The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

September 20, 1356

Leap of Faith



The six riders dashed toward the nearest opening as the French cavalry gained ground. Sir Nicholas removed his breast plate and clumsily flung it aside, barely missing Denis Campion whose mount flinched at the passing armor and jarred its head sideways.

Blake shouted from behind, “What the f*ck are you doing?” His horse strained as it thundered through the dust created by those ahead of him. Bell dropped back fifty yards as she brought up the rear.

Sir Nicholas turned and bellowed, “Remove your weight! It is no good to you where we are going!” His voice was difficult to comprehend as he bounced about in the saddle like a cowboy hanging on for dear life while bull riding.

Dal discarded his helm and broadsword and booted his warhorse alongside Hunter, their remaining armor rattling about as each horse careened forward. Dal strained to be heard above the sound of rattling armor. He shouted back at Gardner Hunter, “Where the f*ck are we going?”

“Look behind you,” Hunter shouted. “Those f*ckers are closing in too fast!”

“Get your discs out!” Blake shouted. “We’re gonna activate . . . now!”

Bell finally threw off the last of her armor and was down to hose, chain-mail, and a tunic. She shook her hair free.

“You guys, your discs, activate them!” Blake screamed.

All four pressed the edge of their green discs. Nothing. They exchanged anxious glances.

Beyond the precipice the Dordogne River snaked its way through fertile farmlands. Sir Nicholas reached the edge ahead of the other riders, barely coming to a halt before the fatal plunge of three hundred feet. Within seconds Blake, Dal, Hunter, Bell and Campion joined him at the edge. Nicholas dismounted and quickly shed his armor.

Hunter reared his horse. He shouted, “What’s with these f*ckin’ discs? What are we doin’ wrong?”

Bell gave Blake a questioning look and pressed more firmly on the activation edge. But again – they were still on the edge of the escarpment.

Sir Nicholas shouted, “I believe our only way to survive is to throw ourselves at the mercy of the French! They are not always merciless pigs!”

Hunter peered at the knight who had stripped down to his surcoat and hose and was waving at the approaching horsemen.

Blake grabbed a hold of Bell’s reins as she maneuvered her skittish mount a little nearer the edge.

“I’m not feeling good about this,” Bell shouted. “Our discs, what’s wrong with them?”

Blake tugged at her reins, looked into her eyes, saw the fear. Saw the tears beginning to swell. He’d never seen her cry.

Dal yelled across to Blake, “These discs are f*cked. Aren’t we supposed to get back home alive? What happened to ‘you’re here aren’t you’?”

Denis Campion tilted forward, the ride had opened his wound and any further hard riding would end his life. Blake leaned toward Campion, propped him upright and shouted, “You okay, man? Don’t leave us now, we have to go. They’re gonna bring us back to Zurich; we’re gonna wake up back at Libra. Hang on, any second now. Keep pressing your disc.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Campion called, mustering enough energy for a half-nod. “I’m hurting something fierce. Those guys at Libra, they . . . they better do it soon.”

Dal shouted at Blake, “I thought we had a guaranteed round trip!”

“Yeah I remember,” Blake shouted back. “But Moreau, he ain’t gonna go back!”

Campion turned to Dal and shook his head, not a gesture Dal needed to see. The ginger bearded man threw up a voluminous amount of blood, wiped the back of his hand across chaffed cracked lips, tilted his head toward Blake and grinned as his eyes rolled back in his head. Blake shouted across the rump of Dal’s rearing mount, “Stay with us! Hang in there Campion. We’re gonna go home!”

The ginger bearded man held the grin, then belched another pint of near purple blood. He swayed and with one hand firmly grasping the pommel, and steadied himself. Campion slowly turned his mount, dug both spurs deep into its flank and bolted the short distance toward the precipice.

Sir Nicholas scurried back to his charger, remounted, gave a short look to Bellinger, smiled and nodded, suggesting he was always aware of her disguise. Within five seconds he was at full gallop toward the nearest of the French. He shouted a war-cry and waved his sword above his mount’s ears. He severed the first Frenchman’s arm with one quick blow, turned to Blake as the next two riders swooped upon him. Nicholas ducked, swerved the first blows, swords bouncing off his shoulder armor. Exhausted he succumbed to the volley of blows, his smile dissipating as blood ran from his lips. He looked back at the group hovering on the edge of the precipice, and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Blake was in a quandary, torn between watching Campion’s charge over the cliff and Sir Nicholas’s charge into the French. Hunter savagely wheeled his mount about, gave Blake a look of what the f*ck do we do. He gestured to Sir Nicholas and shouted to Blake, “We can’t just leave him!”

But it was too late. The French were too close – just two hundred yards off.

Gardner Hunter felt Bell’s eyes, he didn’t want to turn, tried to retain a confident demeanor.

Patrice Bellinger closed her eyes and was in his arms, back in Burma, back in China, back anyplace but France, anyplace other than this hellish era. Hunter took a firm hold of her reins, held her mount steady. It twitched, sensing the approaching charge. As his mount pranced about, he saw the fear in Bell’s eyes.

Tears flowed freely as Hunter reached across and gave her a final hug. He turned away and raised a sword . . . made a saluting gesture to Blake. Again they attempted disc activation, attempted transportation. Nothing.

The French riders drew nearer, massive chargers with necks outstretched and nostrils flaring, their riders anticipating the bloodbath.

French colors flapped furiously in the wind of the charge, pennants held high by some, while others carried outstretched lances and waved broadswords, lusting to slash into the group ahead. Hunter recalled Sir Nicholas’s words the French are not always merciless. He pondered the idea of dismounting, of pleading for mercy, considered it, thought of what they’d do with Bell. The consideration lasted a few seconds, long enough to blink, to shake off the foolishness. With the idiocy gone he wheeled Bell’s mount about and Blake snapped out a shout, “Try the f*ckin’ discs again. What the f*ck! Jesus Christ! Go! Go! Go!”

The French cavalry were now less than one hundred yards off.

Fifty yards separated them from the edge of the world as they spurred their mounts at full gallop in the direction Campion had headed. Fully stretched and with every fiber of sinew straining to clear a nonexistent hedge, their skyward leap began. The four appeared to sprout wings and leap away from land. But there was ho hedge. There was no solid ground... and they tumbled. They were falling uncontrollably. Three horses tumbling, tumbling, riders shouting as though pleading with their mounts to secure firm footing. Each rider entered into a crazed free fall as they became dislodged from their saddles, one bumping against the other, flailing legs being bumped by the weight of frenzied, wide eyed horses. Hunter caught a glimpse of Blake spinning about alongside of him. Spinning. Shouting. What were seconds seemed an eternity. They had no safety net, no padded landing.

The Dordogne River lay three hundred feet below.

”Your discs,” Blake shouted, “activate your discs, try them again . . .”

And in the warmth of that humid French evening, their echoed screams would come to an abrupt end in the raging waters of the Dordogne.

Blackness.