The Lucifer Sanction (12 page)

*****
“My friend,” Nicholas said with concern as he rode
alongside Dal, “We will need to rest and tend your wound.
The blood is a deep color and this is of great concern to
me.”

The attackers were upon them with stunning swiftness, riders wearing le Maingre’s colors led by le Maingre
himself.

“You, Dumaurier,” Nicholas shouted to one of his
lieutenants. “Take these two and ride to Brantôme!” He
pointed to Dal. “See to his injury!”

The destriers veered about on the grassy field and
charged toward the French, thundering hooves shaking
the ground as the two forces met, horses rearing, swords
slashing, blades cutting into flesh - removing hands that
still clutched swords.

Le Maingre caught sight of the three fleeing riders.
He reeled his horse about, pointed and shouted. “Those
three, pursue them, they for sure are the Irishers!”

Dumaurier was aware of the chase; he signaled to
Bell and pointed frantically away from Brantôme. “Squire,
you must ride toward the Lascaux caves. They must follow
you, and I will take your friend to the village. Hold back,
let me distance myself from le Maingre’s riders; ‘tis certain
they will follow the slower rider.”

Bell slowed her mount to a canter as Dumaurier
and Dal galloped off at speed. She gave them ten seconds
then booted the destrier. The warhorse picked up speed and
headed away as the French pursuers split into two groups,
two riders staying with Bell, the others pursuing Dal and
Dumaurier.

Dumaurier’s words ran through her mind, y
ou
must ride toward the Lascaux caves
. She could feel her
body trembling, could feel the sweat as it squeezed its way
between her tightly bound breasts, icy cold air ripping
into her face, her eyes tearing, the air growing colder by
the minute as her mount careened into the early night.
With no more than two hundred yards between herself
and the shouting Frenchmen, Bell tried to block the fact
she’d absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of the Lascaux
Caves.

Thirty minutes after the chase had begun the riders
following Dumaurier and Dal were gaining ground. Dal
gave an occasional glance at his wound and thought
it has
to be congealing; the flow of blood’s slowing.

Dumaurier pointed at the final slither of crescent
sun. “We will stop soon,” he shouted aloud. “You cannot
keep up this pace!”

Dal gave an infrequent smile, his eyes heavy, his
posture showing need for rest as the cool air whipped at his
face. He tugged the chain-mail hood up around his chin in a
feeble attempt to block cold fingers of wind that too easily
found gaps around his armor.

Dumaurier drew alongside Dal’s mount, grabbed
hold of his reins as Dal slumped forward with each of his
arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. He guided both
horses behind a deep grove, carefully lowered Dal to the
ground and removed the blood stained chain-mail. Five
inches of shaft protruded from his left forearm, a few inches
farther left and it could have proven fatal.

Dumaurier raised his eyes to the stars, his mind
weighing the options as Dal slipped in and out of consciousness.
“We could push forward” he whispered to
himself. “But reaching Brantôme requires an hour of
hard riding.” He paused and wiped a cloth across Dal’s
forehead. “Your breathing has grown shallow. We can stay
through the night but that would surely risk your bleeding
to death. But then, if we ride the fifty minutes or so to the
village, I will likely arrive in Brantôme with a dead man.”
He removed his surcoat, rolled it into a ball and placed
Dal’s head on the makeshift pillow. “Rest comfortably, my
friend,” he said. “I shall return shortly.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dumaurier arrived at the
cottage of Henri De Gaulle. His family had farmed the
small outlying valley for generations and both he and
Maurice were known to Henri’s wife. He felt certain De
Gaulle would assist his wounded companion. With eyes
stinging from the fast ride and cold night air, Dumaurier
pounded a hard fist on the door of the old farmhouse. As
he slipped to his knees his face scraped the rough timber
of the door jam, snagging his chain-mail as he collapsed to
the ground.

