The Shield and the Shadow
D. B. Clifton
Cover Art: Designs By Rachelle
Published by Mind Wings Audio at Smashwords
This story is also available in audio CD and MP3 formats
Copyright 2010 D. B. Clifton
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This story is a work of fiction, created entirely from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The evening sun was falling like a rebellious angel, its war with heaven lost. From my room’s second floor window, the Vienne River, mirroring that fiery glow, looked like an angry red scar marking the southern boundary of Chinon. Atop an escarpment of bare chalk cliffs at the town’s northwest corner, brooding over the river valley as it soaked up the last dregs of that violent sunset, loomed the battered walls and towers of Chinon Castle. I shivered, and touched the spear-tipped cross beneath my shirt. Something told me that was where I was going, and there was no guarantee I would return.
“Philip, it is time,” said someone at my back, startling me.
Mark, known as Brother Marcus in his cloistered world, stood just inside the door. Like me, he was dressed in black pants and boots, and a loose-fitting dark gray shirt. I assumed that in a scabbard inside his long, brown coat, he carried the large Gurkha knife with which he was quite proficient. Comparing his swarthy appearance with my fair complexion, sandy hair, and gray eyes, we must have seemed like a photograph and it’s negative.
“I’ve never been to a war council.” I tried on a weak smile to mask my jittery nerves.
“It is not a war council,” he said with a barely perceptible slavic accent. “We but plan for a single battle.”
“It feels like going to war,” I muttered.
He gave my overall appearance an approving nod. “You have adapted well to my world. Perhaps one day you will show me more of yours.”
He’d spoken before of his desire to experience life beyond what his duties to the Order of Grigory Bedros allowed. But this time he sounded more fatalistic about ever doing so.
“The lessons begin as soon as we’re done here,” I said. But knowing his commitment to his vows, I doubt either of us believed it. “Now, let’s get Lena.”
“If we must.”
We trooped down the hall to Lena’s room. She opened the door before I knocked.
“Not very stealthy. I could have heard you coming if I’d been using a blow dryer.” Her levity was tipped like a barbed hook, and directed at Mark. She was also dressed in dark pants and shirt, loose cut to accommodate a wide range of motion. A close-fitting vest similar to a medieval jerkin topped off her ensemble.
Like mine, her outfit was borrowed from one of the monks in whose company we found ourselves, but I doubt he filled it out the way she did. Despite our circumstances, as I took in her pale complexion and dark eyes, I smiled.
Nearly as tall as me, Lena held my gaze for a moment—her expression an unreadable mask—then she headed for the stairs at the end of the hall. Mark shook his head, sighed, and fell in behind her. I brought up the rear, burdened by a growing sense of foreboding. The friction between them was dangerous. Since joining Mark, I’d learned that those facing the Other World needed to trust each other completely if they hoped to survive.
The large stone residence in which we were guests was en maison securite—a safe house—operated by La Freres De La Roche. In the ongoing struggle with the Other World, The Brothers of the Rock were closely allied with Mark’s Order of Grigory Bedros. In the main room on the first floor, Mark, Lena, and I joined a gathering of monks dressed similarly to us. The assemblage had the aspect of a uniformed military unit. The atmosphere crackled with a grim tension.
“Ah, mon amis.” Brother Henri hailed us and came over. Short and stout with a close-trimmed, dark mustache, he had briefed Mark and me two days earlier when we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport near Paris. “And Miss Stewart.” He took Lena’s hand. “I trust you are well rested.”
“As much as I could...uh, Father,” Lena responded.
“Non, mademoiselle, please. Henri will suffice.”
I couldn’t believe it. A man of the cloth, flirting with her like that. But he was a man, after all, and a Frenchman at that. And who was I to judge him for responding to Lena that way? I decided to take in our surroundings.
A large, rectangular, oak table dominated the room, surrounded by antique, straight-backed wooden chairs. Hanging from a roughhewn ceiling beam, a circular chandelier of hammered, black iron with candelabra-style bulbs suffused the scene with a warm glow.
Eighteen monks were present—twelve seated around the table, the rest standing behind the chairs, all members of an elite squad. They had been scouring the countryside in search of one of their own, Brother Etienne, and most crucially for the artifact of which he’d been the guardian: the Shield of the Maid of Orleans.
When Lena, Mark, and I arrived from Normandy the previous day, it was our sad duty to inform them that Brother Etienne had been killed near Rouen during a struggle with Lena’s uncle, Roderick Stewart—a man possessed by the demon Murmu-Ur. Under torture, the poor Brother may have told Stewart where to find the shield. Before his death, he might also have whispered its location to Lena. Following her directions, we drove straight to Chinon. But so far, she refused to divulge anything Brother Etienne had told her.
“Brothers, please, let us begin.” Brother Henri had moved to the head of the table. Lena was at his side.
At his voice, all conversation stopped, all eyes focused on him. He seemed less the clerical functionary who had met Mark and me at the airport, and more a figure of command.
“The Enemy is coming for the Maid’s Shield,” he said. “The survival of the Inner Circle may depend on what we do tonight.”
I imagined that assemblage of Brothers gathered in Istanbul. Engaged in unceasing meditation and prayer, they radiated the multiplied power of their faith out to the clerics who fought against the forces of darkness in the world. According to Mark, the Enemy would mercilessly assault the Inner Circle in the spiritual realm. To counter this, those Brothers needed the protection of Pure artifacts like the divinely blessed shield that Joan of Arc had carried. If their protective barrier were breached, not only the Inner Circle, but the entire struggle against the Other World would be in danger.