Erol had already reached the uneven steps of the stairs that led to the University. Ordinarily, students could be seen strolling under the shadow cast by the willow trees. On that particular day, however, there was no living soul around.
Still on the dock, Octave stumbled. His forehead was covered in pearls of sweat. He almost crumbled on the young woman and Erol was surprised to discover that she possessed enough strength to support him.
“Is everything alright, Octave?” Erol asked, remembering the wound on his student’s back as he saw him say something furtively to Suzanne before she gave him a reassuring sign with her hand. Without further delay, the archaeologist began to climb the stairs when the sound of another explosion resonated behind the trees. Judging by its echo, it must have originated from the dormitories located at the base of the old sunken ship.
It was only when Erol was half-way to his destination that the first signs of the battle began to appear. Across the floor, a trail of spoiled books and blood stains marked the path leading to the built-on iron doors of the old warship. Uncharacteristically, they were ajar.
Suzanne and Octave joined him once he was already inside. Erol kept throwing worried looks at the young woman. The situation was more dangerous than expected.
What had happened here in the last few days? he thought, caressing his blade with his fingertips. He hadn’t had the impression that the city of Renaissance was under attack!
Once they walked through the doors, Erol, with his two companions on his heels, emerged in a luminous corridor made of glass and wood. An incalculable number of mirrors covered the galleries. The goal of this ingenious design had been to have the solar halos penetrate even the deepest corners of the building so that scholars and students could avoid using the dangerous candles or power-hungry electric equipment for as long as possible.
The archaeologist advanced at a sustained pace, and in a few minutes reached the great library of the University. Octave’s work space had been built where the old engine room once stood. Its immense glass dome, which replaced the ventilation grids, housed a curious mix of gardens and dusty shelves. When he had penetrated for the first time in this cathedral of knowledge saved from annihilation over the centuries, he had been surprised to no longer find himself treading over a floor of polished stone, but rather a stunning lawn of a radiant green color.
Turning towards Suzanne, Erol realized she shared this same sentiment. Nevertheless, his smile disappeared when he collided against an old woman with a hunched back.
“May I help you, Messieurs?” she crowed with a creaking voice.
“What is happening here?” asked a startled Erol, before recognizing the librarian.
A pair of tired hands adjusted an improbable pair of bright red spectacles over her flat nose. Her glasses, as thick as the base of the millennia-old stained glass, reflected the sunlight with the same intensity as the mirrors that covered the walls. “My boy! You, of the archaeology department, you really are decades behind with things! Which would explain a lot in fact…” she began before getting lost in her thoughts.
“What’s happening here?” insisted Suzanne in response to the old woman’s evasive reply. She too shared his worries.
The librarian threw a furtive look between the rows of shelves. There was no one there. Nevertheless, she drew them aside, behind the wooden panels of a reading room filled with leather-bound books and electronic decoding tablets. “Marian!” she whispered. “They came to arrest Maître Marian!” Then she gripped Erol by his scarf. “You shouldn’t hang around here, they are ransacking the place!”
“But who?” Erol was getting impatient.
The librarian finally released her grip and glanced again behind her shoulders. She resumed, her voice never higher than a whisper: “The Inquisition. They have been here since last night!”
Erol felt his stomach drop.
“No one has warned you?” she continued. “La Fondation still does not know anything about this?”
He choked. “The chase to return to the Old Age has finally reached the University.”
“This is a catastrophe!” squealed Octave between two coughing fits.
The archaeologist realized that his student was getting worse. Suzanne seemed to have grasped that the situation was dire as well.
“What have they done with Marian? And with the others?” demanded Erol, almost screaming.
The librarian managed to reassure him. Marian had been able to escape the University on time. The other scholars and students, however, had been arrested. They were being kept somewhere on campus.
“And you, what are you still doing here?”
“They need me to archive everything they will be taking to their bastion in the West. I thought that the Inquisition was in the habit of burning everything! I do not understand…” whimpered the poor woman.
But Erol was beginning to see how the pieces of the puzzle fit together. The Inquisition was not here to pursue their vengeful quest. Indeed, they had come to pillage the University with the aid of the special forces that Père Flumine had been referring to.
Still, he couldn’t believe his ears. They had braved thousands of dangers to find shelter with the Foundation only to be thrown directly into the wolf’s mouth.
“You are perhaps the last archaeologist still free, Erol,” resumed the old lady as she wiped her tears with a handkerchief she had found somewhere on a desk. “Your thirst for doing work on the ground and your disdain for the gorgeous books of our bibliothèque have been your saving grace after all.”
“Erol?” Suzanne intervened.
She was on her knees next to Octave. His disciple was leaning against one of the reading desks; he looked in very bad shape.
“The wound on his back…” grumbled Erol, now alarmed.
