The Tower of Fear

[unmerged(23409)]

I was right! I was right!

*dances*

Except for Decebalus being good, man that's a shocker. I thought Decebalus was the Red-eyed man, you know.

 

[J. Passepartout]

Well, Lázárus Cornelius was indeed old, and apparantly in the manner I described if I read that correctly.

I am happy to see that Decebelus is not acting as though he is evil. He may very well be on our side, but I am going to wait on firmly declaring that he is.

Attila isn't going to give up that book without fighting, I think that the payment he will require is to be taught to read the book.

 

[Pirate Z]

Interesting... a Pecheneg god with some kind of prophet/quartermaster and evil designs to boot. I'm not sure -- do I want It to say in or come out?

And Lázárus being Cornelius... I can't believe it took me this long plus your explanation just to realize it

 

[unmerged(7269)]

Well, I knew this would provoke some comments. Let me address a few of them:

Except for Decebalus being good, man that's a shocker. I thought Decebalus was the Red-eyed man, you know.

I wouldn't go so far as to call Decebalus "good" - he did slaughter an entire village, after all, and had no problem killing Lázárus when he thought it was necessary. Though compared to Red-Eyes and the so-far unseen "It", Decebalus is a good guy. It's the old utilitarian argument, one of my favorite moral quandries: Is it permissible to kill a thousand innocent people if it prevents the deaths of millions? What about if you only had to kill a dozen? Or only one? The Catholic church has come down firmly against utilitarian thinking - a sinful act is no less sinful even if it prevents a greater evil. Decebalus would argue the contrary, and in fact did so in the last chapter. One can imagine the arguments he'll have with the ghost of Lázárus until it's time for the priest's next incarnation.

Attila isn't going to give up that book without fighting, I think that the payment he will require is to be taught to read the book.

For someone who was originally going to be a minor character, Attila certainly has grown. But I like him too much, so I just can't help writing things from his point of view. Of course, the rule of horror - indeed, any good drama - is that you must do the most terrible things to your favorite characters. How will this play out? Even I don't know yet.

Interesting... a Pecheneg god with some kind of prophet/quartermaster and evil designs to boot. I'm not sure -- do I want It to say in or come out?

And Lázárus being Cornelius... I can't believe it took me this long plus your explanation just to realize it

And here I thought that I was giving too much away by naming him "Lázárus". Doesn't anyone read the Bible any more?

As for "It" - I haven't decided how I'm going to end all of this yet. If I go for the big apocalyptic world-destroying ending, you may actually get a good look at "It".

Thanks for reading! Next chapter should come early next week - I'm on the road today, driving to some tiny town south of Fayetteville, NC for a gig tonight, so won't be able to write anything. (It won't stop me from thinking evil thoughts about the next chapter, though...)

 

[coz1]

A great scene in the tower. I would think that perhaps Lazarus would be back in some other form, too. I figured you had something up your sleeve what with naming him that and all.

And the Bishop os most likely in for a surprise when he finally gets around to exploring the truth about things.

Creepiness level is still in tact, and I too am liking what you are doing with young Attila.

 

[unmerged(23409)]

One can imagine the arguments he'll have with the ghost of Lázárus until it's time for the priest's next incarnation.

So the incarnation isn't immediate, you have to wait for an appropriate time? That certainly is worrying.

Also, there's something else. If it's the spell that's making Cornelius be re-incarnated every now and then, when the thousand years is up and the spell breaks, Cornelius ain't gonna come back no more.

 

[J. Passepartout]

If it's the spell that's making Cornelius be re-incarnated every now and then, when the thousand years is up and the spell breaks, Cornelius ain't gonna come back no more.

Ouch. That is a good point and I hope that he doesn't die prior to 1106.

 

[unmerged(7269)]

So the incarnation isn't immediate, you have to wait for an appropriate time? That certainly is worrying.

Also, there's something else. If it's the spell that's making Cornelius be re-incarnated every now and then, when the thousand years is up and the spell breaks, Cornelius ain't gonna come back no more.

I don't think it ever comes up in the story, so I'll tell you the way that I imagine the reincarnation working: The soul of Cornelius is reincarnated in the next male to be conceived in the direct male line of descent from the original Cornelius. It's Salic, so it doesn't go through the female line. Why a soul should care about the Y chromosome is something that is beyond my power to explain.

And yes, when the thousand-year spell goes poof, that's the end of reincarnation for Lázárus. And he himself might find that a welcome relief. He won't immediately drop dead, but his next death after that should be his last.

