Read Online Devil's Lair by David Wisehart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Wisehart
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Nadja
several times, but always under the fiery dazzle of the noontide sun. Could he
achieve the same effect here?
The lentil was stored in his
leather pouch, which lay near Nadja’s feet. The friar grunted to get her
attention. Nadja glanced up at him. William jutted his chin in the direction of
the pouch. He looked at Nadja, then at the pouch, then back at the girl. It
took a few moments to get his meaning across. Finally, she understood. She
placed her feet on the pouch and slid it back toward their hands. Together they
scooted across the bed of the cart, inch by inch, rocking the tumbrel on its
rickety wheels, until the friar grasped the pouch between his fingertips.
Opening it, he reached in with two fingers and felt the smooth, hard jewel.
With care and concentration he withdrew the glass lentil, his tool of miracles,
his instrument of magic.
Marco sneaked toward the
cottage in quiet steps. Now and again he stopped to clear the ground before
him, easing foliage aside with the tip of his sword before hazarding another
step. Still, he could not clear it all away, and the duff crackled softly
underfoot. After one loud crunch he froze and listened for alarm, but no noises issued from the
house, so he continued as before. In this way he made slow and undiscovered
progress.
Reaching the cottage door,
Marco paused to listen but heard no patter of habitation. He moved to the
window. With the dagger’s point he eased the shutter open and waited for as
long as he could hold his breath. No sounds came from within.
Gone, he thought.
He peeked inside and found
it dark, impenetrable. A fly buzzed past him, pursued by a foul air, the
exhalation of a rank miasma. Something had died inside the house.
Marco circled to the back,
passing a dry midden heap. A trellis, thinly woven with dead vines and
marcescent leaves, had toppled. The haft of an axe lay on the ground beside it.
The blade was missing. Marco discovered animal tracks in the dirt and examined
them closely, but the faint spoor was old and inconclusive. Finishing his round
of the cottage, he returned to the door and opened it without knocking.
William held the glass
lentil behind him, over the sideboard and above the rope that tied Giovanni’s
hands. Looking over his shoulder and moving the lentil back and forth, he found
a thin shaft of light breaking through the forest canopy. By raising and
lowering his body he slid the lentil along the beam’s path until the sunlight
focused to a sharp point on the white rope belt, the lifeline of his order,
which began to blacken and smoke.
Marco stepped inside. The interior was
cool and dim and stank of rotting vegetables and fleshy decay. It was the odor
of death and something else. Something familiar. I know that smell. Though
the foulness sickened him, he inhaled like a bellows and held the fetor in his
lungs, savoring it, this taste of lost time, rich and rank and redolent of
memory. There was something in this room that recalled to him his former life.
The smokehole in the roof
was closed. Wind whistled in the thatch. Flies buzzed in shadows. Light fell
from the window and stabbed the darkness, but the wound did not go deep. Marco
could scarcely see a thing.
Something scurried on the
ground: hard claws scrabbled on stone, skittered across the dirt floor, then
fell silent.
As Marco’s eyes negotiated
the darkness, objects around him took shape and form. The cottage had only a
single room, built to be shared by kin and kine. A waist-high fence to Marco’s
left partitioned one end of the room for a stable, which claimed at least a
third of the dwelling. In the center of the stable, amid the straw and the
muck, a dark mass gathered a vigorous horde of flies. Marco saw that it had
once been a dairy cow. At the center of the cottage lay an open stone hearth
where a cauldron hung over a pile of cinder. Opposite the stable, a bed lay
heaped with rumpled blankets. Beside the bed stood a trunk with a lid but
several times, but always under the fiery dazzle of the noontide sun. Could he
achieve the same effect here?
The lentil was stored in his
leather pouch, which lay near Nadja’s feet. The friar grunted to get her
attention. Nadja glanced up at him. William jutted his chin in the direction of
the pouch. He looked at Nadja, then at the pouch, then back at the girl. It
took a few moments to get his meaning across. Finally, she understood. She
placed her feet on the pouch and slid it back toward their hands. Together they
scooted across the bed of the cart, inch by inch, rocking the tumbrel on its
rickety wheels, until the friar grasped the pouch between his fingertips.
Opening it, he reached in with two fingers and felt the smooth, hard jewel.
With care and concentration he withdrew the glass lentil, his tool of miracles,
his instrument of magic.
Marco sneaked toward the
cottage in quiet steps. Now and again he stopped to clear the ground before
him, easing foliage aside with the tip of his sword before hazarding another
step. Still, he could not clear it all away, and the duff crackled softly
underfoot. After one loud crunch he froze and listened for alarm, but no noises issued from the
house, so he continued as before. In this way he made slow and undiscovered
progress.
Reaching the cottage door,
Marco paused to listen but heard no patter of habitation. He moved to the
window. With the dagger’s point he eased the shutter open and waited for as
long as he could hold his breath. No sounds came from within.
Gone, he thought.
He peeked inside and found
it dark, impenetrable. A fly buzzed past him, pursued by a foul air, the
exhalation of a rank miasma. Something had died inside the house.
Marco circled to the back,
passing a dry midden heap. A trellis, thinly woven with dead vines and
marcescent leaves, had toppled. The haft of an axe lay on the ground beside it.
The blade was missing. Marco discovered animal tracks in the dirt and examined
them closely, but the faint spoor was old and inconclusive. Finishing his round
of the cottage, he returned to the door and opened it without knocking.
William held the glass
lentil behind him, over the sideboard and above the rope that tied Giovanni’s
hands. Looking over his shoulder and moving the lentil back and forth, he found
a thin shaft of light breaking through the forest canopy. By raising and
lowering his body he slid the lentil along the beam’s path until the sunlight
focused to a sharp point on the white rope belt, the lifeline of his order,
which began to blacken and smoke.
Marco stepped inside. The interior was
cool and dim and stank of rotting vegetables and fleshy decay. It was the odor
of death and something else. Something familiar. I know that smell. Though
the foulness sickened him, he inhaled like a bellows and held the fetor in his
lungs, savoring it, this taste of lost time, rich and rank and redolent of
memory. There was something in this room that recalled to him his former life.
The smokehole in the roof
was closed. Wind whistled in the thatch. Flies buzzed in shadows. Light fell
from the window and stabbed the darkness, but the wound did not go deep. Marco
could scarcely see a thing.
Something scurried on the
ground: hard claws scrabbled on stone, skittered across the dirt floor, then
fell silent.
As Marco’s eyes negotiated
the darkness, objects around him took shape and form. The cottage had only a
single room, built to be shared by kin and kine. A waist-high fence to Marco’s
left partitioned one end of the room for a stable, which claimed at least a
third of the dwelling. In the center of the stable, amid the straw and the
muck, a dark mass gathered a vigorous horde of flies. Marco saw that it had
once been a dairy cow. At the center of the cottage lay an open stone hearth
where a cauldron hung over a pile of cinder. Opposite the stable, a bed lay
heaped with rumpled blankets. Beside the bed stood a trunk with a lid but
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