“I will take care of the young boy,” the old woman jumped in. “Leave the premises and make for the Garden of Botanical Curiosities. These brutes are too busy rummaging the supplies and the secured terminals.”
“I refuse to put you at such risk!”
“My books have been of little use to you, so please let my old carcass come to your assistance at least once in your life,” she said in jest.
“Someone must alert your Foundation or some type of police force, Erol,” argued Suzanne who was now monitoring the library through the glass walls of the reading room.
“Head towards the southern gate of the enclosure, next to the parcel of the Mange-Doigts. Right now!” the old lady said as Erol was already removing his student’s satchel, as well as of any other clues that may betray his affiliation to the scholars.
Thanking her one last time, Erol and Suzanne headed in the direction of the old building’s south wing in order to reach the dangerous Garden of Curiosities. They crossed with long strides the biology department then the greenhouses of the botanic division and finally reached the terrace of the cafeteria.
A much stronger than usual sunshine blinded him. Suzanne too must have almost burned her retinas. They were both unable to see anything.
Someone clasped his arm. But the iron fist belonged to a man. The dark figures regained their original colors as his eyes got used to the light of day. Before him now stood two armed brutes, blocking their way. One of them restrained the young woman. The second had released Erol and now threatened him with his axe. He threw an accusatory stare at the two fugitives as he brought his left hand to a leather whistle that hung around his neck. The two men were armed but wore no uniforms. Nevertheless, there was no doubt they belonged to the Inquisition. What they wore was not the tabard the City guards were required to don.
Erol whipped out his sword and swung his blade over the heads of the two individuals. They moved aside on instinct and stumbled pathetically against the tables and chairs. Suzanne took advantage of the commotion to kick her own aggressor, who groaned in pain. The archaeologist was surprised by the strength that the young woman possessed.
When they exchanged a look, however, he saw that she was at the brink of exhaustion. Her breathing was choppy and she was struggling considerably to keep up with him as they crossed the small labyrinth of boxwood. With some difficulty, they finally managed to reach the gardens when the sound of a blowing whistle began to ring incessantly. The chase was on.
“We are going to reach the south door by the parcel of camellias. We will be safe from prying eyes.”
“Don’t you think that with this alert—aren’t they going to block all access points?”
Erol stopped abruptly. The young woman was terrified. Woken up years after the end of her own era, here she was, thrown into a barbaric future where she had been constantly hunted since the moment she set foot on the surface.
“Where are we going next, Erol?”
“Where? I have no idea!” he panicked.
His plan had been Marian since the beginning. Now that the scholar had disappeared from the University, his salvation was in the hands of the other Founders. But he hated those types. Still less than the Inquisition, however.
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In a few minutes, Erol and Suzanne ran through a rose garden that was still blooming this time of year. After rounding the red trunk of a poisonous tree, they finally reached the courtyard before the southern exit. The high gates on this part of campus were never guarded, because few curious characters dared venture themselves through such a secluded entrance.
Nevertheless, this time, several armed men were positioned in front of the stone gargoyles that decorated the courtyard. Draped in white and marked with a circled triangle, the soldiers of the Inquisition stared down on the two fugitives. Their masks had fallen. Sainte Maev’s missions appeared now in broad daylight.
“Damn it! I know this symbol,” whispered Suzanne to him.
“What? How is that possible?” Erol gasped as he tried to catch his breath with difficulty now that a deep sense of fear had gripped him.
The irruption of two new enemies behind them interrupted their conversation and made him lose all hope. The same two guards encountered in the beginning of their escape had apparently followed them from the doors of the University.
The soldiers circled them wordlessly. They didn’t stand a chance. The only thing Erol could do was go down with a fight. His gaze rested upon Suzanne and an idea came to him. He could negotiate. She held great value.
By his side, Suzanne clenched her fists. The young woman certainly had some fire in her belly.
Way more than me, Erol chastised himself. Since when have I become such a coward?
He must fight. The archaeologist brought his hand to his sheath and whipped out his blade. Their combat was quickly interrupted, however.
Two riders with ivory capes barged into the rose garden and barely avoided knocking down the fugitives who tried to break through. Two prisoners were tied to their horses. They were on foot and struggled to follow the rhythm imposed by the riders. Once the two acolytes of the Inquisition stopped before Erol, the prisoners almost fell to the ground.
One of the riders was a woman. A nun with a milky and absent gaze. She was quite obviously blind and Erol, just like Suzanne, was surprised to see her guide her steed with such ease.
The second rider was different. He wore an armor with purple hues. A huge grimoire was attached to his belt. The tome was made of faded black leather and several multicolor ribbons escaped from within its pages. With a gesture of the hand, he ordered for the prisoners to be untied and kept on the ground. That is when Erol finally noticed the imposing necklace that hung around his neck. The piece of jewelry was made of multiple links, each sporting an engraved symbol that revealed the true identity of the rider.
