Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance

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BOOK I

January 6, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

My name is of no importance.

It is enough to know that three nights ago I obtained to the Seventh

Degree Initiation. Perforce, and I am now a member of the Inner

Temple, and therefore privy to the secrets I am about to reveal.

Do not think for a moment that I intend to betray the trust which has

been placed in me. I would gladly die before endangering the

Brotherhood or its work. As it happens, much of what I shall set forth is

already known; at least, any reasonably intelligent reader with an ounce

of curiosity and a half-decent library can obtain it with patience and

perseverance. The rest, however, is beyond all recovery, save by the

methods which have been employed on my behalf. Those methods, like

the knowledge so derived, is arcane beyond belief.

Indeed, were I not now among the chosen few, I would not believe it

myself, nor would I be writing this at all. As to that, I have put it off

long enough. The time has come to order the confusion of my thoughts

and the extraordinary, nay fantastic, experiences of the last days.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day disengaging myself from my

various commitments and, at the appropriate time, made my way to the

appointed place of rendezvous. Forgive me if I do not divulge the

location of our meeting place. Suffice to say that it is a simple church

no great distance from the city, easily reached by hansom cab. As

always, I paid the driver for his trouble, delivered instructions for his

return, and proceeded the last two or so miles on foot. Like my fellows,

I vary the route each time, as well as the driver, so as not to arouse

undue interest or suspicion.

Although the church appears nondescript - all sombre grey stone and

suitably traditional appointments - ‘I assure you it is quite ancient, and

anything but traditional. Upon entering, I paused to pray in one of the

chapel pews before retrieving my grey robe from the rack in the vestry,

and making my way down the hidden steps behind the altar to the crypt

where our more intimate convocations take place.

The lower room smells faintly of dust and dry decay. It is dark. We rely

on candlelight alone, and that sparingly. I am not afraid; I have

participated in many such gatherings of the Brotherhood for several

years now, and am well acquainted with the various forms and

functions of our group. Ordinarily, I am one of the first to arrive.

Tonight, however, I can sense the others waiting for me as I stoop

nearly double to enter the inner room. I make some small excuse for

being late, but am reassured by Genotti (I should state here that all

names encountered in this narrative have been altered to protect the

anonymity of the members of the Brotherhood) - who tells me that I am

not late, but that tonight's meeting is a special affair.

any hint or sign of impropriety, however small.

'I hope I have not disappointed you.'

'On the contrary. You have impressed us greatly. Our admiration has

only increased.'

A third voice speaks from the darkness. 'Many have been called to the

Brotherhood before you.' It is Kutch; his Austrian accent is all his own.

'However, no one has proven worthy of higher honour… until now.'

At his use of the word 'honour', my senses prick. That word was used

only once before on such an occasion - the night I was asked to join the

Brotherhood.

'I was not aware any higher honour existed,' I reply.

'Martyrdom was an honour,' Zaccaria informs me calmly, ‘to those who

embraced it.'

'Am I to be a martyr?'

It is De Cardou who answers. 'We are all martyrs, my friend. It is only

the cause which distinguishes one from another.'

I do not know what to say to this, so the silence stretches long. I have

the sense that they are watching me, that they can see me in the dark

even though I cannot see them.

It is Pemberton who speaks at last. This surprises me, for I expected one

of the others - Evans, perhaps, or De Cardou. But, no, I know now that

the unassuming Pemberton is our superior, our First Principal. 'If you

would suffer martyrdom, as we have suffered it before you,' he says

gently, 'you have but to step forward.'

I do so, and without a moment's hesitation. I have seen enough of the

has been set up in the centre of the crypt.

A solitary candle is lit, and in its glow I see that the table is covered

with a spotless white cloth upon which a selection of objects has been

assembled: a silver bowl of liquid, a white clay pipe of the kind used to

smoke tobacco, a communion chalice, a golden plate containing

something which looks like dried figs, a folded black cloth of a material

which I assume to be silk, or satin, and lastly, a crude wooden cross set

on a pedestal of gold.

I am brought to stand before the table, and my six initiators take their

places on the other side, opposite me; they have covered their heads

with their cowls so I may not see their faces. It does not matter, I know

their voices like I know my own. Even so, the effect is unsettling.

'Seeker, stretch forth your hands.' The command is delivered by

Pemberton, and I do as I am told. He picks up the silver bowl and

places it on my palms. 'Take and drink.'

I raise the bowl to my lips and sip the liquid. It is sweet, tasting vaguely

herbal, like a mixture of roses and anise; yet, there is strength in it, too.

I feel the burn in my throat as I swallow. I lower the bowl and it is

removed from me, only to be offered once more. 'Seeker, take and

drink.'

