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Brendan Carroll's Blog
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: Brendan Carroll
ISBN-10: 1453646264
Pages: 290
Copyright: Nov 17, 2009
ISBN-13: 9781453646267
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
The Chevalier du Morte, Grand Master of the Poor Knights of Solomon's Temple, Order of the Red Cross of Gold, must call upon the powers of the Abyss in order to restore Sister Meredith's sanity. She has fallen victim of her own magick and that of her estranged daughter, Nicole. Meredith has chosen Lucio Dambretti as her reluctant King to her imagined Queen of Babylon role. Mark's brother, Luke, anxiously awaits the arrival of Merry's baby and Mark prays for the return of his own son, John Paul. Things do not go well when Carlisle Corrigan, Knight of the Temple, falls under the influence of the dreaded Skull of Sidon and he is led astray in more ways when his presumably lost apprentice makes a surprise appearance. To add to Mark's troubles, Omar Adam Kadif has found his calling as the New Prophet of Allah.
Excerpt
Carlisle took one of the bags he had purchased from the chest at the foot of his bed and tried to decide the best way to fit it into the luggage. The box was not overly large, but it would show up on the x-ray at the airport. They would have to travel to Scotland by helicopter and then drive to Italy. It would not do to be caught by a customs inspector with a dead baby’s skull in his bags. The thing seemed to vibrate in his hands as he handled it. He pressed it snugly into one corner of the leather bag and began to cover it with his new clothes. Another thing that had bothered him immensely. He had lost everything. He had no home in Wales. No home in Italy. All of his worldly possessions had been left behind and he’d had to buy all new clothes. Only his sword and dagger had survived this terrible transformation with him. His collection of blown glass figurines, worth a small fortune, was gone and though he knew that it was against the Rule of Order, he still missed them. It had never existed in this time and his library. His collection of original manuscripts, his map collection, his paintings. All gone. He would have to start all over. He had owned a small home in Wales and had spent much of his time there, but now the home belonged to someone else and all things aside, he missed his apprentice more than anything else. Michael. It was no less a loss than if Michael had died, but then he probably had already died. He would try to find out what had become of him, Michael Townsley. As soon as he had a chance, he would make use of these new computers to search for his file. He was bending over the chest, fishing out his last pair of socks when he heard his name.
“Carlisle.” It was a bare whisper.
He turned around quickly expecting to see Simon there, but there was no one in the room with him. He rushed to the door and threw it open. It screeched on its heavy, iron hinges, a cooler rush of air struck his face and blew his red curls back momentarily. He heard the sounds of the evening meal’s lesson drifting up from the main hall. The monks were at supper.
His imagination was running amuck. The thing in the box was working on his mind. He closed the door and walked back to the bag which lay on the bed. He stuffed the socks in the bag and then stopped short. He heard the voice again and this time he recognized it. Michael’s voice. He looked at the window.
The window sill was deep and the narrow window was closed. He was three stories up and there was no balcony outside his room.
He heard the voice again and this time, it was unmistakable. Michael Townsley’s voice was coming from his bag on the bed.
Carlisle froze and crossed himself. “Spes mea in deo est,” he whispered.
“Spes mea in deo est,” Michael’s voice came clearly to him. “Master.”
“No.” Carlisle shook his head. This was not possible. He crept forward to peer into the bag. Only clothing lay exposed in the opening.
“Master. Help me.”
“No. Stay away from me.” Carlisle fell to his knees beside the bed and began to repeat the confession.
“Master. Master,” the voice continued.
Carlisle stopped praying and stood up. He reached into the bag and pulled out the box, spilling his clothing everywhere. He set the box on the bed and then knelt in front of it. Very slowly, he reached to open the catches and then pushed the lid up. The skull was wrapped in white linen and sprinkled over with red and white powder. Mark Andrew had obviously cast some of his magickal spells on the thing. He did not want to touch it. But he had to touch it. He had to find out why Michael’s voice was coming from this thing. He would not let Mark Andrew’s abomination rule his mind. He would not succumb to fear and superstitious nonsense. He had nothing to fear. God was on his side. He unwrapped the white linen and laid the skull on the bed. It was cold and lifeless. It was nothing, just a horrid thing that should have been buried and forgotten long ago. He laughed nervously and reached out one hand cautiously to poke at it. He touched it lightly on the temple and it rocked slightly.
“Holy Mary, protect me from the whims of sorcerers and magicians,” he said aloud and stood up. He began to collect his clothes from the floor. He turned to pick up a shirt from the rug behind him and was struck from behind. The Knight of the Temple sprawled across the rug and was then yanked over on his back. He fought blindly against his attacker but found himself pinned to the floor with a great weight sitting on his chest. Corrigan opened his eyes slowly and looked into the face of his apprentice Michael Townsley.
“Mother of God. Michael!” His voice was shaky with panic. “What are you doing?”
“Master.” Michael smiled down at him. “You left me behind. Why did you do that? I searched everywhere for you.”
“Let me up.” Carlisle pulled on his arms and the young man released him. “How did you get here?”
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