Unless something else happens.

More coming tomorrow, probably...

 

[unmerged(7269)]

Chapter 6

Chapter 6
Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Mary Magdalene, 1073 AD

Máté's men had made their headquarters in an old barn on a recently abandoned farmstead to the south of Gyulyafehér. The Pechenegs had already taken all of the livestock and stored crops, and had set fire to the fields – it looked to be a lean winter ahead for the county. Máté just hoped that the farmer and his family had made it to a safe refuge – he knew this family well, and would be greatly aggrieved if they had fallen into pagan hands.

But those were thoughts for another time. Just now, Zila had returned from his scouting mission, and was making his report.

"There are about four hundred of them, mostly spearmen and light horse," he said. "They have destroyed the village – it looks like almost every single building was burned. They're laying siege to the tower, but they aren't being very aggressive about it. They have a crude trebuchet, but it looks like they have to spend more time repairing it than they do firing it. The tower seems to be intact, and I saw lookouts on the roof, so at least some of our people are safe."

"Well, that part at least is good news," Máté said. "What do you make of the Pecheneg soldiers?"

Zila grinned. "Not much. I could see their chief screaming and waving his sword at them, and some of the officers were beating the men with clubs, at random as far as I could tell. It looks like the Pechenegs have a morale problem."

"Interesting," Máté said. "I wonder if they know about the stories about the ghost in the tower, the ‘red-eyed man', and if they believe them. That might explain why they don't want to go near it – those pagans are a superstitious lot."

"So what's the plan?"

"We take them by surprise in the night. If God wills it so, that may give us an advantage."

As night fell, the Pecheneg warriors retreated to the safety of their campfires. They were sullen and dispirited, and grumbled quietly among themselves whenever the chieftains were out of earshot. This wasn't their kind of war; they much preferred raiding and moving on to sitting in one place, waiting to starve a bunch of farmers out of a stone fortress. And the chief's magic rock-thrower was a fiasco; they were lucky if they managed to get off two shots in three days, and their projectiles did not noticeably damage the tower when they hit.

It didn't help that the tower was the reputed lair of the Herald. The chiefs were determined to let Him loose, to wreak destruction upon the hated Christians. But the warriors had heard tales of the Herald's darker secret: that His release heralded the end of the world, not just for the Christians, but for the Pechenegs also. None of them were zealots, and they were not anxious to bring about the Ultimate Night, when the Old Powers would rise from their prisons and devour the souls of all the peoples of the world.

And then the chief had suddenly lost his Voice, the day after the warriors had arrived in this accursed valley. He still strutted about and gave orders in a commanding tone, but his warriors soon discovered that they no longer felt an irresistible compulsion to obey his words. Without the Voice, it was possible to disobey him, and many warriors had done so in the past few weeks, stealing away into the hills and heading for home. Could it be that the chief had lost his divine backing? Did the Herald no longer speak through him? Had he somehow offended the gods, and was no longer favored in their sight? If that was the case, what claim did the chief have to their obedience?

And then, without warning, a horde of raging demons arose from the depths of the underworld and fell upon them in the night, led by the Herald Himself. He was all dressed in black, and His eyes glowed red, and He rode a pale horse, just as the old tales said. His demon-warriors charged in behind Him, on the backs of fire-breathing horses, or on foot and wielding enormous red-hot iron lances. So the surviving warriors swore forever afterwards. None of them were prepared to listen to the claims of a few that it had been only a handful of Christian knights and less than a hundred spearmen making a sneak attack by night. They had seen the Herald leading the enemy, and they knew the truth. After all, could so small a force of mere Christians have slain the chief and driven the Pechenegs from the field so easily? It must have been the retribution of the dark gods upon their chief.

Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Apollinaris, 1073 AD

It was dawn before the horsemen had mopped up the last few Pecheneg stragglers. At least half of the pagans lay dead on the field, and the rest had scattered into the hills. It would be a hard winter's work flushing them all out; left to themselves, the survivors were liable to turn bandit and threaten the entire county. But that was tomorrow's worry. Today was a day of victory for the men of Fehér, and it had come at the cost of only two knights, seventeen footmen, and five horses dead.

"I'm still amazed that they broke so quickly," Máté said, surveying the dead Pecheneg bodies scattered throughout the ruined village. "Well done, Zila. Your heroism brought us victory."

Zila smiled. "Maybe I did lead the charge," he said. "But the plan was yours, and so is the triumph."