De Gaulle’s voice was a frosty shout. “Who is there,
what is it you want at this hour?”
Dumaurier called aloud, “Henri, open the door, it is
Andre – Andre Dumaurier from Brantôme. I am a friend of
Maurice. Please, open the door.”
A six inch opening allowed sufficient light to filter
onto the intruder’s face. Dumaurier let out a grateful sigh
as he propped himself against the door-jam. The farmer
recognized him and carefully assisted him into the cabin.
Once inside, Andre Dumaurier went about explaining his
situation.
Henri De Gaulle said, “I wish to take my family to
Lille, I have relatives there, we must move the children to
safer grounds. The English with their Edward, and even
our own Frenchmen under the rules of the day – it is all far
too dangerous here.”
De Gaul’s wife poured wine into a goblet. “Andre,”
she said, “I recall when you were a mere child. I was close
to your family, to your sister, Jeanne. I know what the
soldiers did to her.” She gave a consolatory nod. “I have
five little ones to care for. I fear for them. The soldiers are
such animals.”
She appeared on the verge of tears as her husband
put out a hand and nodded, “Shh, my dear – you will alarm
the little ones.”
He turned to Dumaurier. “Our family has promised
to place my boys into the Jesuit school in Lille. They will
have the opportunity to learn the ways of fine gentlemen.”
He waved a slow hand about the room – gestured at the
four walls – at the children. “This is my world – my family.
They will have the chance for so much more than I could
possibly offer them in Brantôme. I must believe destiny
has far greater things in hand for my little ones - and for
their children’s children.”
Dumaurier sensed the acquiescence in the man’s
voice, allowed a few moments to pass, enough time for
compassion to weigh in, and then in a pleading voice asked,
“Can I beg your help?”
De Gaul sighed, slipped a quick questioning look at
his wife as she spooned beans from a pot. She didn’t raise
her eyes, just flashed a consenting smile.
“We have a cart and will go for your friend,” De
Gaul said. “But he cannot be brought back here to our
house.” He pointed a quick jabbing finger at the five pair
of eyes locked on Dumaurier. “These little ones,” he said,
“they need their papa.”
Dumaurier nodded. “I understand.” He spooned
down a mouthful of beans, gulped, and wiped a sleeve
across his lips. “But Brantôme is quite a ride from here, I
fear my friend will not...”
De Gaulle’s wife banged the serving spoon into
the pot to attract her husband’s immediate attention. His
eyes shot to her and quickly back to Dumaurier. “As you
said, it is a long ride to Brantôme. Best we waste no time
fetching your friend and returning. My woman will see to
his wound.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
Outskirts of Maupertuis,
French Camp
September 17, 1356
3.15 P: M

Denis Campion laid prostrate across the blood
soaked table, his teeth biting hard into a rolled cloth as the
French physician dug deep, searching out the tip of the
English bolt.

“Sacré Edward et son écume anglaise meurtrière,”
he groaned in his best high school French. “Goddamn
Edward and his murderous English scum.”

Two soldiers alongside of him nodded agreement
as one held a bowl of hot bloodied water. “Oui, l’écume
anglaise, ils doivent être conduits de nos terres. Yes, the
English scum must be driven from our lands.”

The physician complained to the two assistants and
ordered them to increase their grip of the patient’s arm.
“J’ai le boulon, I have the bolt. Bite hard for this is going
to...”

Shreds of tendon and muscle exited with the
arrowhead as Campion tried to focus on the figure standing
alongside him. “Moreau, is that you?”

Dominic Moreau smiled at the physician as he
lowered his mouth to the patient’s ear and whispered,
“Denis, how the fuck did you get yourself into this mess?”

