Autumn, 1363 AD, Predawn, Britain
The twelve-inch shard of splintered wood had entered the left leg, just below and behind the knee before lancing through muscle tissue and bone to finally expend its energy thrusting its leading edge four inches through the shin bone, just above the ankle. The end result formed a macabre "X" as the wood and bone conjoined at 45 degree angles to each other. Strangely, there was very little blood.
Lawrence had not expected the resulting shock wave of his blast to hurl countless ruined shards of broken fragments back in his own direction. Then again, several unexpected events had transpired this night.
Coming to himself, he looked through a darkened haze upon what was left of his monastic cell, his home of twenty years, now barely recognizable. Before him, what had once been a humble door frame now lay in a smoking heap, the carnage extending into the outer hallway where its thatched roof had collapsed, revealing the starry heavens above shining down upon the scene like mute witnesses. The moonlight peering into the dilapidated room mingled with the dusty haze permeating the air, giving the entire scene an otherworldly, surreal feel.
Nothing moved under the pile of rubble that had once served as the entrance to his room, but Lawrence knew better than to presume his safety. It would be safest to assume that at least one of his would-be assassins had raised up a -generated protective shield around themselves, either prior to approaching the door or a split second before the hellish fire was unleashed.,Lawrence surmised, .
A crawl hole had opened at the back of his cell as the building had shifted in the blast and Lawrence made toward it. Scrabbling at the dirt floor, he used his shaking arms to drag the weight of his broken body toward the makeshift exit. He knew he had to escape this room and sound a warning. But ... to whom? A chill worked its way down Lawrence's spine as he suddenly realized that he could hear no anxious feet running, no concerned voices shouting, no comforting words of rescue and assurance. In fact, Lawrence realized that since the moment he came back to his senses, he had heard nothing.
?
The thought shot through his hazy mind like a dart. To Lawrence, the conclusion was unthinkable, but entirely plausible under the circumstances. Could his wing in the Abbey have been the last to have been defiled by the dark brothers?
And, wasn't it true that Lawrence's cell was the last one to be reached in his wing upon entering its main hallway?
Lawrence was forced out of his dark musing by the sound of a faint scratching coming from the direction of the ruined hallway. He took no time to investigate, but rather, pulled himself, hand over hand, through the two foot diameter hole and out into the cool night air beyond. The light of the full moon illuminated the courtyard around him and he lifted his head. All was still, save for the wild beating of his own heart, keeping time with the steady throbbing of his ruined leg. A few more crawls and he was free. But, free to do what? Lawrence's mind raced. If any true brothers were left in the Abbey, they would have heard. The destruction wrought by would have woken the dead, let alone a cloister of middle-aged monks. Instead, the silence of the courtyard was palpable. Lawrence grieved to know that this absence of all noise was actually filled with the silent screams of over forty of his beloved brothers, whose lives had been snuffed out in a single night.
He kept moving. The stake in his leg greatly impeded his movement, with the pain growing more noticeable as the initial shock of trauma began to wear off, but Lawrence gritted his teeth and concentrated on pulling himself forward, one arm-length at a time.
!
He took two calming breaths and endeavored to make some semblance of a plan. The Order was decimated; reduced to a handful of murderous traitors and one lame monk. If it was true that he was the only true left, then his duty was clear. As Lawrence continued to crawl, he rehearsed in his mind his life's calling. For millennia, it had been the stewardship of to safeguard all knowledge of one hidden and ancient body of lore – .
Lawrence knew that in the wrong hands, or any hands for that matter, the consequences and effects of misuse would be unthinkable. Whatever else happened this night, the monk knew his sacred calling to safeguard all teaching concerning this secret.
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Lawrence raised his head and saw the community wood pile, not twenty yards away to his right. He had to get to the Scriptorium. Within its ancient walls nearly four thousand years of recorded history and instruction concerning the had been preserved; first, on animal skins; when animal skins failed, on papyrus; when papyrus failed, on vellum; when vellum failed, on parchment.
Hand over hand, Lawrence made his way to the large stack of both cut and uncut branches and brush. Looking past the rusty shears that had been absentmindedly left in the dewy grass (again) by Joachim the gardener; Lawrence found what he was looking for. It was a six foot long, sturdy tree branch nearly the diameter of his wrist. He grasped it, set one of its ends vertically into the soil and attempted to raise himself onto his good leg. His first attempt failed and he slumped back onto the damp, musty earth.