It was a grim triumph, though. After eight months away, they had come home to a destroyed and looted village. They had seen, and caused, much death and destruction, but it had never been quite so personal. All they could hope was that their families were safe in the tower.

Thus, it was with great relief that they saw the heavy door of the tower open. Their families streamed out to greet them, anxiously scanning the soldiers' faces to find their own loved ones. They were filthy, and they stank; there had been no water in the tower for washing, and with hundreds of people in close quarters for nearly two months, the stench inside had grown indescribably foul. But the soldiers did not care; they ran to embrace their wives and mothers, happy to be reunited with them, even if for a short time. They knew the war was not over yet, and the Pechenegs still held Székelyföld to the north. Soon they would be on the march again. But for now, they were home, and it was good.

Many of the villagers were bitterly disappointed; many men had fallen and would never return home. Gyulyafehér would be a village of women in black mourning dresses for years to come.

But the news from the tower was largely good. Despite the crowding and lack of sanitation, only six villagers had died – two old women, three infants, and Father Lázárus.

"The news about Father Lázárus is not good, though," Imre Csanad told Máté when they were in private. The two men had gone with Jolán and Zila into the ruins of the village church, which had lost its thatched roof to fire, but whose stone walls still stood. "The others I can attribute to natural causes. Not him, though. He was definitely murdered."

"Murdered? By whom?" Máté demanded.

"He had been stabbed in the belly, and it appeared that he must have died slowly and quite painfully," the bishop explained. "And the murderer had used his blood to draw all sorts of symbols of the black arts on the floor and walls. There is only one explanation. The witch has struck again."

"But I thought..." Zila began.

"Yes, I know," Imre said. "So did I. It appears that we were sorely mistaken."

"What are you saying?" Máté asked.

Bishop Imre sighed. "We – Zila and I – had discussed Father Lázárus before, and we were both suspicious of him. We thought it was possible that he was the witch whom we sought. Obviously we were wrong."

Máté's face darkened. "I wish you had told me of this."

"We had no proof, and did not wish to make an accusation without it," Imre explained. "If I erred, I ask your pardon."

Máté waved the apology aside. "What's done is done," he declared. "The question is, what now?"

"We keep looking, of course," the bishop answered.

"And when we find this witch, there will be a reckoning," Zila added, with a fiery gleam in his eyes.

Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Anne, 1073 AD

Two days later, a large army flying the banner of the kingdom marched up the road from the south. It had nearly a hundred knights, a company of archers, and more than a thousand footmen carrying a veritable forest of pikes. It was an impressive sight, and given Fehér's precarious situation, a welcome one also.

The army's commander proved to be David Árpád, the king's illegitimate half-brother and Marshal of the Realm. He was also an old friend of Máté's, and the two men greeted each other warmly.

"I was sent to relieve the siege here," David said with a smile, "but I can see I was not needed. Such a familiar story."

"Still, you are most welcome," Máté said.

"You may not welcome me as much when I tell you I need you and your army to march with us as soon as possible," David said, more seriously this time. "Yes, I know, you've suffered losses and just got home, but the Pechenegs still hold Székelyföld, and my most regal little brother has ordered us to retake it as soon as possible."

Máté looked around his village sadly. The work of reconstruction had only just begun; only a few of the houses had even temporary roofs on them. It was still possible to sow some late crops that could be harvested before winter hit, easing the inevitable hunger they would all feel as food grew short. And now he was being asked to take most of the adult men away and march off to war once more. It was much to ask. But the village wouldn't be safe as long Székelyföld lay in enemy hands; the pagans could simply march down the road and raid Fehér, laying waste to the county once more.

"We'll muster again and march as soon as we can, of course," was Máté's reluctant reply. "Is there a reason for the king's haste?"

"There is. The Prince of Kiev has joined in the war. Not that his help isn't welcome, but he's already besieging Marmaros, and we fear that he won't be too keen on returning it to us once he's taken it from the Pechenegs. So we need to retake as much of our own land as possible before the Rus claim it for themselves as spoils."

Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Christmas Eve, 1073 AD

Once again, it was Zila Ákos who led the charge that broke the Pechenegs and drove them from the field beneath the citadel of Székelyudvarhely on the Day of All Souls, and it was Zila who led the troops over the walls to capture the fortress on the feast day of Saint Luke. All of the Hungarian troops spoke of his fearlessness and heroism, proclaiming that in battle, his eyes blazed with fiery zeal to defeat the pagan warriors. He was the hero of the day.

