Autumn, 1363 AD, Three hours past Vespers, Britain
It was the sound of a muffled cry that awakened Brother Lawrence. The cramped confines of his monastic cell remained pitch black, prompting him to fumble for his candle and flint before thinking the better of it. He stilled himself and listened, a discipline he had practiced daily during his twenty year tenure at St. Bartholomew Abbey.
But instead of bipedal steps, many footfalls could be heard padding upon the earthen floor of the hallway outside, seeming to come to a halt just down the hall from Lawrence's cell. The muted sound of a door opening could be heard, then ... nothing. Silence for the better part of a minute, then the sound of another brief, stricken cry, seemingly closer this time. Again, quiet descended upon the abbey like a shroud.
More footsteps padded in the hallway, seemingly down to his left but drawing steadily closer. This time as they stopped, the door that opened slowly was obviously the one of Brother Justin, just next door to Lawrence's cell. Brother Justin was the Order's chief musician and Lawrence's closest companion. As quietly as his middle–aged bones allowed, Lawrence rose to a standing position and crept soundlessly to the peephole near the back of the cell; the one through which he and Brother Justin would pass notes to each other in the hours of silence after Vespers, when neither of them could find sleep.
Lawrence peered through the two–inch diameter hole and took in the dark and restricted scene before him. Brother Justin's bed rested against the far wall with the freckled and jovial monk (always a heavy sleeper when he finally did fall asleep) reposing on its dry, sweet-smelling straw, breathing heavily. Lawrence strained to arch his neck in order to view the limited panorama, craning to see who it was that had entered Justin's room at this hour, uninvited. Faint torch light could be seen at the right hand corner of Lawrence's view, giving him the assumption that others waited just outside the sleeping musician's door.
The torso and legs of a robed figure came into Lawrence's view, walking slowly and, what seemed to Lawrence, stealthily toward the sleeping figure. He considered crying out in order to wake his sleeping friend, but halted as he considered the possible intentions of the intruder. If Brother Justin was being given a private, confidential summons, then it wouldn't do for Lawrence to reveal himself and be seen as an eavesdropper. If the possibility did exist that Brother Justin could be in any danger, certainly the least likely source would be a brother, wearing the robes of Lawrence and Justin's own Order, no matter what strains and frictions had arisen of late. If it were a simple prank, then of all people in the Abbey, Lawrence wanted to be in on the joke. Besides knowing Justin's sleeping patterns well; Lawrence knew that he could bang pots and pans for an hour solid at this time of the night and still not disturb the log–sawing woodsman in the straw bed next door.
The legs of the mysterious and intruding brother took two more steps, drawing abreast to Justin's bed and a single hand could be seen by Lawrence, reaching out from the folds of the dark robe and resting itself lightly on the forehead of the slumbering Justin. To Lawrence's utter surprise, Justin suddenly opened his eyes and gazed up at what must have been the completely enshrouded figure standing above him.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Without warning, the room filled with a faint, ruby-red glow for one brief instant before a brilliant burst of intense fire of the same hue exploded from the shadow–monk's hand, completely enveloping the head of Brother Justin for three full seconds before dying out as quickly as it had come. No cry escaped from Brother Justin's lips as the room, again, fell silent.
The robed and cowled phantom took one step back as two of his companions, one with a lit lantern, stepped into the room and gazed down at the still form lying before them.
With the room now lit clearly, Brother Lawrence could make out two distinct faces in the flickering light. The first face was the lean, angular face of Brother Rugio, the taciturn and most outspoken member of the Order, his deep–set gray eyes glinting in the fire light. The second face belonged to the now blackened, brain–boiled skull of Brother Justin, still smoldering, with the remains of his widened eyes pointed upward vacantly at the thatched ceiling.
Lawrence stifled a gag with the back of his hand and drew back from the peephole.
!
His brain screamed the name silently, while simultaneously puzzling over the bizarre incongruity between the action he just witnessed and any conceivable motive the treacherous monk might have.
had were
Lawrence's mind roiled with a dozen possibilities before one piercing thought finally asserted itself. Whatever had been the black monk's motives, this night, one thing was certain ...
Lawrence inched his way toward the back of the room, eyes fixed upon the unlocked and unlockable door only feet in front of him. Shuffling footsteps could be heard moving in the hallway once more. This time they stopped just outside of Lawrence's cell door. He could make out quivering, phantasmal shapes writhing beneath the door's threshold; the only entrance to and exit from his cell. Lawrence's eyes remained riveted on the small, wooden latch that was constructed to hold the door shut against field mice, not treacherous assassins.
It began to move slowly.
With no other recourse coming into his mind, Lawrence first considered, then finally conceived what would have been to him just five short minutes ago an unthinkable course of action. He dug his bare and calloused feet into the hard packed dirt floor of his cell and reached deep beneath him for the.
The subterranean element was drawn up instantly from the foundations of creation into Lawrence's trembling body, its reddish hue spreading out as arcs of streaking power crackled at the juncture of soil and sole, filling the room with its muted iridescence.
!
He held the in unseen reserves cultivated in the mind and body through decades of study, discipline and practice.
!
He continued to draw in in measures greater than he had ever dared before, until his bones seemed to liquefy.
!
The latch to Lawrence's door released and the door began to swing slowly inward.
!
Lawrence released his hold on the crimson fire and hurled it toward the wooden door before him. A shockwave of intense red liquid plasma shattered into oblivion every object that stood between Lawrence and the doorway. Shards of wood, vellum and glass exploded into the air, then vaporized into nothingness as the heat of a thousand blast furnaces enveloped them.
exploded into the doorway, into the hallway and finally into every living creature that stood in its path.