I drink again, and feel an uncanny warmth spreading through my gullet

and stomach. I lower the bowl once more, and once more I am

instructed to drink. The strange warmth is filling me from the inside

out, spreading from the pit of my stomach to my limbs.

After the third drink of the heady potion, I am allowed to replace the

I take the end of the pipe into my mouth and draw upon it. The smoke is

fragrant and fills my mouth. I blow it out, and draw again on the

wonderful fragrance. After the third such puff, the pipe is, like the

bowl, withdrawn and replaced on the table.

Genotti speaks next. 'Seeker,' he says in his soft Italian tones, raising

the golden plate, 'take and eat.'

I choose one of the shrivelled brown objects from the offered plate. I

put it into my mouth and chew. The flesh is soft and somewhat leathery

- like that of dried fruit - but the taste is acrid, bitter. Tears start to my

eyes, and I am overwhelmed by a desire to spit out this strange

substance. The bitterness is so intense it seems to burn, and then to

numb my mouth. My tongue loses all sensation, becoming an unfeeling

lump of useless tissue which, unaccountably, seems to swell in my

mouth. I fear I will choke. I cannot breathe.

Gasping, gagging, somehow I keep chewing the awful stuff, and am at

last able to swallow it down. A new fear overtakes me: I will be made

to eat from the plate again.. but no, Genotti replaces the plate, and takes

up the chalice. This is offered without a word, and I accept. I drink; it

seems to be a cordial of some kind. I can detect no particular aroma or

taste, but instantly feel my tongue and teeth and lips and the soft tissues

of my throat begin to throb with a tingling sensation. I know not

whether this comes from the dried fruit I have ingested, or from the

cordial, but the tingling does not abate.

I am suddenly taken with a curious desire to laugh. I feel as if a bubble

is rising inside me, growing larger as it ascends, and that I must give

the ear.

'With the eyes of faith,' I reply. The question is a standard query posed

to initiates at every degree.

'Then open your eyes, Seeker, and you shall see,' Evans commands. He

takes up the folded cloth of black silk and, stepping around the table,

raises the cloth to my face. He quickly binds my eyes, and, blindfolded,

I am led by my right hand to another part of the room and made to lie

down on my back on the floor.

I compose myself for whatever will happen next, and I hear a low

scraping sound, like chalk dragging slowly across a blackboard. This

goes on for a time, and then I feel cold air on the left side of my face -

as if a door has opened to the draught. At the same time, ropes are

attached to either side of the padded band around my waist, and then I

am securely tied. The others are standing around me now, towering

over me.

Suddenly, my feet are grasped and I am spun like a terrapin on my

back. When my feet are released once more, I feel that there is nothing

beneath them - my feet dangle over open space. I am allowed no time to

reflect on this, for at almost the same instant I am gently pulled

forward, allowing my feet, ankles, and legs to slide down into

emptiness. My arms are taken up, the ropes pulled taut, and I feel

myself slipping into the hole which has been opened in the floor.

Slowly, I descend into the void, dangling at the end of my ropes like a

puppet.

The chamber into which I am lowered is immense. I cannot say how I

know this - perhaps the size is suggested by the chill of the air and the

yy y

At this, the ropes go slack as they are thrown in after me. This puppet's

strings have been cut, as it were, and it is for me to find my own way, to

seek. But what... what am I seeking? What am I meant to find? None of

my previous experiences with the Brotherhood have prepared me for

this test. I will stand or fall by my own efforts.

As I am a seeker, I decide, I will do as I am told. Although the object of

my search remains a mystery, I will have faith enough to believe that I

shall recognize the prize when I find it.

Thus resolved, I take my first faltering steps into the cave - for that is

how I think of it, an immense subterranean cavern, a vast hollow

chamber of stone deep under the earth. I take three steps into the

clinging darkness, and I stop. I am no longer steady on my feet. I feel

light-headed, as if I am floating.

Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and proceed.

I turn slowly, first left, then right. I seem to feel the faintest breath of air

on my cheek when I face the right, and so I decide to pursue the search

in this direction. It is a whim, nothing more, but it is rewarded by the

fact that after a dozen or so measured paces, I reach a step.

I stoop and feel the edge of the step with my hands; it rises to others

behind it. I mount the first three, then three more, then another, and I

am arrived upon a platform, which I take to be cut into the cavern wall.

I speak a word and judge by the reverberation of the sound that I have

entered a smaller chamber, open to the larger - a vestibule of sorts.