And so, when King Salamon's army arrived at Gyulyafehér in late December with the welcome Christmas present of food and livestock taken as spoils from the Pecheneg lands, Zila sat at the king's right hand at the Christmas feast. It was still a meager banquet – even with Salamon's contribution, there was still barely enough food for the winter ahead – but it was nonetheless a happy one, as the Hungarians celebrated their total victory over the pagans.

"Well, nearly total," Salamon admitted. "My cousin Géza is still fighting along the shores of the Black Sea, but there aren't many Pechenegs left to resist him. And Kiev took more land than I'd like, and as I feared, they are refusing to return Marmaros to us."

Then the King stood, and everyone in Count Máté's newly rebuilt hall stood with him. "But today is not the day to ponder such things," Salamon proclaimed loudly. "Today is a day to honor those who fought in my name. Hail to Máté, Count of Fehér!" The entire hall cheered, and Máté bowed, blushing slightly.

"And hail to Zila, his son, the most valiant knight in Hungary!" Salamon further proclaimed, to much cheering. "How should I reward such noble deeds? Shall I make this man a count in his own right?"

The hall thundered with applause and stomping feet, and a chant sounded of "Count Zila! Count Zila! Count Zila!"

Then Zila raised his arms for quiet, and the cheering slowly subsided. "While I thank His Majesty for the honor," he said, "it is my wish that this honor should pass to my father. With respect, Your Majesty, I do not feel that I am yet prepared for the task of rulership. I have much to learn, and my father is the best teacher I could hope for."

There was much applause at this statement, and King Salamon smiled. "I wish that all of my vassals had such wisdom," he said. "Well, if you will not accept the fief of Székelyföld today, then it will just have to pass to you in the future. Hail to Máté, Count of Fehér and Székelyföld!"

The hall once more erupted into cheers, and Máté bowed low. "I humbly thank Your Majesty for this great reward," he said modestly.

"Yes," David Árpád said quietly to his old friend, barely audible beneath the cheers. "You now have two impoverished, war-spoiled counties to your name. Congratulations, if you really feel he's done you any favor."

Later that evening, Bishop Imre Csanad pulled Zila aside and spoke quietly with him. "You turned down a county?" he asked. "I'm surprised, Zila. Isn't that what you've always wanted most?"

"Not now," Zila said, eyes suddenly burning with hatred. "We have a witch to catch, remember? Until that is done, I stay here. I will see justice done, and I will have my revenge."

Kingdom of Hungary after the Pecheneg War​

 

[Veldmaarschalk]

Great story and great graphics.

 

[J. Passepartout]

Excellent rewards go to excellent men.

Imre is beginning to get somewhere at least, I hope that he (or whoever does find out) discovers everything with sufficient time to prepare for 1106

 

[unmerged(23409)]

Imre is beginning to get somewhere at least, I hope that he (or whoever does find out) discovers everything with sufficient time to prepare for 1106

I predict they'll just kill the next Cornelius on charges of Witchcraft.

 

[unmerged(35685)]

Excellent

No time to rest on your laurel, there is still a witch to catch.

 

[coz1]

Still on the hunt for this supposed witch, I see. As I said before, the Bishop has much to learn methinks. But it seems the time in the Tower did not harm much of anything else, other than the foe and the priest.

 

[Lurken]

coz1: As far as we know...

 

[unmerged(7269)]

Well, as the saying goes, more will be revealed. The red-eyed man has been dealt a setback, at least temporarily, but evil can work in extremely subtle ways at times. It is often most effective when it co-opts someone who is intending to do good. In the words of Alexander Pope (who is no relation to Pope Alexander, as far as I know): "The worst of madmen is a saint run mad."

Incidentally, I significantly accelerated the timeline of the Pecheneg war, to make it a bit more realistic. Medieval armies weren't often kept in the field for years at a time, so I shortened the war to fit within the space of a single year. In the game, the war lasted all through 1074 and into the spring of 1075.

Just in case anyone is wondering what may happen in the next update, my current reading material includes a book titled Europe's Inner Demons: An Enquiry Inspired by the Great Witch-Hunt, by Norman Cohn. And that's all the hints I'm giving today. I hope to get the next chapter out tomorrow, but can't guarantee it.

Thanks for reading!

 

[Fiftypence]

Just in case anyone is wondering what may happen in the next update, my current reading material includes a book titled Europe's Inner Demons: An Enquiry Inspired by the Great Witch-Hunt, by Norman Cohn. And that's all the hints I'm giving today. I hope to get the next chapter out tomorrow, but can't guarantee it.

Thanks for reading!

