holding his sword before him like a cross.

"Amen," Curtis said as he stepped forward into the room.

Karim's blade struck first, the curved sword lopping off the head of a former Saracen warrior. The remainder began to move forward, blades flashing in the torchlight as steel bit through flesh and bone. Their raid against the enemy seemed to be going well, the creature's hadn't even moved. Alan began to wonder if they were even resting ghouls at all.

A howl swept through the chamber, and at once the bodies began to get to their feet with raspy calls of hunger. All around them the dead rose, and Alan suddenly realized there were so many more than he had expected. Glancing over at Salaam, he could tell the Saracen was surprised as well. Only Karim didn't seem to care, moving swiftly, his sword swinging through bodies and spilling the blood of his enemies.

"Might as well kill them all," Curtis said, and moved forward to help the Afghan, sword flicking aside a poor spear thrust before decapitating the creature that dared strike at him.

A roar of defiance and anger sounded from the throat of every man in the room as they pushed forward into the now teeming mass of the undead, their swords cutting deep and spraying thick blood through the cavern. The rocks turned slippery; Alan was having trouble keeping his foot, but fought on, desperate to rid the world of this dark menace.

His foot launched forward, smashing into a ghoul's shield, making the creature stumble backwards into more of his ilk. Following through with a vicious thrust, Alan felt his sword punch through the bone where the creature's eye had once been, bursting out the back spilling brain and blood across the floor.

Pulling the long sword free, Alan turned in time to raise his weapon to deflect a mace's blow. The thundering blow reverberated up his arm, through the bone and he grimaced as pain shot through his hand. With a grunt he grasped the creature's weapon, dropping his torch to the ground, and gave it a swift head butt to the face, cracking bone and splitting flesh.

The undead abomination stumbled backwards and Alan lifted the mace above his head and brought it crashing down on the creature's jaw, turning it to bloody pulp beneath the savage blow. Chips of bone shot out from beneath the ball of steel and Alan swung it to the side again, forgetting the fallen ghoul as he struck another in the chest. Ribs shattered beneath the impact but the creature ignored what should have been a killing strike.

A harsh wind tore through the cavern, and all twelve torches flickered, struggling to stay alit. Alan looked down at his own light, wavering beneath the unnatural onslaught.

"You dare enter my domain, and so you shall pay with your souls," a voice sounded on the wind, scratching across Alan's mind. The voice was not Du Lac, it belonged to some other demon.

As the voice faded, the torches went out, and the wind stopped. Amidst the darkness the rotting flesh of the damned moved towards the blind men, and the cries of battle quickly turned to screams of terror.

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