Read Online Martyr's Fire by Sigmund Brouwer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer
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of a shallow ditch?
The puppy’s confused whimper sounded nearby.
Thomas coughed and rolled to his feet.
“My friend,” he said, “we seem to be alive. But across?”
Thomas answered his own question by turning around and crawling back. Moments later, his hands found an edge!
Thomas grinned in the darkness.
The next eighty-eight steps took nearly an hour. Although the occasionalflare of reflected light grew stronger and stronger, it provided little illumination, and Thomas dared not to risk another unseen chasm.
Finally, the flame itself!
As Thomas walked closer, the rising and falling light provided him more clues about the passage.
The walls were shored with large, square blocks of stone, unevenly placed. He understood immediately why his groping fingers had received such punishment in the total darkness behind him.
The passage was hardly higher than his head and wide enough to fit three men walking abreast.
Other than that, nothing. No clues as to the builders. No clues as to its reason for existence. No clues as to its age.
Thomas ran the final few steps to the light. The leg ache he had managed to forget in the previous few hours flared again with the extra movement, but he did not mind.
Gervaise had promised the knowledge he needed. It could only mean a message. And if Gervaise had managed to leave the message, Gervaise had managed to get out again. There was hope in that.
Thomas noted the source of the light. It was imbedded in the wall, as if a hand had scooped away part of the stone. A wick of cloth rose above a clear liquid, and from it came the solitary tongue of flame.
Burning water!
He did not examine the light long, because the puppy whined and sniffed at a leather sack barely visible in the shadows along the wall below the flame. Thomas pulled the sack away before the puppy could bury his nose in it entirely.
He understood the puppy’s anxiousness as soon as he opened it.
Cheese. Bread. And cooked chicken legs. All wrapped in clean cloth.
Thank you, Gervaise . Sudden moisture filled Thomas’s mouth as he realized how hungry he was. With his teeth, he ripped into a fat chicken leg, chewed a mouthful, then tore pieces free with his fingers to drop to the puppy.
More objects remained in the bag.
Thomas pulled free a large candle. He dipped the end into the flame in the wall and immediately doubled his light. Next from the bag came a candle holder, hooded so the bearer could walk and shed light without fear of killing the flame.
Finally, Thomas pulled free a rolled parchment, tied shut with a delicate ribbon.
He wiped chicken grease from his hands, then placed the candle holder on the ground and sat beside it.
The puppy nosed his palms for more food.
“Later,” Thomas said absently. His fingers, no longer bleeding and suddenly without pain as he focused on the parchment, trembled as he pulled the ribbon loose and unrolled the scroll.
The inked letter was bold and well spaced, as if the writer had guessed Thomas might be forced to read it in dim light.
Thomas, if you read this, it is only because, as I feared, the Druids, guised as Priests of the Holy Grail, have imprisoned you in your own dungeon. Yet if you read this, it is because you dared make the leap of faith I requested, and in so doing have proved you are not a Druid .
Druids! The shock was as an arrow piercing his heart. Thomas rubbed his forehead in puzzlement. “Imprisoned in my own dungeon—I did not arrive here from the dungeon. And to suggest I might be a Druid—howcould Gervaise even dare to think such a thing? I have spent the entire winter in fear of their return!”
Yes, my friend, the chasm you crossed was a test. Were you one of the Druids, you would have known that these passages and halls—
“Passages and halls?” Thomas sighed. This message created more mystery than it solved.
—are buried so deep in the island that anything more than several feet below their level would fill with water. You, as a
The puppy’s confused whimper sounded nearby.
Thomas coughed and rolled to his feet.
“My friend,” he said, “we seem to be alive. But across?”
Thomas answered his own question by turning around and crawling back. Moments later, his hands found an edge!
Thomas grinned in the darkness.
The next eighty-eight steps took nearly an hour. Although the occasionalflare of reflected light grew stronger and stronger, it provided little illumination, and Thomas dared not to risk another unseen chasm.
Finally, the flame itself!
As Thomas walked closer, the rising and falling light provided him more clues about the passage.
The walls were shored with large, square blocks of stone, unevenly placed. He understood immediately why his groping fingers had received such punishment in the total darkness behind him.
The passage was hardly higher than his head and wide enough to fit three men walking abreast.
Other than that, nothing. No clues as to the builders. No clues as to its reason for existence. No clues as to its age.
Thomas ran the final few steps to the light. The leg ache he had managed to forget in the previous few hours flared again with the extra movement, but he did not mind.
Gervaise had promised the knowledge he needed. It could only mean a message. And if Gervaise had managed to leave the message, Gervaise had managed to get out again. There was hope in that.
Thomas noted the source of the light. It was imbedded in the wall, as if a hand had scooped away part of the stone. A wick of cloth rose above a clear liquid, and from it came the solitary tongue of flame.
Burning water!
He did not examine the light long, because the puppy whined and sniffed at a leather sack barely visible in the shadows along the wall below the flame. Thomas pulled the sack away before the puppy could bury his nose in it entirely.
He understood the puppy’s anxiousness as soon as he opened it.
Cheese. Bread. And cooked chicken legs. All wrapped in clean cloth.
Thank you, Gervaise . Sudden moisture filled Thomas’s mouth as he realized how hungry he was. With his teeth, he ripped into a fat chicken leg, chewed a mouthful, then tore pieces free with his fingers to drop to the puppy.
More objects remained in the bag.
Thomas pulled free a large candle. He dipped the end into the flame in the wall and immediately doubled his light. Next from the bag came a candle holder, hooded so the bearer could walk and shed light without fear of killing the flame.
Finally, Thomas pulled free a rolled parchment, tied shut with a delicate ribbon.
He wiped chicken grease from his hands, then placed the candle holder on the ground and sat beside it.
The puppy nosed his palms for more food.
“Later,” Thomas said absently. His fingers, no longer bleeding and suddenly without pain as he focused on the parchment, trembled as he pulled the ribbon loose and unrolled the scroll.
The inked letter was bold and well spaced, as if the writer had guessed Thomas might be forced to read it in dim light.
Thomas, if you read this, it is only because, as I feared, the Druids, guised as Priests of the Holy Grail, have imprisoned you in your own dungeon. Yet if you read this, it is because you dared make the leap of faith I requested, and in so doing have proved you are not a Druid .
Druids! The shock was as an arrow piercing his heart. Thomas rubbed his forehead in puzzlement. “Imprisoned in my own dungeon—I did not arrive here from the dungeon. And to suggest I might be a Druid—howcould Gervaise even dare to think such a thing? I have spent the entire winter in fear of their return!”
Yes, my friend, the chasm you crossed was a test. Were you one of the Druids, you would have known that these passages and halls—
“Passages and halls?” Thomas sighed. This message created more mystery than it solved.
—are buried so deep in the island that anything more than several feet below their level would fill with water. You, as a
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