I own that book. I haven't read it though...

Oh, and great update.

 

[angryclown]

Fantastic! Loved the bit about the creatures of hell "allegedly" making such short work of the Pechenegs.

 

[Morpheus506]

Top-notch stuff. Looks like they might have a good-old-fashioned witchhunt on their hands soon, especially without Lázárus's voice of reason holding Imre and co. back.

Nice work on the screenshots, too, btw.

 

[unmerged(7269)]

Chapter 7

Chapter 7
Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Maximus of Jerusalem, 1078 AD

Máté and Zila reined in their horses at the crest of a ridge, and looked over the Maros valley below. Near the river stood a small farmstead, the very one in which they had briefly made their military headquarters nearly five years prior. Now the farm looked truly abandoned, with the fields untilled and grown up in briars, fences fallen down, and orchards untended.

"Five years!" Zila exclaimed. "Five years since the war, and still we suffer! We scrape and stretch to grow enough food to get by, while perfectly good cropland lies untended."

Máté's expression was unreadable. He had grown increasingly silent and reserved over the past few years. His wife's recent illness, which was as mysterious as it was debilitating, had sent the aging count even farther into his own thoughts, which he seldom shared with others any more. He simply said quietly, "We lost too many men in the war."

"And others are moving away," Zila said. "They say this land is cursed."

Máté said nothing, so Zila went on. "And they're right!" he declared. "We have been sent these misfortunes by God, because we have sinned against Him!"

"And how have we sinned?" Máté asked.

"You know how!" Zila spat. "For all these years, we have suffered a witch to live among us unpunished!"

Máté gave Zila an aggrieved stare. "For seven years you have been after this witch," he said. "And you have found nothing. The one man you suspected turned out to be the witch's next victim. Your investigation has borne such scant fruit that I wonder why you bother to continue it."

Zila suddenly looked pained. "That's what I want to speak with you about. We – Bishop Imre and I – believe we may have identified the witch."

Máté looked at his son in surprise. "You have some evidence against the accused?" he asked.

"Some," Zila replied. "We think we know where to get more. If we're right, it will be enough for a condemnation."

"Not without a trial," Máté said. "If you truly have enough evidence, lay it out before a court and prove your case."

"Bishop Imre has already sent to Pressburg for an inquisitor," Zila told him. "We can hold the trial when he and his retinue arrive. But we need to arrest the witch now, before she knows we have discovered her."

"She?" Máté asked. "Just who is this witch?"

Zila looked down at the ground. "That's the part you aren't going to like."



It was just after dark, while Mihály Cornelius was telling a good-night story to his four-year-old son, when the armed men kicked open the door of his house.

Mihály's two daughters screamed and ran to their mother, while Mihály himself swept his son up in his arms and turned to face the intruders. "What is this?" he shouted.

Then, much to his surprise, his old friend Zila followed the soldiers through the door, followed closely by Bishop Imre. Ominously, Zila had his sword drawn. "Sit down, Mihály," he ordered.

"Zila? What is going on?" he asked in great confusion.

But then the bishop strode across the small cottage to where Mihály's mother was sitting in a rocker by the fire and glaring at the men who had woken her. "Sara Cornelius," the bishop intoned solemnly, "I hereby arrest you for the crimes of murder and witchcraft."

"What? No!" Mihály shouted, but Zila grabbed him and forced him back against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Mihály," Zila said softly.

Sara shook her head. "So, after all of these years of looking for your witch, it finally occurred to you to arrest an innocent person, did it? Took you long enough. My husband, God rest him, predicted this six years ago."

"Silence," the bishop ordered. Then he motioned to the two soldiers. "Take her and lock her up," he commanded.

"Oh, you fool," Sara said to the bishop in a testy voice. "Lázárus was right. You have that damned bishop's staff shoved so far up you can't sit down straight."

One of the soldiers slapped the old woman hard across the mouth with the back of his hand at that. Mihály struggled to reach her, but Zila pressed his sword against Mihály's chest. "Don't make me do it, old friend," he said.

Mihály looked on helplessly as the soldiers dragged his mother out the door. Then more soldiers came in, and Zila told them, "Search the place. Tear it apart if you have to. Bring anything suspicious to the bishop."

It was Zila, though, who found the books.

Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Zosimus, 1078 AD

"They were most cunningly hidden," Imre told the chief inquisitor, Monsignor Dezsõfi. "It would never have occurred to me to look there."

"And where were they?" the balding, cadaverously thin old priest asked curiously.

