Next chapter up for your enjoyment, whoever is still reading this. I seem to be loosing readers pretty quickly, but I'm still going to finish the story regardless, I've put way too much effort into this piece. Anyway, hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Picture by Avelina De Moray

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Chapter 12: Lost in the Dark

It was utterly dark, not unlike what Alan imagined the pits of hell must be like. He acted on instinct, fighting against shuffles monstrosities in the dark, while moving towards where he hoped the entrance was.

Something smashed against him, and he wasn't sure if it was one of the ghouls or one of his comrades. Knocked to the ground, he scrambled along the rock, holding his sword tight, it was his only lifeline down here beneath the earth hidden from the sky and the world of man.

Crawling along the floor, between legs and over bloody corpses he tried to find a way out, looking for any sign of light. He felt fallen blades run along his body, pressing against his flesh. Boots hit him as the living scrambled in the dark for safety sending pain through his body as they hit him. Jagged rocks cut at his palms and knees as he moved as fast as he could, unsure of where he was going.

Something tripped over him, whether a ghoul or one of the hunters he didn't know, but he didn't care. Fear gripped his heart with an icy fist and he tried not to make any noise despite the blood now flowing from torn hands, and the sword scraping against the rock.

He managed to get into a clearing, and get to his feet. Leaning against the wall, a piece of rock jabbing into his bruised ribs, he tried to look around in the black, but couldn't see anything; he could only hear the sounds of struggle as the living valiantly tried to survive this place of death.

Moving along the wall he felt it suddenly give way; a tunnel. The pounding in his chest ceased for a brief moment and elation filled his mind. He hated to turn and run, but there was no way he could go back into the vicious melee and hope to survive. Turning into the tunnel he pressed his way forward, bloody hand against the walls to guide him.

As he moved he felt his heart lower when he realized that he wasn't going up, and there was still no sign of light. This must have been the wrong tunnel. Still, Alan held hope that it was another way out, that he could escape through this passage.

Moving along through the inky darkness he listened for anything else that might be around. The screams of the dying still echoed down the walls to reach his ears as he trudged through the black. One foot in front of the other he moved along, grimacing against the pain that wracked his body as he moved as quickly as he could.

As he went to set his foot down he felt air where there should have been rock. Too late he realized he was at the edge of a hole and despite himself Alan let out a shout of fear and pain as he tumbled downwards, falling further from the eyes of God and into the depths of hell. His body smashed against the walls of the narrow passage downwards, fingernails tore off as he grasped desperately for an outcropping to stop his fall.

His heart pounded in his chest as he fell for what seemed like forever.

The impact on the ground below send pain shooting up into his knees and he thought he heard something crack. He screamed again as he slid down a slope, sliding along the rocks and bouncing downwards, smashing his bruised body against the stone without mercy.

Tumbling forwards, his head smashed against something hard, and he was sent spiralling into unconsciousness.

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The waters of the vast lagoon sloshed against the sturdy wood of the large raft, which glided along towards the floating city of Venice, guided by two cloaked ferrymen of the Dragon Clan. Their long poles dipped deep into the water, pushing the raft along. They did not speak, nor did the passengers attempt to start any conversation.

Standing alongside Adara, Gwenhwyfar watched the city loom closer and closer. This was where their ship awaited to take them to the Holy Lands, and Lancelot du Lac. Vengeance and possibly salvation awaited her across the Mediterranean Sea, but there were matters here in Venice that demanded her attention. Here in the Dragon Clan's territory, she guessed was the threat that had tried to kill her and Elishka back in the forests of the Holy Roman Empire.

As the raft pushed up alongside one of the many docks facing the mainland, one of the ferrymen turned to Gwenhwyfar and Elishka while his comrade tied the raft to one of the thick posts jutting from the lagoon. The shadows of his cloak obscured most of his face, but they could both see his pale thin lips, fangs exposed as he spoke.

"Respect our clan during your stay and you shall have no troubles here. Should you need to feed the beggars are as plentiful as anywhere else and La Perla has a deal with the clan to provide... sustenance," the man said dragging the last word out before a worm like tongue flicked across his lips.

"Thank you," Elishka said curtly though Gwenhwyfar could hear the disgust dripping from her words. Both Gwenhwyfar and Elishka knew about the well known brothel La Perla, and Elishka was ever the prude.

"Tell your lords whatever you must about tonight, but keep our arrival here quiet," Gwenhwyfar said to the ferryman, who cocked his head in confusion.

"But the arrangements made are quite clear. You are welcome in Venice; there is no need for such secrecy," the vampire said.