Moreau backed away. He gave his French his best
shot, “Mon ami vagabonde et ne sait pas de ce qu’il parle.
Je l’attendrai l’extérieur de la tente.” And then to Campion,
“I’ll be waiting outside.” He stepped from the tent and
strolled among infantrymen sleeping around a smoldering
fire. He reached into his tunic, removed the small bundle,
unwound it and carefully eyed the three red ampoules. He
whispered to them like a father to a small child, “Not too
long now my sweet, when we get back we’ll give them
motherfuckers in Zurich a real epi fuckin’ demic.” He let
out a depraved chuckle, “By the time we’re done - we
can start fresh - even come up with a catchy name for the
new world.” He gazed skyward. Grinned. “Hades? Yeah, I
kinda like that. It’s got a certain ring to it.” His eyes rolled
about like pachinko balls. He slid his tongue around the
edge of cracked, chaffed lips. “But there ain’t an upside
in the promotion of that one. Hmm, maybe it’s a little
too warm. Let’s go with Valhalla. Yeah, that’s perfect . . .
fuckin’ Valhalla.”

In quite moments while seeking comfort, Moreau
had often fondled the ampoules, savoring the power
Lucifer afforded him; power to change history. Power.
Power right there in the palm of his hand. He carefully re
wrapped them, returned them to the inside of his surcoat
and fingered about for the converter disc. He found it
and smiled a self-satisfying grin, bit on his lower lip as
the digitized coordinates once again failed to appear. He
thought
Campion can’t die, he’s back there in the chamber
alongside of me – maybe Bosch and Beckman were wrong.
What if I take Campion’s disc – maybe I can make it back.
His mind rambled; he’d one mission and one only: get
Lucifer back home, back to 2015.

Another two Frenchmen joined those sitting by the
fire. Dom Moreau had removed his breastplate and found
the fire to be a pleasant comfort as it warmed the metal of
his chain-mail. Aware of prying eyes, he slipped a secure
hand around the carefully wrapped ampoules.

“This war is killing my marriage,” one soldier
grumbled to the other, a tall anorexic looking Frenchman
who was mercilessly prodding at the flames. “The English
pigs should have been driven back to their miserable island
weeks ago. They laid chevauchée to our village - many of
my friends were unable to flee the flames. I have heard
farmlands have been laid bare by Edward’s ruffians. Now I
hear we must wait two days hence for Maupertuis. We will
slaughter them for sure, and their Prince of Wales, their
precious Edward,” and he pronounced the word Edward
with an exaggerated extension - sounded like Edwooard.

Moreau listened. Grinned with satisfaction. He
knew too well the clash at Poitiers would prove to be a
major defeat for the bragging Frenchman. It would be one
of Edward’s best victories, resulting in a disastrous defeat
for the French.

History had well recorded France’s King John’s
blunder. He’d instructed his knights to dismount and fight
on foot, leaving them open to the onslaught of English
bowmen. The subsequent capture of the French King,
along with many of France’s top noblemen, went down in
history as one of the most significant defeats of France at
the hands of the English.

Moreau thought
have you French ever won any
fuckin’thing?
No. He couldn’t recall a victory. This pleased
him. How badly he wanted to tell these lice infested French
of their pending doom, but as Bosch had instructed, make
no changes that affect the course of events, allow history
to play its role.

“That bastard Edward, he laid a chevauchée against
the city of Bourges,” one soldier grumbled. “My brother
and his son were fortunate to escape, they told me the
English arrived with seven thousand men, they raided and
looted villages where I had many friends, brutalizing the
women and setting Bourges to the torch.” He shook his
wine flask, swished it about and gulped the last of it down.
“I hear they have captured Audley.”

The stench of body odor wafted toward Moreau as
one of the men peeled off his tunic. “I heard our infantry
suffered defeats at Romorantin,” he said as he flung the
tunic toward the tent. “The English dogs went west along
the Loire, setting chevauchée’s before they turned south.”

“But we have a much larger force just fifty miles
from Edward, large enough to overcome the English scum,”
his comrade said with a smirk. “My friend, if it plays out,
then a confrontation at Poitiers will not eventuate.”

Moreau’s grin grew even wider. He closed his eyes,
dreamed of cable television, dreamed of better times. He
chuckled, “You fuckin’ French.”

Denis Campion limped from the tent with his stomach swathed in blood-soaked bandage. His eyes sought
out Dominic Moreau still curled by the dying embers. He
slumped to his knees by Moreau’s side, prodded him awake
and whispered in a painful groan, “You realize what date
this is?”