Zila grinned humorlessly. "In the privy-house. Under the seat, believe it or not."

They were gathered in the sitting room of Bishop Imre's stone house beside the village church. Dezsõfi had nodded approvingly at its small size and Spartan furnishing; he had made the observation that too many of the church hierarchy were much too fond of worldly goods. Imre, who actually was rather dismayed at how few material rewards had accompanied his episcopal consecration, had simply nodded his agreement and said nothing. Besides the inquisitor, Imre, and Zila, the room also held a silent young monk who was the inquisitor's scribe, and large, coarse-featured man dressed in a peasant's clothing, whom the inquisitor had not bothered to introduce.

Dezsõfi picked up one of the leather-bound volumes, turned it over several times in his pale, bony hands, and opened it, revealing the cryptic writing and arcane symbols it contained. "A privy would be an appropriate place for such filth," he declared.

"You recognize it?" Zila asked.

"Oh, yes," the old man said, leafing through the pages. "By reputation, at least. I've never held an actual copy in my own hands before. And in Persian, no less! But inscribed in Syrian letters. Curious, curious." He set the book down and picked up another.

Bishop Imre cleared his throat. "So these are books of the black arts, then?"

"Oh, they're much worse than that," the inquisitor said. "Much, much worse. I'm afraid there's not much hope for that old widow now."

"But we still need a confession to convict her," Imre pointed out.

"Leave that to me, Lord Bishop," said the large man standing near the doorway. He was a powerfully built, dark, square man, with dense black hair and a thick beard making him look somewhat like a bear.

The inquisitor smiled. "Borisz is quite skilled at his trade," he said. "They always confess, sooner or later."

Zila shuddered. The torturer let out a short bark of laughter, and said, "I'll have you a confession before dinner, your Lordship. Nobody can stand up to me. Not unless the Devil himself gives them the strength."

Gyulyafehér, Hungary
Feast of Saint Cyril of Alexandria, 1078 AD

"I don't understand it, Lord Bishop," Borisz said, scratching his head. "I've done things that would have broken the strongest and bravest of men, but she just won't confess to anything. It's not possible that a little old woman could be so strong."

"More witchcraft?" Zila asked, looking at Imre. They were standing in the village's small jail, which had been converted into a torture chamber for Borisz to work in. Sara's screams had echoed night and day throughout the village for a week.

"Possibly," Imre said, shaking his head. "But damnably difficult to prove. We need that confession!"

Zila looked thoughtful. Then, his eyes lit up, and he stood. "I have an idea," he said, barely able to contain his excitement. "I'll be right back."



"Hello, Sara," Zila said softly, looking into the old woman's cell.

She raised her head a fraction and glared at him. Her face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition, and an ugly black burn crossed her right cheek. Her clothes were in rags, she stank, and Zila caught the faint, sickly sweet smell of infection. She was truly a terrible sight.

"I brought someone to see you," Zila continued. He motioned behind him, and a small boy of about four years walked uncertainly into the room.

"Granma?" the boy asked, confused.

"Lázárus!" Sara exclaimed.

"Yes, Lázárus," Zila said softly. "Such a handsome young boy. Named after your late husband, is he not? The one whom you killed?"

"I killed no one," Sara declared.

"So you say," Zila said. "It's a pity you haven't been more forthcoming about things. If you had confessed, I might have been able to convince Monsignor Dezsõfi to be merciful, and allow you an easy death. But, since you haven't told us what we want to hear, we'll just have to start questioning others until we uncover the truth."

"No," Sara hissed.

"Now, I'm sure young Lázárus doesn't know much about your Satanic ways," Zila said patiently. "But there's only one way to be sure, and that's to have Borisz question him."

As if on cue, Borisz appeared in the doorway. With the light behind him, his face was hidden from Sara's view; all she saw was a shadow. She shivered. "No," she whispered. "Leave him out of this."

"I'm afraid you've left us with little choice," Zila said. "There are things we need to know, and if you won't tell us, perhaps someone else will." He took the boy by the arm and turned to go.

"Wait!" Sara called out.

Zila halted, and turned to face her. "You have something to say?"

Sara closed her eyes, and swallowed hard. "I – have a confession," she said, slowly.

A sinister smile crossed Zila's face, and his eyes gleamed in triumph. "Well, that's more like it. You can go home now, Lázárus. You've been a very good boy."

After the boy had gone, Zila turned to Sara and said, "Now, Monsignor Dezsõfi has a list of questions he'd like you to answer. Starting with: How long have you been a witch?"