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GNO Chapter Excerpts Page ~ B1C8 Quick-Browse
Chapter Quick-Browse For Graven's Grotesque: A Gothic Epic
Chapter 8 Excerpt Teaser
Description: The Old World Dies ~ 7 Paragraphs
Friar Nicholas clutched the warm flask and rose to his feet, leaving the bound Scriptures beside a bound Odino. The young apprentice stood and cried, now as blind to his surroundings as was his dying mentor. He did not weep because Odino’s thoughts were preoccupied with Lazarus instead of himself. Nor was he distraught by the notion that Odino was no longer aware of him. He cried because the purest part of him was dying alongside Odino.
The piercing noise of a battle horn blared over the Abbey grounds. Nicholas wiped his face and turned to see Greville step out of the doorway as guards abandoned their posts, bolting toward the call-to-arms. A mounted soldier nearly trampled Greville and he stumbled back into the building.
Nicholas addressed Odino, bowing deeply, “Thy will be done, my friend.”
He turned and made haste toward the doorway when Greville blocked his way. “Where are you going with that flask, friar? I cannot permit you to leave the bathhouse. If you might kindly wait for—”
“Crack!” Without a word, he slammed his fist into Greville’s jaw, sending him and his torch flying against the wall. The young friar bellowed as he stormed out of the building, “Odino is done! Ivan is done! And now I am done with it as well!” Nicholas dashed toward the dormitory with all that mattered to him: the warm flask, the last memories of his holy mentor, and a cherished pair of heavy, well-stitched boots concealed beneath the rolling folds of a monk's robe, which might certainly help to seal a solemn promise he made in honour of Odino's final request.
The courtyard churned, as silhouettes of running soldiers poured through the south Abbey gate, abandoning their cemetery search. A line of fire marked the grounds as a procession of torch-bearing sentries streamed from the dormitory and toward the cathedral. Men shouted, armour rattled, and steeds’ hooves thundered to the relentless tune of a calling horn—a massive formation of martial coordination now dominated the monastery.
Greville awoke, stirred, and slapped at his smouldering sleeve. Beside him, in the corner of the bathhouse, a swirling column of flames engulfed a heap of robes that Ivan had used in his escape. He staggered out of the building, choking. Clodius grabbed him.
“A fire rages!” Greville gasped, rubbing his jaw. “Nicholas has escaped.”
Clodius pulled his arm. “It matters not! Come with me!” The two friars left the orange glow of the bathhouse doorway and stole into the darkness, sneaking about the shadowed side of the refectory before diving behind the cover of its juniper shrubs. They parted the bushes and watched soldiers assemble themselves into rows of unbroken ranks that encircled the entire perimeter of the cathedral. Steeds carted munitions wagons through the north Abbey gate as overlapping cries of stern command carried over the guarded grounds...
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