Stretching my hands before me like a blind man - truly, I am a blind

man - I shuffle forward to explore the chamber to which I have

As expected, there is no light. The subterranean darkness is complete. It

covers me like a second skin, so close as to be part of me. Though I am

blind still, my senses are alive and tingling with anticipation - or, more

probably, the strange substances I have imbibed are beginning to work

in me somehow. I feel as if I am flying.

I continue with my inspection. The walls of the vestibule, I discover,

are rounded and smooth, cut, as I have surmised, into the walls of the

cave. There is no impediment to my movement as I work my way

around what I perceive to be the back wall of the vestibule, feeling with

my hands. And then...

I brush the edge of the opening with my fingers. I feel the curved lip of

a ledge, and quickly trace the opening in the wall with my hands. It is a

niche, wider than it is high, and with a slightly projecting shelf. I reach

in. It is not deep. I feel the back of the niche, and then begin running my

fingers along the shelf.

My fingertips brush something cold and hard.

The object has been placed in the niche precisely. Indeed, I presume the

niche and shelf have been constructed especial to hold the object it

contains. Could this be what I was meant to find?

I continue my investigation of the object. It is long and thin, with a

hardness and coldness that can only be metal. I take it into my hand and

carefully remove it from its resting place, holding it lengthwise across

my palms to judge its heft. From the weight, I suspect bronze, or iron;

and from the length and shape, I imagine a rake handle. But no, it is too

thin - the circumference is too small for any common tool or implement

of that sort - and it is too heavy. The surface is rough, pitted, and

the head: small vanes, if you will. These vanes are thin, and...

As I stand puzzling over the nature of the object I have found, I hear the

whoosh of air, great volumes of air moving, yet I feel not the slightest

movement on my skin. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

All at once, it seems as if the floor beneath me is tilting. I reel forwards,

clutching the metal rod. With my free hand, I grab for the edge of the

niche, miss, and lurch awkwardly into the wall. The cavern is booming

now, and I realize the sound is in my head - it is the rush of blood

through my ears. Bracing myself against the wall, I try to turn, but find

I can no longer stand.

I am panting like a dog. My breath comes in quick bursts and gasps, as

if I have run ten miles. Sweat is pouring from my face. I hold to the

wall, leaning against it, afraid to move lest I fall from the raised

vestibule to the floor. Instead, keeping my back to the wall, I slide

down slowly into a sitting position, clutching the metal rod, and gulping

air like a fish caught on dry land.

The floor beneath me trembles; I feel the vibration seeping up through

the stone floor and into my bones. My mouth is dry and tastes of sour

milk. The sweat is pouring from me now. I press my head back against

the solid rock and feel my poor heart thumping away wildly in my

chest.

This is how I will die, I think.

There are dancing spots before my eyes - like fireflies, these errant

beams glint and fade, appearing and reappearing in the vast emptiness

of the cavern. Unlike fireflies, however, they are swarming, growing

The images inside the sphere are shifting, changing, filling my vision. It

is all I can see now, and the light is growing stronger. Without warning

the vision breaks over me. A sudden burst of light, and all at once, the

cavern is ablaze with sparkling images. They fly past my dazzled eyes

in a flurry of beams, a veritable blizzard of brilliance, each image a

burning spark striking deep into the soft tissue of my brain. Each

blazing particle is part of a greater whole, merging and coalescing as

they accumulate in my mind.

Individual fragments are swallowed in the gradually emerging whole,

and I begin to see - not broken images now, but a portrait entire. With

the crystalline clarity of a dream, I see it all. More, I behold. I have

become part of the dream, living it even as it is played out in my mind.

Still, the dazzling fragments, these scintillating shards of dream, fly at

me, piercing my senses, embedding themselves deep in my perception.

I am defenceless before the onslaught. I can but gape and surrender to

the dizzying torrent. But there is so much! The scenes cascade into my

consciousness, and I am a man drowning in the onrushing flood.

I can derive no sense or understanding of what I see; the dream is too

vast, too chaotic, too wild. It is all I can do to take it in. Yet, there is

meaning here. I feel it. This dream is no hollow hallucination, the

shadow-play of a drugged and fevered brain. Indeed, irresistibly, I am

impressed with a grave and terrible certainty that the tilings I am seeing,

however bizarre and chaotic they may seem, actually happened. The

dream is authentic. It happened.

Oddly, it is this awful certainty which overwhelms me in the end. I

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BOOKIJanuary6,1899:Edinburgh,ScotlandMynameisofnoimportance.ItisenoughtoknowthatthreenightsagoIobtainedtotheSeventhDegreeInitiation.Perforce,andIamnowamemberoftheInnerTemple,andthereforeprivytothesecretsIamabouttoreveal.DonotthinkforamomentthatIintendtobetraythetrustwhichhasbeenplacedinme.Iwouldglad...

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Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance

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