"There is a rose growing in your garden, and until we've plucked it out as we would a common weed, I'd rather our presence go unknown," Gwenhwyfar said staring into the shadows were the ferryman's eyes were hidden.

It was quiet for a moment, save the gentle lap of water against the dock and the distant laughter spilling from a tavern. Then the ferryman lowered his hood revealing a bald head with a dragon tattooed in green ink crawling up his neck and onto his scalp, where it curved until its snout was perched just above where the man's eyebrows should have been. His eye lids were closed and sewn shut with thick black metal wires, but he still faced Gwenhwyfar directly, his nostrils flaring every few seconds as if smelling her.

"Do you know where this rose grows?" he hissed.

"I have an idea... but it will take some time."

"How much time?"

"A few days at most."

Lips drawing tight the ferryman simply stood still, his fingers forming a steeple in front of his chest.

"I shall see what resources I can get for you... go to La Perla, seek out Hella McCormick. She has no affiliation with us and her... services will be of great use to you," the creature said, and without another word he and his comrade climbed onto the dock and vanished into the night.

"Now what?" Elishka asked, looking down the alley the two ferrymen has disappeared.

"Take the carriage to a stable, preferably one run by servants of the Dragon, then get us a room for the next few nights. I'm going to find Hella, and through her burn a garden," Gwenhwyfar said her lips pulling back in a snarl.

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Swinging down off his horse and reeking of damp leather and sweat, Andrzej walked into the quaint courtyard of the small church. There was no village for a few miles in any direction, so the monks that stared up at him with surprise would have nowhere to run.

He was a God fearing man, but Andrzej feared no living being who walked this earth even if they claimed to be a voice for God. So he had no concerns with pushing open the doors of the church and walking between the rows of pews with his blade tapping against his side with each step. Another few monks backed cautiously away from the man who strode up to the altar where one Brother Davide kneeled before a bronze carving of the son of God.

When the monk heard the approaching steps he turned and smiled up at the mercenary, before noting the look of fury on the hunter's face which melted the smile almost instantly.

Rough gloved hands grasped Davide's shoulders and lifted him bodily from the floor and spun him through the air before tossing him into the first row of pews. The other monks bolted for the doors, desperate to get away. So their pacifism wouldn't even let them save one of their own.

"What is the meaning of this? I am a man o-," Davide started to say before Andrzej landed a solid punch across the monk's jaw sending him down to the stone floor. As the man tried to get back up, Andrzej grabbed his robes again and smashed him back into the pews.

"I don't give a fuck who you say you are. Tell me who you're working for," Andrzej snarled into the man's face.

"I work for the Lord of Heaven, and he wil-," Davide was saying before another punch hit him square in the face.

Andrzej could feel bone break beneath his knuckles, saw the man's nose shift on his skull with blood spurting from his nostrils and coating the front of his robes.

"Keep telling me lies and I'll send you to meet him much sooner than you'd like," Andrzej barked angrily.

"You wouldn't dare," Davide said with trembling lips, fear now creeping into his voice though he attempted to keep up a defiant facade.

In response the Polish mercenary pulled a long dagger from his boot and stabbed it into the monk's leg, just above the knee. Davide screamed in agony, his voice reverberating off the walls as he clutched at the steel that had slid behind the knee cap and nicked the bones buried deep in his flesh. Dark red blood welled up from the wound, quickly soaking the brown robes all the way down to his foot.

"I'm in no mood to fuck around. Tell me what I want to know or I show you firsthand how the Lord Christ felt on the cross," Andrzej said and Davide went white.

"I don't know his name! I swear to God. He just told me that the vile creatures were coming down from the north and that I should find a way to remove them," Davide sputtered tears welling in his eyes.

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain... tell me the whole truth," Andrzej said, twisting his knife angrily.

Davide whimpered pathetically, tears running down his cheeks, the smell of urine filling Andrzej's nostrils as the monk's piss dribbled on the stone floors from under his stained robes.

"His lord promised me immortality, to live forever to preach God's grace. I don't know who the man was, he was just a merchant, just a merchant," Davide sobbed.

"Who was his lord, where was this merchant?" Andrzej demanded starting to put together the puzzle in his mind.

"Venice, the merchant was from Venice. He lives there, he swears his lord will take down the corruption of this world," the monk stammered, snot mixing with the blood flowing from his nose, running over his lips and chin in a drooling mess.

"Who, was, the, lord?" Andrzej said dangerously, spacing each word to punch them into the head of the pathetic blubbering mess brother Davide had become.

"Du Lac... the merchant's lord is Du Lac."

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