A shout rang in his ears, not far behind in the direction of the ruined wing. Lawrence glanced behind, but could see nothing revealed in the dim moonlight. He attempted to raise himself again and this time he succeeded, gritting against the pain. Step by agonizing step he made his way, slowly, toward the Scriptorium on the far west side of the compound. As he hobbled forward, it was not lost on Lawrence that if he had any living pursuers, he certainly wouldn't be able to outdistance them, that is, unless their wounds rivaled his own. For a moment, Lawrence swooned and paused to fight off the vertigo.
!
His mind reeled with the enormity of what was happening. His life's calling, his home of twenty years, his brothers that were dearer to him than flesh and blood.
!
Lawrence steeled himself, then setting his teeth on edge, he launched himself forward with renewed determination, simply putting one foot in front of the other until, minutes later, he had reached the huge, oaken doors of the Scriptorium. The structure that housed his Order's library and manuscript duplication facilities was a weather beaten stone building; the first to have been constructed upon the Abbey's creation. Lawrence opened the door, careful to mute the creaking hinges that he had always jokingly chided the Scriptorium's steward, Brother Renault, about oiling. Stepping inside and quietly closing the cumbersome door, Lawrence turned around and immediately caught his breath. One lone candle burned in a niche at the far end of the building's main hallway. Laying face down on the floor, within the radius of the dim candle-light, lay a dark, cowled and unmoving form. Lawrence didn't have to look any closer to know that his dear brother, Renault, was dead. He didn't feel the need to check for a pulse, for the pungent aroma of burned hair and flesh told him all the tale he needed to know.
, thought Lawrence, stifling a sob. ??
Lawrence had arrived at his destination with nothing more than a sense of duty. He paused for a moment to consider what he could possibly do. How could thousands of years of writings and thousands of pages of priceless literature be protected and preserved by one lone monk running for his life?
.
Lawrence's ears perked up – more shouts and stray voices could be heard from the direction of the Abbey's main courtyard. They were searching for him and there was no more time. He took five seconds to bow his head in silent prayer, then the answer came to him. Hobbling forward in the direction of his fallen friend, Lawrence opened the first door on his right, reached in and grabbed a worn, leather shoulder bag made to transport books and manuscripts at need. Leaving the Scriptorium's supply closet, he averted his eyes in order to step over the fallen form of Brother Renault, then took the corridor's last left into the library proper. He walked the length of the silent room, noticing how its rows of bookshelves lined with ancient scrolls and parchments stood silent vigil, much in the same way that stone statues guarded the entrance of ancient tombs. These sentinels, however, were guardians of knowledge, not remains.
Lawrence walked slowly, but deliberately, toward the back of the library where tome after tome of bound leather books lined the shelves along the back wall. Limping to the far right end of the last shelf, he removed the last book of the bottom row, placed it in his satchel and hefted it, testing its weight. He reached for the second to the last tome, half a hands-breath thick like its companion and placed it also within the satchel, testing it again for weight. Lawrence repeated this process three more times until his bag bulged with the five heavy books. Then hefting the satchel onto his left shoulder and supporting his broken leg with his staff, he strained under the added weight, ponderously putting one foot in front of the other. He nearly blacked out again before righting himself; then returning in the direction he had come, he retraced his footsteps back through the library and into the main hallway. Renault still manned his post silently and, this time, Lawrence allowed himself one final look and prayer for the prone figure before him. Then, reaching to his left, he grabbed the solitary candle and turned back toward the first row of books.
One by one, he visited each shelf, lighting a sufficient number of books and scrolls to ensure the continual spread of the flames, before passing on to the next shelf. By the time he had reached the library's back door just to the right of the last shelf now missing five of its treasures, tears were streaming down his face and sizable flames were beginning to lick the ceiling of the aged building.
Lawrence snapped out of his grieving as multiple shouts arose just outside the front door of the Scriptorium. Pursing his lips in resolve, Lawrence gazed one last time upon his life's work going up in flames, before dragging himself to his right, fumbling with the latch of the library's back door and heading out into the night.
