Wayte was near exhaustion when he arrived at the monastery that Judith had directed him to. The monks, seeing two injured people on a horse rushed out and helped them off the horse. Wayte reached out to one of the monks, “Please, we need your help, my friend, she is not well. Keep her isolated otherwise others may get sick.”
The monk nodded and passed on the information to the monks that were with Judith, “You are English?” he asked in broken English.
“Yes, but I am their enemy,” replied Wayte.
The monk frowned at this, “In that case we must ask you to leave. We are a peaceful monastic order and cannot be seen to show favour to either side in a war.”
Wayte nodded and gritted his teeth against the pain, “Just be sure that my friend speaks to Uriel.”
The monk’s head shot up with a gasp, as did those of the other monks. They began to whisper amongst one and other.
The monk turned back to Wayte after conferring with his brothers, “What do you know of Uriel my son?”
Wayte shook his head, “Nothing I’m afraid, Judith was sent to talk to him. Who is he?”
“He is one of the seven Arch-Angels,” the monk replied simply.
Wayte’s jaw dropped open, “An Arch-Angel?” he exclaimed, “Dmitri has some powerful friends,” he muttered.
Again the monks were shocked at the mention of a name, “Dmitri? Not Dmitri Romanovic?”
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Wayte shrugged, “I’m not sure, he’s not from around here. He opposes the Lord Draycott, I know that much.”
“He would if he is indeed the Last Exarch,” replied the monk with awe. “He was lost to us, but now you say he is found? You are with him are you not?”
Wayte nodded, “Yes I am, I owe them much, Dmitri and his friend Claudia. I’m about to head back to the castle and help them escape.”
“They are in the clutches of Draycott? You are in no condition to rescue anyone. Allow me to send some brothers to free them,” offered the monk.
“No, I cannot allow you to do that, it would focus the wrath of Draycott on this monastery,” replied Wayte. “I came out here with another guard; the castle is expecting our return. The longer we wait the harder it will be to fool them. I have to go back myself.”
The monk sighed, “Yes, you are correct. Very well,” he clapped his hands twice and a circle of monks formed around Wayte.
Bowing their heads and clasping their hands together in prayer, they began to chant. The chant grew louder and louder and it seemed to reverberate through Wayte; he couldn’t help but feel that this was a sacred and holy ritual and he dared not interrupt them. One by one the monks stopped chanting until one last monk was sustaining a single wordless note. Soon it stopped and all was silent. The older monk turned to Wayte as the others drifted off to tend to Judith or return to their duties.
“What was that?” asked Wayte. “It was beautiful.”
“It is not to be spoken of,” replied the old monk. “You may return to the castle. Dmitri must be freed; the entire world depends on him surviving this night.” The monk turned and started to head back towards the gates of the monastery.
“Hey,” Wayte cried out, “What about my wound?” But as he said this, reaching out towards the monk, he noticed that the tightness in his side from the wound pulling open wasn’t there. Gingerly pulling up his mail shirt, he looked at the wound, it was covered in congealed blood, but probing gently, he felt no pain. He carefully wiped off some of the blood and saw unmarred flesh. His wound was gone! Nodding to himself, now even more impressed with the monks, he turned to the horse and pulled himself up onto it. Turning back towards the castle, he kicked the horse into a gallop.