The journey back to the monastery seemed to St. Giradin like it was taking far longer than the journey to the Vatican had been, though he knew this was unlikely as they were taking the same roads.

At least, they had been taking the same roads, until a pile of collapsed trees in their path forced them to divert to a different route just southeast of Elekvaz.

It was easy to tell that they were reaching the lands St. Giradin was familiar with because the once blue sky, with a hot sun bearing down upon them, soon turned to a light gray. A wet chill swept through the air, biting St. Giradin with its cold no matter how tightly he bundled his cloak or held onto Sir Emeric.

"There's a town ahead!" Sir Cristoff called out.

"Finally!" said Sir Emeric. "Which one?"

"According to the map..." Sir Cristoff looked over the map in his hands, squinting at it. He sighed and shook his head. "Whoever wrote this had atrocious hand-writing. It looks like it says 'Dubbar.'"

"Dubbar used to be a Jewish town," Shlomo called out.

Sir Emeric peered back at him. "Should we avoid it, then? The Jews tend to be nervous when large groups of Christians come to visit."

"Some even turn violent," Sir Cristoff muttered.

Shlomo shook his head. "No need. I said it used to be a Jewish town. There was a pogrom a few years back. Gentiles moved in afterward."

Sir Emeric gave a sympathetic grimace. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Shlomo shrugged. "Such is life."

"It shouldn't have to be," said St. Giradin.

Sir Emeric looked forward, up the road toward the town of Dubbar. The path there was a steep incline, and the road grew rockier on the approach. The trees on either side of the road were dead and dried out, their branches all broken off to make kindling for the many people who camped along the way.

"Well, let's move," Sir Emeric said. "We should set ourselves up in Dubbar before nightfall."

"Do you think they'll have enough rooms at the inn for so many?" asked St. Giradin.

Sir Emeric shook his head. "Most certainly not. But there are sure to be enough barns, sheds, and guestrooms. Not to mention space in the church. We can at least sleep with roofs over our heads tonight."

St. Giradin's entourage rode up the path toward Dubbar, the horses struggling with the uneven path. Sir Emeric's horse whinnied and whipped her head about. "Easy there, girl," he said, before gently patting her neck and feeding her an extra helping of oats. "You can rest soon."

"How does it feel, witch?" one of the Templars taunted Levanna, who was still bound, gagged, and blindfolded. "Once we get to Dubbar they'll try you, convict you, and burn you. I guess the burning of this life will make the transition to Hell that much easier."

Sir Emeric turned to the junior Templar and pointed an accusing finger at him. "None of that!"

"What? It's true!" the Templar protested.

Sir Emeric narrowed his eyes to slits. "It may be, but there's no reason to revel in it. Christ would wish that not a single soul were lost, but you clearly celebrate this misguided woman's damnation. You will stop immediately."

"Or what?" the Templar snorted.

"Do not test me, boy," Sir Emeric growled.

The junior Templar shrunk away and fell silent.

At the top of the hill they finally spotted the town below. It was a quiet little place with wattle and daub homes and a church with a tall steeple in the center.

But the moment Sir Emeric laid eyes on the place he noticed no smoke coming from the chimneys, though it was a cold day. No people walked the streets, neither were there loose animals about. In fact, when he looked upon the place, it seemed there wasn't a soul there. Yet, as he and the others drew closer, he noticed that the buildings were all intact and well-kept, as if someone had been there recently.

"Hold up!" he called out, raising his fist as a signal to halt. Everyone came to a stop at his command. "None of this looks right... it looks abandoned."

Sir Cristoff looked back at Shlomo. "Do you think plague took this place?"

Shlomo shook his head. "I've come across towns wiped out by plague before. They have bodies littering the streets, dogs wandering, animals loose..."

Sir Cristoff turned to Sir Emeric. "What say you? What do we do here?"

"Well..." Sir Emeric scratched his stubbled beard as he considered the options, "If this place is truly abandoned, then we have a place to stay. Assuming the reason why it's abandoned isn't reason to avoid it." The Templar dismounted from his horse and drew his sword. "Sir Cristoff, Sir Philip, you two come with me and we'll check it out. The rest of you, stay here. If you see any sign of trouble blow a horn."

St. Giradin reached out and grasped Sir Emeric's arm. "Let me come with you."

Sir Emeric shook his head. "No. You're far too valuable to risk here."

"I have to take risks eventually," said St. Giradin. "If the town is haunted then you'll need me."

Sir Emeric considered it for a moment, then gently pushed St. Giradin's hand away. "No. Vengeful spirits are dangerous, but the plague is far more so. You are the only cure for plague that we know of."

"With all due respect," Shlomo interjected, "Giradin here has faced many a danger far greater than anything you're likely to find in that town, and he's come out alive every time. I daresay, by now he's probably as experienced a warrior as you are, Sir Emeric."

The Templar sighed, reached up, and helped St. Giradin down. "Fine. Stay close to me, understand? And if I tell you to run you do so. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," said St. Giradin with a nod.

"One more thing." Sir Emeric reached into his saddlebag and produced a plague doctor mask. He held it out to St. Giradin and said, "Just in case."

St. Giradin nodded and donned the mask, tying the straps to the back of his head. He took his rolled-up coat from the back of Sir Emeric's saddle and dressed himself in it, slipping on the waxed-leather gauntlets.

The three Templars and the plague doctor saint walked into town together, their weapons drawn in case they should run into any trouble. Sir Emeric peered up at the hills and cliffs on all sides of the town of Dubbar, noting that if he were planning an assault on such a town he would likely launch his ambush from there.

A squeak made Sir Emeric jump, and he pointed his blade at the source.

A brown rat ran by, stopped in the middle of the road, and groomed its fur with its paws.

"Filthy creatures..." Sir Cristoff muttered before running it through with his blade.

The four of them continued on, peering at every window in the homes all around them. There was no sign of movement in any of the houses. No lit candles. No lanterns. Only darkness and silence.

"Do you sense any spirits?" Sir Emeric asked.

"No," said St. Giradin. "I don't sense anything at all."

Sir Emeric sighed. "We need to investigate these buildings. Let's start with the church. In times of trouble, common folk usually run to the church for shelter."

The four of them made their way to the front doors of the church. The stained-glass windows prevented them from peering inside before opening the door. Sir Emeric made a gesture for the other three to stand back as he drew close to the front door.

His trembling hand reached out for the door handles. The hinges screeched as he pulled the door open. What little sunlight shone through the gray clouds above illuminated the inside of the sanctuary.

"Mary!" Sir Emeric cried.

"Sweet Christ!" Sir Cristoff breathed.

Bones piled in the center of the sanctuary, so high that they touched the ceiling. For a brief moment, Sir Emeric hoped that they were not human.

But the skulls proved otherwise.

A horn blast from behind them.

Sir Emeric turned his eyes to the hills, where he saw countless Vermin cresting the tops with rusty weapons in their hands. They had the town surrounded. Swarms of rats rushed down the hills first, like a flood moving in to wash the town away. The Vermin followed, a horde beyond numbering.

There was no use running away. They'd never make it to the edge of town.

"Into the church! Quick!" Sir Emeric shouted.