Fits cut a red path to the sick wards.

No Vermin, headless-man, or swarm of rats could stand in his way. He put them all to the sword with the kind of strength he imagined would make Samson look like a cripple by comparison.

Without a hint of fear in his heart, he took the keys from the pocket of a dead Crow who'd been standing guard and approached Giradin's cell, his blood-soaked sword ready in his hand.

But the door was wide open, and Giradin was gone.

"No!"

Panic rose up in Fitz's heart, but it immediately transformed into rage.

The only way he could have gotten out is if someone let him out...

Peering down the hallway, with only a few lanterns on the floor to light the way, Fitz saw that several of the other doors lay open too. Including the ones which held the Templars and Giradin's followers.

Fitz beat his fist against the wall.

Damn it all! The Beast is loose and he took his heretics with him!

Calm yourself, my child. Not all is lost.

The words which popped into Melcher Fitz's head did not seem like his own. They were thoughts brought to his mind by some external force. In an instant, he was certain he knew the source of the voice.

My Lord?

Make your way to the sanctuary, said the voice in Melcher's mind. Your enemy is there, along with his heretical followers.

I'll cut them all down, if I have to.

Fitz stormed through the halls of the monastery again. Along the way he met a few Vermin stragglers, those who had fallen behind from the bulk of the horde.

Vengeance is thine.

The Vermin hissed at Melcher Fitz, baring their pointed teeth.

Unperturbed, Fitz charged into the midst of them, and in a flurry of steel, rust, and red their bodies fell in pieces upon the stone floor. Fitz's uniform was soaked in gore, but he had not yet shed the only blood that mattered.

Avoiding some of the larger groups of Vermin and headless-men rampaging through his home, Fitz crept along the walls until he reached the sanctuary, where all the faithful would gather to pray. He pushed on the door, only to realize it was barred from the other side.

"Hold!" came Sir Cristoff's shout from the other side. "More trying to come in!"

Then came the sound of stomping boots as those on the other side took their positions, readying themselves for the attack.

Fitz beat his fist on the door three times. "It's Master Melcher Fitz. Open this damn door and let me in!"

Murmuring on the other side. Were these scum contemplating insubordination?

They will learn obedience to proper authority. Remove from them the rebellious element and they will listen once again.

"Is the hallway clear?" asked Sir Cristoff from the other side. "Not a rat or Vermin in sight?"

"The hall is safe," Fitz said. "Now, let me in."

The wooden bar lifted, releasing the door, and it swung open. Melcher hurried inside and four men pushed the door shut behind him, barring it once more.

Once inside, Melcher took a look around the sanctuary. Those within had stacked pews and arranged them to create barricades, behind which they stood ready with spears, swords, crossbows, and any other weapons they'd managed to get their hands on. Most of them wore plague doctor uniforms, but some wore the sack cloth tunics given to prisoners and the sick when kept in the cells below the monastery.

Whoever let Giradin out also let the sick patients out...

Those whose faces were unhidden made no effort to disguise their disgust for Melcher Fitz as he walked among them.

They also hated and scorned me. What makes you think you will be treated any differently?

Taking the words to heart, Melcher ignored those who sneered at him and turned his attention to the front of the sanctuary. There, Sir Cristoff stood with his sword in hand, and Giradin knelt beside him.

Giradin's hair had grown out and become a tangled mess, like a bird's nest atop his head. His facial hair had grown into a scraggly beard, growing in patches upon his cheeks and chin. The boy clasped his hands together and rocked back and forth as he prayed before the life-sized crucifix behind the pulpit.

Fitz drew nearer, eyeing Sir Cristoff. The Templar was likely no match for Fitz now, for Fitz had the spirit of Christ within him. He was the true chosen saint, not pitiful Giradin. Even so, it occurred to Fitz that if he were to strike against Giradin and Sir Cristoff suddenly and without explanation, the others in the sanctuary would turn on him. Even if he somehow slaughtered them all single-handedly, he'd have on his hands the blood of many potential allies against the Vermin.

Fitz was about to turn and address the crowd, explain to them that Giradin was the Anti-Christ and he had brought the Vermin down upon them to scare them away from the right path, but before he could speak, Giradin rose and turned to him. By the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what Fitz was there for.

Clever Devil...

"Give me one more hour," said Giradin. "If help doesn't come, I will gladly submit myself to your blade."

Sir Cristoff jumped as if startled at Giradin's words and glared at Melcher Fitz. He stood between the master of the Crows and the supposed saint.

Melcher Fitz nodded. "That sounds fair enough. If no help comes by then, surely all will see that you are a False Idol, come to lead us all astray."