Moreau half opened one eye, slid it toward Campion
and replied in an aggravated tone. “Yeah, we’re gonna see
the Battle of fuckin’Poitiers.” His voice was angered and he
spoke with a sharp accusing tone. “I missed you in Venice.
I waited at the basilica, why weren’t you there?

“I was uh, delayed in the English camp, you know
- giving some advice to Edward’s guys.”
For a half-minute neither spoke. Campion purposely
attempted to stretch as though yawning. He let out a
muffled groan, an
argh
groan, hoping to draw sympathy
from Moreau. “My side,” he moaned, “the pain’s killing
me. I’d give my left nut for an Oxycontin.”
The response was delivered with a note of reluctance. “You uh, you said you gave advice. What kind of
advice?”
“No, no. Not shit that would change stuff, just a few
strategies. I needed to buy time, to get me out of a sticky
situation; I just needed to work ‘em a bit, you know, to save
my skin.”
Campion ignored Moreau’s skeptical stare.
He waited through a long icy silence.
“So uh, c’mon, Dom, wha’dya wanna hear? You
wanna hear that I’m sorry? Is that it – you wanna hear I’m
sorry for fuckin’ up . . . sorry I caught a fuckin’ arrow? You
want an apology for missing our date in Venice.”
Dominic Moreau lay motionless, ignoring the
barrage.
“Okay - so I’m fuckin’ sorry.”
“Denis, we were told not to go helping,” Moreau
said in a monotone, cutting voice. “What the fuck did you
tell ‘em?”
Campion waved Moreau’s question away. He
slumped to a seated position, and rested his head in his
hands. After a minute’s silence he raised his eyes at a group
of approaching riders. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, “what
now, we’ve gotta get the fuck out of here. My disc’s shot
- I can’t go anywhere, and to make it worse, my French is
only so-so. That’s why I couldn’t make it back to Venice.
Okay?”
Moreau raised a settling hand. “Take it easy, Denis.
Just take it easy, man.”
“Easy? Take it fuckin’ easy? This - this - this 14th
fuckin’ century has gotta be the scourge of mankind. Have
you seen the graves? Jesus Christ, those sonsofbitches
back in Zurich must all be suffering priapism after your
excursion to China. I never imagined Persinia could cause
all that shit. Now we’ve got these guys burning towns,
running swords through babies, we got villagers impaled
along roadsides.” Campion choked a little as tears swelled.
“Dom, I even got involved in raping a kid while those
French sonsofbitches cheered me on”
Dom Moreau faked sincerity. “You raped a girl, Aw
gee – ain’t that fuckin’ horrible?”
“I swear to God, Dom, they would’ve killed me.
They were all over her. When they were done they threw
me on her. I haven’t stopped washing.” Campion took the
disc from his surcoat and glared at it. “Those sonsofbitches
in Zurich spent billions on their technology. They gave
us these dinky devices that run about a buck-fifty a piece.
Fuckin’ discs, Libra must’ve had ‘em made in Korea.”
He threw his disc down hard, stomped on it. “I still can’t
believe what they did to that kid - the look in her eyes, they
took turns, one of ‘em dragged me off and they held her
legs apart while another rammed a sword clean up inside
of her. It was sick, man. Horrific.”
Dom Moreau squirmed at the image then made a
sympathetic face. “Dennis, listen to me, man. Forget the
girl. In times of war, there isn’t any reasoning. You’ve been
around these French and English too long. You’ve caught
yourself a fatal dose of pessimism. It’s as contagious as the
plague. These English are born with that negative gene;
they see the bottle half empty. Make no mistake -
we
are
the angels of death. Retribution will be swift when I get
back to Zurich. Those motherfuckers at Libra will pay
dearly, believe me.”
Denis Campion cringed momentarily as a fresh
wave of pain shot through his side. He gave Moreau a
look of mistrust as he tried reading between the lines, was
going to reprimand him, thought better of it. He was in
too vulnerable a condition to question this lunatic’s intent;
disapproval would certainly result in his never leaving
