The Centaur (16 page)

He remembered the lab more clearly than anything else it seemed and he knew every nook and cranny in it and what everything was and, even better, what everything was for and the workings thereof, but he also had pictures of the lab lit with brilliant white light, filled with stainless steel tables and yellow metal cabinets. Neat rows of chemicals and elixirs and tonics and potions all neatly labeled and properly arranged. The tools, hanging from hooks or lying on shelves, he recognized. He remembered the pains of losing beloved friends and Brothers and many deaths he had suffered, but woven in and out of these memories like the white hair in the silver earrings, was the Meredith Sinclair.

There were memories of her that astounded him and, at the same time, made him smile and blush. Other memories of her made him want to weep uncontrollably and some were too terrible to believe. The second most popular figure in his memory was Lucio Dambretti, his son, his protégé, his friend and above all, his Brother. He had asked about Lucio and received varying negative responses from Sophia and Nicole. Though he now contained many more memories and a vast store of knowledge, he seemed sadly inept where it came to understanding what it was exactly that Sophia and Nicole seemed to find so terrible about Lucio and Meredith Sinclair. He had obviously missed a great deal somewhere between the time he was ‘killed’ on the battlefield by his alter-ego and/or the time in which he had been ‘reborn’ or ‘made new’, as the clurichaun had put it. It was similar to waking up from an incredibly long dream or nightmare and finding that weeks or even years had passed since going to sleep.

However fascinating his own mental condition was, he had no time to waste trying to sort it out. If all went well, he would simply find the archives kept by the Knight of the Throne and catch up on things. What bothered him most were his more recent memories. He wondered how he could have come to be here without his sword and how on earth he might have ended up in the middle of the desert with Sophia Cardinelli. And yet, he knew the answer to this question, though he could not put it in any kind of logical form. Sophia was pregnant. That much was certain and the baby was his, though it would not be a
Nephilim because he had been a simple mortal man when the baby had been conceived, but how could he have been mortal? And the elf King… his son? It was too confusing. He had tried to ask what had become of Queen Sam and had received only stares in return. Very disturbing. He knew that Luke Andrew and Omar had gone away together, but to where? He knew that this thing headed for them from the deep abyss of space was a Centaur, half comet, half asteroid. A piece of the asteroid belt that had once been the planet Vulcan. Where was Lemarik?

Another thing he knew for certain was that his son would be born on Midsummer’s Eve and that his name would be Michael Emanuel. Nicole had promised to dig out the old records and persuade her Captain to allow them to use one of the old laptop computers, which he guarded so carefully. He would be up to snuff in no time, and no time was what he had now.

He tossed a small bundle of wet hyssop into the censor and tried to fan the coals by blowing through the grates in the sides of the brass vessel. When the smoke was rising satisfactorily in the rain, he stood up and began the conjuration of the only spirit that could possibly help them now. Nebrukur was supposedly able to control the movements and crossing of all things and the stars after their fashion. He hoped this powerful spirit could do something about the Centaur.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

The first false light of the pre-dawn was visible above the mountains to the west as the twelve Knights of the Council of the Red Cross of Gold, sat down around a makeshift table in order to have what was, perhaps, their last meeting before being utterly destroyed by the malevolent force atop the mountain above them.

Sir Barry of Sussex brought the meeting to order. The Grand Master, typical of his unfailing habit of being late, made them wait ten minutes in gloomy silence. A humming, battery-powered florescent light sat in the middle of the ‘table’ which consisted of several folding tables pushed together and covered over with shiny solar-powered thermal blankets. The effect was eerie and the reflective surface sent strange patterns fluttering about the command tent as the Knights shifted in their seats, drinking black coffee and tea from various mugs and plastic bottles. They were lucky to have coffee and tea at this late juncture, but Mark Andrew had supplied the precious commodity from the pack on his horse. As they sipped the hot liquid, their spirits began to lift and before Edgard showed up, the gloom had been dispelled and Barry had even cracked a joke to Lavon about his need for a shave.

The Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon had a thick growth of wavy, golden fluff lying close to his face which he tried desperately to manage. All of the Knights had beards of some sort. Simon and his sons had the least to worry about in that department as they all sported some measure of light blonde whiskers of which they constantly teased each other and compared at great lengths in their spare time, each vying to outdo the other with bizarre designs and styles. Edgard found it most distressing that his grandsons would be so amused with such things at this very pressing time.

The Grand Master sported no beard, but instead had a rather elegant Celtic-style mustache and long, curly red hair lying on his shoulders in silky tendrils. The prize for darkest and heaviest beard would have been a three-way tie between Christopher Stewart, Luke Matthew Ramsay and Lucio Dambretti. The entire assemblage looked like something from ages past when they gathered together for field briefings. It was not the lack of cutting instruments that led to this abnormally hairy assembly, but rather the lack of soap and water, the abrasive desert climate and the decreased necessity for proper grooming standards. Only Mark Andrew and Alexander Corrigan were clean shaven. Even Eduord de Goth sported a modified Fu-Manchu.

The Grand Master showed up and the Knights fell silent as he stood perusing them as if he were assessing their combat readiness or perhaps their mental states or both.

“Brothers, your Highnesses…” Edgard nodded to the three monarchs at the gathering, and then shook his head slightly as if to say he would have never believed it possible. “Sir Ramsay has informed me that the object, which is on a direct collision course with earth, will be arriving sometime later on today. It is the Will of God this should happen. The course for this age has run out and now we are left to assure that the earth, what remains after the flood, will not be overrun by the forces of Chaos. Mankind shall not be required to endure the same oppression as that which followed the first and second deluges. Although our actions here today will not bring back Paradise on earth, it will prevent the resurgence of the darkness that enshrouded this world for so long. The light will not remain buried for long, gentlemen, it is as Thoth, the Atlantean said in his great epic. With your indulgence, I would like to read a brief excerpt of that great work now so that we may pay our respects while we still have time to the author who remains with us even unto the end of this world.”

