A Last Prayer

The Great Hall of the Bellarius Monastery was usually a magnificent and peaceful place. Time was when many people would make the pilgrimage here, through sun, rain and even lashing snow. They would enter through the large oak doors, gazing around in awe at the high ceilings, the colourful glass windows, through which light would stream in multicoloured beams, and at the tapestries on the walls that hung thick with history. Then their eyes would focus on the bier in the centre and they would walk reverently towards it.

Anselem was also making his way in its direction but the scene couldn't have been more different from what was usual. Now the hall was no longer a place of peace. Instead hammering filled the air as a few of the remaining monks tried to nail long planks across the doors in a desperate effort to reinforce them. Others were crouching on pulpits, clutching crossbows they barely knew how to use and keeping an eyes on the walls. The windows were no longer their former radiant selves; many were broken and of the twelve of the saints that had once stood there watching over the hall only Granio remained intact, sitting at a wooden table, quaffing beer. Maybe not the most edifying one to survive but any glimpse of divine favour was welcome. Occasionally shadows moved in the darkness outside the frames and a nervous monk would loose a bolt but if they hit anything it never made a sound.

Anselem was engaged in a third activity, though he would much rather be holding a weapon instead of just a staff. He was moving slowly across the floor, lighting holders full of incense. He occasionally glanced back at the work on the door. It didn't really matter, in the long run they were all going to die, but he felt that the longer that time could be delayed, the better.

The shuffle of slippers caused him to look up as the Abbot made his way to stand beside him. He put a hand on Anselem's brow; a blessing. “You're doing good work, Anselem,” he told the kneeling novice.

“Thank you, sir.” Part of Anselem wanted to ask, what was the point? But he already knew the answer.

Abbot Bob seemed to sense the question and answered it anyway.

“We might all die when the werewolves finally get in. But with the incense lit they won't be able to find the others.”

The Abbot shuffled away and Anselem returned to his work, while his mind strayed to those sheltering in the cellars; the servants, the villagers and the farmers from the outlying settlements. All had fled here when the werewolves had swept down from the hills.

They'd always been a problem, always a threat to lonely travellers. But they'd never been seen in bands of more than ten before. Any merchant caravan had just taken some guards and they'd been fine.

Now hundreds boiled down from the hills, destroying all in their path.

The nobles of the land had tried to stand against them at first. Since the time of the Saints the power of the monasteries had waned and lords and barons had raised themselves up. They had trained bands of men under their control and it had seemed for a time that they would be able to keep the darkness at bay. But one after another their holds had fallen, their soldiers used only to other men, not the powerful, savage beasts they found themselves fighting. Now the nobles cowered in the cellar along with the carrots and the people they had once controlled.

Anselem wondered how they must be feeling, how everyone must be feeling. To be trapped in the dark, because the werewolves seemed to be able to smell the light given off by candles, hearing the shrieks and howls from above, knowing that you might be found at any moment. It had to be hellish there, hellish and quiet as no-one would be able even to whimper. For a moment he was glad that he was up above. At least he would die breathing air in the place he'd worshipped in and where he'd once found peace.

That moment soon ended as another assault from the werewolves began. The door began shuddering, the monks around it being knocked back, and the howling grew to a great crescendo. There was a clattering as one of the monks in a pulpit released a bolt and it shattered against the wall beside a window. At first Anselem hoped it was just nerves but as more went off he looked up and saw the wolves scuttling like dark spiders through the windows, their dark, hairy limbs almost like humans but far to bestial. He ducked and ran toward the bier, burning the last of his incense as he went. He crashed into its side and spent one second gazing down at it.

Saint Bellarius lay there under a glass case, fingers lying lightly on her sword. She had been dead for longer than time had existed yet here she still rested, not changed in any way at all. Her silver hair pooled across her pillow, her eyelashes still stood like towers. The skin on her face was without blemish and her lips were full and almost moist. She radiated serenity.