1356.
Moreau reached in his pocket and removed the
ampoules. “Yeah,” he said, “it all seemed so fuckin’
believable.”
Campion stared unbelievably at the ampoules in
Moreau’s palm. “Jesus Christ, if they’re what I think they
are. I thought the red ones were still in an experimental stage
- that they were still locked away in the lab in Zurich.”
“Yeah well – you’d be mistaken now, wouldn’t you?
These babies are the one and only, the merciless mother of
all viruses, Lucifer Pecillius. I was sent back to do some
more dirty work for Beckman. Well fuck him, ‘cause I got
my own plans for these honeys.”
They gazed at the three glowing containers and
Moreau mumbled an insane whisper. “Those assholes in
Zurich with their bullshit sales pitch. I’ve seen millions die.
I’ve seen Libra even con their elitist fuckin’ sponsors.”
“The Triumvirate?”
“Yeah, the very same, the Triumvirate. Those
Bilderbergers too.”
Moreau drew deep into the back of his throat, made
a guttural gurgling sound and ejected a capacious amount
of phlegm and drew his sleeve across his moist lips. “I’ve
seen villages wiped out, bodies thrown into ditches, lime
shoveled on ‘em to speed up decomposition. And that
smell, I won’t ever get rid of that fuckin’ smell.” He tapped
on his throat. “The taste is burned in - way down here. And
those guys, le Blanc, Bosch, Beckman, and Danzig. My
first impression of them was - well, I thought they were all
facetious little pricks. Guys like them; they go through life
sharpening their egos on the failed grindstones of others.”
“Maybe they stole my grindstone,” Campion said
in a self-pitying tone. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it - they stole
my fuckin’ grindstone.”
“There you go again,” Moreau said with a wicked
grin, “raving on with all that pessimistic crap.”
Moreau wrapped the three ampoules back in their
protective packing. “I sense some kind of subliminal
anxiety struggling to get out of that beat up body of yours,
Denis. We need to get our asses out of here.”
“Yeah, and go where?” Campion probed. “Where
are you gonna take those things? You’ve got a converter
disc that’s fucked. Neither of us is going anywhere.”
“I’ll take ‘em away from the fuckin’ French, for
one,” Moreau replied as he helped Campion to his feet.
“We’ve one shitload of trouble headed this way and I need
to get these babies back home. If they fall into the hands
of these warmongers, well - for sure they’ll snap the tops
or crush the glass and let Lucifer kill off what’s left of the
fuckin’ planet.” He waved a hand at the stars. “You realize
the implications of this shit if Lucifer’s let loose here? It’d
reduce the human race by millions - who knows - maybe
annihilate it completely, not just eliminate thirty-two
million the way Yersinia did. This ain’t the bird flu. This
shit is germ warfare off of the scale.”
Campion swayed as the wound began to bleed more
freely. He took a few long seconds to digest the scenario,
slipped his eyes to the crazed face of Dominic Moreau,
made a feeble attempt to inject a little humor into the
moment. “We’ve both been immunized, so given the worse
possible scenario we’ll have each other, right Dom?”
“You ain’t hearing me. This ain’t Persinia, this is
Lucifer and there’s no fuckin’ cure. How much do you
think they’ll pay us to hand these babies over, huh? The
Americans will offer plenty and Beijing or North Korea or
some Arab prick will up the ante.”
Fear was stamped on Campion’s face.
Moreau’s
insane,
he thought. He asked, “You’re gonna hold a major
power auction?”
“Auction?” Moreau laughed. “Auction, yeah man,
gonna put ‘em on eBay.”
Denis Campion clutched at his side, teeth again
biting hard into the rolled cloth he clutched in one hand.
The French physician had indeed dug deep as he searched
for the tip of that bolt. The talk with Dominic Moreau
acted as a conversational anesthesia of types. It had
offered temporary respite from the pain. When talk had
ended, when the anesthesia dissipated, the agonizing pain
resurrected itself.