Everyone turned their eyes on Mark Andrew and his face turned two shades darker. He could only meet the eyes of his brother, Luke Matthew. The King of Britain, whose reign was but the briefest flash, it seemed and the brother he’d kept so close for so long. It was impossible to tear his eyes away from him now even though the pain of all they had suffered, both together and alone, was written plainly in the monarch’s face and the terrible question hung unspoken in the intervening space between them: Why?

Edgard cleared his throat and held up a handwritten parchment.

“Think not that man is earth-born,

though come from the earth he may be.

Man is light-born spirit.

But, without knowing, he can never be free.

Darkness surrounds the light-born.

Darkness fetters the Soul.

Only the one who is seeking

may ever hope to be free.

Shadows around thee are falling

darkness fills all the space

Shine forth, O Light of the man-soul.

Fill thou the darkness of space.

Ye are sons of the Great Light

Remember and ye shall be free.

Stay not thou in the shadows.

Spring forth from the darkness of night.

Light, let thy Soul be, O Sun-Born,

fill with glory of Light,

Freed from the bonds of the darkness,

a Soul that is One with the Light.”

Edgard paused after speaking the words and looked about at each of his Knights. He sincerely felt their time was over and that God, in His great Mercy, was about to take them all home for awhile and a bit. The faces of his grandsons did not register comprehension. It was the blessing and the curse of youth that made them believe they were truly immortal in form as well as spirit. His heart was breaking as he thought how innocent they were in many respects, and though they were far older than they looked, to him they were still little boys, playing games about the lengths of their beards. It was all he could do to hold back the tears that threatened to destroy his composure completely. He dared not look into the faces of his two sons, Simon and Alexander. Alexander had doffed his colorful Tuathan gear and donned a more useful uniform resembling those worn by the soldiers. His Tuathan soldiers, however, remained aloof and separate, setting up their own elaborate tents and wearing their colorful feathers even though the dust had done them great disservice. They had been a great source of amusement for the bedraggled Templars, Brits, Franks and Germans, and they had generously shared their seemingly endless ration of elven food and drink which more than made up for their rather fanciful appearance.

“My… friends and my beloved children…” Edgard began and then had to pause before continuing. “I believe… nay, we
are
on the Path to Glory. I believe that we have waged our best battles and fought what is generally called the ‘Good Fight’. As we all know, it was not the teachings of Jesus Christ that we should make ward and shed blood in his name, but it is the nature of man and beast to do so. In order to further preserve that which has been preserved unto this time, namely our relative freedom from the oppression of Darkness, we have shed much blood and a regrettable share of it was innocent blood.”

“For those souls whom we knew and may know again soon, I would express my deepest gratitude for the sacrifices that they made for the cause and for the Order, by whatever name it may be known, the Order is the Light, for all Light is God in
His most Sovereign, most Ineffable Throne. It is to this Throne that we all aspire, no matter what our rung on Jacob’s ladder might be. From the highest to the lowest and back again, all aspire to the Greatness of God.”

He paused once more and looked around finally able to meet the solemn gazes of his Knights.

“Many have followed the Path and fallen by the wayside and, yet, they, too, will have a place in the next world. It is with great regret that I shall pass from this place without all of my kinsmen here gathered. I would request that we bow our heads for one minute in silent prayer for our loved ones who are not with us that they may have strength and consolation in this hour of need.”

The command tent was unearthly quiet when the Grand Master finished speaking. This was not what they had come here for. They Knights began to look at each other in confusion instead of bowing their heads as requested.

“I beg the Master’s indulgence,” Lucio spoke from the foot of the table where he sat between Apolonio and Konrad. “Are you telling us you expect us to die here on this mountain? I cannot believe you, of all people, would think such a thing.”

Edgard held up one hand, palm out and drew a deep breath. “I should not put it so bluntly, Golden Eagle. I merely meant we should know what we are facing. The outcome is uncertain, to say the least.”

“Uncertain, perhaps,” Konrad spoke without being recognized, “but I daresay we have been in uncertain straits before, Your Grace and never have I heard you speak with such resignation. I do not believe God has brought us here to see us destroyed. This is our purpose. This has always been our purpose, even though we may not have known it.”

“I vote that we open the damned thing and see what is inside, Your Grace.” Louis’ voice cut through the electrically charged air.

“I don’t remember calling for a vote, Your Highness.” Edgard turned on the Frankish King. “And if we did, I remind you, Sir, you are no longer a member of this Council.”

“Edgard.” Mark Andrew caught the Master’s sleeve and he turned to glare at the Knight of Death. “Please. Let me speak.”

Edgard’s fair complexion had taken on the ruddy glow of anger, but he sat down and closed his mouth.

Mark Andrew stood slowly and glanced about with a semi-apologetic look on his face.

“I am sure we can all appreciate the gravity of the situation,” he began and as if on queue, the mountain shuddered beneath them. Mark stomped his foot and shook his finger at the ground as if admonishing the angry angel at the summit.

This action brought a nervous twitter of laughter. “Our friend at the summit is
rarin’ t’ go as they say in Texas. And, as I was about to say, I am sure that we can all appreciate the concerns of the Grand Master. He is simply taking this opportunity to say farewell to his beloved Order and his sons… just in case.” Mark shrugged and looked down at Edgard. “I think the Master’s new form may have brought a softer heart.”