Heresy, thought the abbot, as the words came unbidden to him. Even possession of the Book of Enoch, condemned as false scripture, would be enough to draw the charge down upon his head, and thus he had taken great pains to ensure that the work remained hidden. Nevertheless, in its contents he had found answers to many of the questions that had troubled him, among them the nature of the terrible, beautiful creation entrusted to his care, and the duty of concealment that now lay upon him.

“Cast him into darkness… Throw upon him hurled and pointed stones, covering him with darkness; there shall he remain for ever; cover his face, that he may not see the light. And in the great day of judgment let him be cast into the fire.”

The abbot’s lodge lay at the heart of the monastery’s concentric fortifications. The first circle, in which he now stood, housed the conventual church, reserved for the use of the order’s initiated members, the convent building, and the cloister gallery. On the side of the church’s transept opposite the river lay the gate of the deceased, which led into the churchyard. It was the most important portal in the monastery, its intricate sculpture standing in sharp contrast to the starkness of the architecture surrounding it. This was the gateway between earthly life and the eternal, between this world and the next. The abbot had hoped to be carried through it one day and buried alongside his brothers. Those who had already fled upon his instructions had been requested to return when it was safe and to seek out his remains. If the gate still stood, he was to be brought through it. If it did not, a place was still to be found for him, so that he might rest beside the ruins of the chapel that he so loved.

The second circle belonged to the initiated members, and also contained the granary and a sacred plot of land at the entrance portal to the church, used to grow grain for the baking of the host. Within the third circle was the monastery gate; a church for lay members of the order, outside worshippers, and pilgrims; living quarters and gardens; and the main cemetery. The abbot stared out upon these walls that protected the monastery, their lines clear even in the darkness, thanks to the false dawn of the fires on the hillsides. It looked like a vision of hell, he thought. The abbot did not believe that Christian men should fight over God, but more than those who killed in the name of a forgiving God he hated those who used the name of God as an excuse to extend their own power. He sometimes thought that he could almost understand the anger of the Hussites, although he kept such opinions to himself. Those who did not might quickly find themselves broken upon a wheel, or burning on a pyre for their temerity.

He heard footsteps approach, and a young novice appeared by his side. He wore a sword, and his robes were filthy from his exertions.

“All is ready,” said the novice. “The servants ask if they may muffle the horses’ hooves and wrap cloth around the bridles. They are concerned that the noise will bring the soldiers down upon them.”

The abbot did not answer immediately. To the younger man, it seemed that the abbot had just been offered a final possibility of escape and was tempted to accept it. At last he sighed and, like the beasts bound to the cart, accepted his inevitable burden.

“No,” he said. “Let there be no silencing of hooves, no wrapping of bridles. They must make haste, and they must create noise as they do so.”

“But then they will be found, and they will be killed.”

The abbot turned to his novice and laid his hand gently upon the boy’s cheek.

“As God wills it, so it shall be done,” he said. “Now you must go, and take as many with you as it is safe to allow.”

“What about you?”

“I-”

But the abbot’s words were cut off by the barking of dogs in the outer circles. The monastery had been abandoned by many of those who might otherwise have come to its defense, and now only animals roamed behind the second and third walls. The sound the dogs made was panicked, almost hysterical. Their fear was palpable, as though a wolf were about to enter into their presence, and they knew that they would die fighting it. The young novice drew his sword.

“Come,” he urged. “There are soldiers approaching.”

The abbot found that he was unable to move. His feet would not respond to the urgings of his brain, and his hands were trembling. No soldiers could make the dogs respond in such a way. That was why he had ordered their release: the dogs would smell them and alert the monks to their approach.

Then the twin gates of the inner wall were blown apart, one flying free of its hinges and landing amid a copse of trees, the other left hanging like a sot at night’s end. The fleeing dogs leaped through the gap, those that were too slow killed by arrows that shot from the shadows beyond the gate.

“Go,” said the abbot. “Make sure the cart reaches the road.”

With one last frightened glance at the gates, and with sorrow in his eyes, the novice fled. In his place, a pair of servants joined the abbot. They bore halberds and were very old. They had remained at the monastery as much out of their inability to flee far as out of any loyalty to the abbot.

Slowly, a group of horsemen emerged from beyond the wall and entered the inner circle. Most wore plain, formfitting breastplates, with mail at the groin, armpits, and elbows. Three had cylindrical Italian sallet helmets on their heads, their features barely distinguishable through the T-shaped frontal gap. The rest had long hair that hung about their faces, concealing them almost as well as the helmets of their fellows. From their saddles dangled human remains: scalps and hands and garlands of ears. The flanks of their horses were white with spit and foam, and the animals looked close to madness. Only one man was on foot. He was huge and fat, and his neck was swollen with some dreadful purple goiter. On his upper body he wore a long brigandine for armor, constructed from small metal plates riveted to a textile covering, for his build was too deformed for the fitted protection worn by his allies. There were plates made in a similar manner on his thighs and shins, but his head was bare. He was very pale, with almost feminine features and large green eyes. In his hand he grasped a woman’s head, his long fingers entwined in her hair. The abbot recognized her face, even twisted in the torments of death: an idiot who sat outside the monastery gates, begging for alms, too foolish to flee her post even in wartime. As he and his fellows drew closer, the abbot could see a crudely drawn symbol upon their saddles: a red grapnel, newly created with the blood of their victims.

And then their leader emerged from the heart of his men. He rode a black horse, a spiked half shaffron protecting its head, and a peytral guarding its chest, all intricately carved in black and silver. He was clad almost entirely in black armor, apart from the hood upon his head: pauldrons extending over his chest and shoulder blades; gauntlets with long protective cuffs; and tassets to cover the vulnerable spot at the top of his cuisses, where his breastplate ended and his thigh armor began. His only weapon was a long sword, which remained in its scabbard.

The abbot began to pray silently.

“Who are they?” whispered one of the servants. “Jan’s men?”

The abbot found enough spittle to moisten his mouth and to free his tongue to speak.

“No,” he said. “Not Jan’s, and not men.”

From the rear of the monastery he thought he discerned the sound of the cart moving forward, urged on by its driver. Hooves beat a slow cadence upon grass, then upon earth as they moved onto the road. The speed of their timpani slowly increased as they tried to put some distance between themselves and the monastery.

The leader of the horsemen raised his hand, and six men split from the main party and galloped around the chapel to cut off those who were fleeing. Six more dismounted but remained with their leader, slowly moving in on the abbot and his men. All bore crossbows, already spanned with the bolt ready to be fired. They were smaller and lighter than any the abbot had seen before, with a crannequin for pulling back the bow steel that was portable enough to be worn on their belts. They fired the bolts, and the abbot’s servants fell.