Anselem caught a sight of his face reflected in the case. It couldn't have been more different. Hair shorn away, expression full of fear and dirt. Brown eyes wide with the knowledge that he probably wouldn't live to see the next half hour.

There was something else. A flicker of movement, high up behind him. As he turned to see there was a growl and a thud, off to his left. A werewolf had dropped from the ceiling, landing in a pulpit. The monk turned, trying to fire his crossbow and pull a knife from his belt but the beast swiped a claw at him, knocking him down and out of sight. The werewolf followed him down and there came a spray of blood and the sound of rending flesh.

Then he heard a growl and, looking up, he saw a shadow bearing down on him, it's claws raised, a hungry grin floating about it's elongated face. His knees gave out beneath him and he fell against the casket.

“Saint protect me, Saint guide me, Saint allow me no harm,” he half muttered, half begged, trying to raise his staff in a defence he knew wouldn't be enough. He closed his eyes, preferring his last sight to be the darkness he beheld in prayer to the slavering jaws of the beast.

There was a smash of glass and a drop of something landed on Anselem's forehead.

His eyes eased their way open and a gasp of holy shock escaped his lips.

The Saint knelt in her casket, arm outstretched, sword piercing the chest of the werewolf. It hung lifeless, blood running down the blade and dripping onto Anselem's head, like a baptism.

The Saint got to her feet, flicking the body to the side contemptuously. “Well it's about time,” she said and her voice rang like a bell.

Anselem could only gape up at the sight. Bellarius's head were up and her eyes blazing. Unlike the scriptures said they weren't blue but a striking violet, glowing like the moon. Her hair hung to her waist and seemed to sway in a breeze. She bent down and rummaged around her casket for a bit before pulling out a hat with an impossibly wide brim. She secured it onto her head, tucking away her hair. All eyes were on her now, both monk and werewolf, the later apparently having scented the blood of their own. The Saint looked up and seemed to grin. Then, with a flicker of movement, she was gone.

A werewolf on the other side of the hall growled and was dead before it had registered her presence. Another charged toward a monk and was sent toppling back, a gash opening up its chest. Two more died on opposite sides of the room in what seemed to be the same instant. All that could be seen was the glint of her blade or a flicker of her hair and where they were seen, people died.

Anselem could only watch, needing to lean against the bier for support, heedless of the broken glass. He'd read the scripture and, since he was a novice at her monastery, had focused on the segments about Bellarius more than the rest. But he'd always thought they exaggerated in some way. He found himself quoting part of it under his breath. “...and she was death and took death everywhere she went.” He'd always found it needlessly poetic before but now he could see the truth of it.

The werewolves were retreating now, there was nothing else they could do. Any stand they tried to make ended in a moment as a pile of dead. Backward they edged out of the doors, trying to watch for any weakness that might present itself.

Bellarius flickered into being in the centre of the hall, just in front of Anselem. Throwing back her head she uttered a sound that was half song, half screech. There was a harshness to it, yet also a melody. But it followed no tune Anselem could recognise.

There was a grating sound from outside the building and the ordered retreat of the werewolves turned into a full rout. In seconds not one of them were left, all that remained were their corpses. Anselem glanced out of one of the windows and saw horned, winged shapes in pursuit. Had the Saint just brought the gargoyles that encrusted the monastery to life?

Bellarius turned to him, wiping her sword on the first werewolf she'd slain, the one who'd almost killed him. She smiled at him. “That was close,” she said, in her bell-like tones. “How did Seliv ever let them get close?”

“What?” Was this some sort of test? “Surely that's for only Him to know?”

Huh?” Now the Saint looked confused. She may have been able to detect the capital letter in the middle of the sentence. “Where is he anyway?”

Anselem was still puzzled. “The Maker? I don't know. Who am I to know the will of a god?”

“A god? Seliv?” Bellarius looked around, taking in her surroundings fully for what appeared to be the first time. She looked at the tapestries, the alter and finally at the casket where she'd lain dormant for so long. “How long was I out for?”