Rats fled from before them as Shlomo and Fulk fought their way to the monastery. After all that carnage, it seemed the tide had finally turned in Christendom's favor.

The Vermin attacks were growing more and more sparse, as if even those monsters knew their end was nigh.

Finally, wading through the ankle-high puddles of blood, Shlomo and Fulk arrived at the sanctuary doors. Shlomo approached first and rapped his gauntlet-covered knuckles on the door. "Is there anyone alive in there?" Shlomo shouted.

"Who goes?" came a voice from the other side.

"Clearly, not a Vermin or headless man," Shlomo bellowed back. "So, does it matter?"

"That's the Jew's voice!" someone from the other side called back.

"Open the door!" came Sir Cristoff's reply.

Shlomo listened as they removed the board and the door swung open. He and Fulk were the first to enter, followed by the knights and Templars they'd brought with them.

Most of the candles had burned down to the last bits of wax, so the room was dimly lit. When Shlomo's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked about at the people who'd taken shelter in the sanctuary, all exhausted and slick with scarlet. In the far corner, Shlomo spotted Melcher Fitz tied to a chair. In his chest there gaped a wound from which blood had long since stopped flowing. The man's mask had been torn from him, revealing a face paler than snow and dark purple lips.

"Is he...?"

"Look!" Fulk said, pointing to the opposite corner. St. Giradin lay upon one of the pews, his head wrapped from the brow up in bandages torn from the curtains. The dark red stain on the bandages told Shlomo that he'd been struck on the head.

St. Giradin was breathing.

"Baruch Hashem!" Shlomo said before rushing to his side.

Sir Cristoff stood over him. "He took a bad blow to the head. We've stopped the bleeding, but... well, you never know if head wounds will heal or not."

"He's a saint, isn't he?" Shlomo asked. "Can't he just heal himself?"

Sir Cristoff shook his head. "If saints could do that we'd never have martyrs, now would we?"

Shlomo rolled his eyes, thankful that his sarcasm was hidden behind his bird-like mask. "The Vermin and their ilk are retreating. Those that are left, anyway. The Bishop's knights have slain most of them by now."

Sir Cristoff sighed. "Blessed Mary! I was sure we'd never hear good news again." Sir Cristoff reached into the pouch on his belt and produced a small, leather book. "Which reminds me, I need to make sure someone makes a copy of what I've written so far. If this book is lost, all the information I've gathered will be gone too."

Shlomo chuckled. "One thing at a time, Sir Templar. Life is far more precious than knowledge. Adam and Eve forgot that, let's not make their mistake."

"Gah!"

The shriek from the other end of the room all but caused Shlomo's heart to burst.

Fitz is alive?

Melcher Fitz, despite the wound through his chest, flailed and thrashed in the chair to which he was bound. Every Crow in the room still armed aimed his weapon at their order's Master. Dread shook their hands.

"What the fuck?" Fulk muttered.

"That's what I said," Sir Cristoff told him.

"Worthless men!" Melcher cried out. "You damn fools! Can you still not see that I do God's work! He has not allowed me to die from the sword. No, not until my mission is complete. You must see now! Giradin must die!"

Fulk stumbled back from Fitz and cast his mace from his hand. The weapon clattered to the floor, chipping the stones where it struck. The murderer staggered out of the room, as if suddenly drunk, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Sir Cristoff shook his head, his eyes fixed on Melcher Fitz. "We're not sure what's happened, but he's received at least three mortal wounds and still hasn't died."

"He is the Anti-Christ!" Fitz screamed, struggling against his bonds as if to rush at St. Giradin.

"Or, rather..." Sir Cristoff continued, "I think he might have died, but didn't stop moving."

Horror settled into Shlomo's heart like an unpleasant relative returning for a long visit. He stared at Fitz's pale face and neck. His gaunt features. The blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. The eyes devoid of all shine, dry bone-like orbs swivelling in their sockets. The Crows' Master only took a breath when it was time for him to scream more accusations at the saint.

Yes, it was true. Melcher Fitz was dead. But some force, whether Heaven, Hell, or hate itself, kept him moving.

Shlomo turned to Sir Cristoff, "Are we sure those ropes can hold--"

Snap!

The chair under Melcher Fitz snapped apart, with wooden pieces dangling from the ends of ropes.

One of the Crows lunged, sword-first.

Shlomo blinked, and Melcher Fitz had seized the Crow and now held him hostage with his own sword against his throat.

Fitz spat a bloody tooth from his mouth and said, "You will release me or he will die."