A Judge-Executor, Erol thought. Here we are in this fine mess with an executioner of the Inquisition in our way.
From atop his bay colored horse, the Judge fixed with his gray eyes the prey that had fallen in his clutches. The archaeologist noticed that some bandages hid the man’s bleeding temple and every few seconds, a nervous tic twisted his left cheek. Nevertheless, he expressed himself quite eloquently in old English with a thick French accent from the West: “With Sainte Maev as ma witness, you are not the type of man to make things easy, Monsieur Feuerhammer.” He knew his name. This was definitely a bad omen. His sparse salt and pepper beard could not conceal his satisfied smile that transformed rapidly into a victorious smirk. “But here you are in front of moi at last. Our manhunt concluded before even beginning,” the man continued without climbing off his steed.
“What manhunt are you referring to?” asked Erol in a defiant tone.
“When we took over this temple of blasphemy, we were quite sorry to learn that its most illustrious member was nowhere to be found.”
The Judge must be alluding to his mentor. “Why are you searching for Marian?”
“Maître Marian is a technomancien. A criminal now on the run. But since we failed to bring him to justice today, we are going to fall back on vous.”
“Sprung ide Schüssle! What is this crime of which I am guilty then? I would like to hear it,” Erol retorted, despite knowing perfectly well what these fanatical fools would accuse him of.
Digging through the forbidden past. Worshiping those nefarious beings who were the reason the world had plummeted into darkness. The Inquisition and its eternal refrain. He could no longer bear to listen to the brazen lies of these maniacs, especially now that their hypocrisy had broken out in broad daylight.
“As repugnant as this may appear, a deal suits mes interests better,” resumed the calmly the Judge who was in perfect control of the situation thanks to the presence of his eight, armed gorillas. “Our time is running out, you see. Otherwise…” He turned towards the two prisoners. Then, the executioner gestured towards Suzanne. Plunging his steely gaze into her, he gave her the impression that he was peering directly into her soul. In a brief instant, Erol feared that her identity might come to light. “If we do not cut off your head for your impertinence and your long blasphemous acts, the justice of the Inquisition will pass through your friends,” the Judge concluded eventually.
Erol remained silent. He had grabbed the young woman’s hand. Her entire body was trembling.
“I am here, in the very heart of this hostile and highly bellicose territory, against my will, under the orders of the Sainte, Monsieur Feuerhammer. So, I would like for us not to beat around the bush.” The Judge glared at him and resumed rapidly after climbing off his horse: “So, what were you searching for in the foothills of the Dammastock? What did you find when you blatantly smuggled the archives of that crumbling and dilapidated technomancer?” demanded the executioner.
“How?” Erol gasped.
“It seems that you have not quite realized that I will be the one asking questions here. Thus, I find myself obliged to reiterate my query: what were you doing down there? And what did you find? Répondez!”
So, this was proof that the Inquisition definitely had the knowledge required to access the terminals. Engineers, like what Père Flumine had once been, must be working hard to siphon the University’s knowledge at the very moment they were speaking.
“It was nothing but ruins! Remains that led to no city, nor any other technological marvel. Only dust and tears,” lied Erol loudly, so that the entire audience of this grotesque summary trial could hear him properly.
“Allons donc, Monsieur Feuerhammer, do you really think I would believe such obvious lies? You, who disembarked here and loudly searched up and down for your master? All this eagerness for some ruins?”
Erol had to gain time. With the University ambushed one stone’s throw away from the city, perhaps the Founders were already in the process of preparing a counter-attack. The soldiers of the Foundation would get there eventually with their guns. But until then, the Judge must not doubt anything about Suzanne’s particular situation.
Without waiting for Erol to respond, the nun opened her mouth. She had an angelic voice, its timber so pure one might mistake it for the murmur of the rustling leaves. And she sounded so far away. As if this devoted woman belonged to a world beyond reality. “This woman is more than special and she requires all our attention, Votre Eminence,” she said. Never blinking, the nun’s milky eyes scrutinized Suzanne’s body from head to toe.
“I had a feeling that these blue irises seemed rather too singular!” sneered the Judge as he dismounted and set off towards the young woman with a sure step. Right after, his leather-gloved hand squeezed Suzanne’s cheeks with such force that Erol heard her jaw crack. “These are neither implants, nor any sign of blindness,” he concluded after his sham of an inspection. “Monsieur Feuerhammer, you are decidedly a man full of surprises. Where did you unearth such a gem?”
The Judge kept Suzanne’s face tightly in his grip. Erol was still silent. He felt Suzanne’s desperate gaze rest on him. But his brain failed to articulate any coherent thought. He was petrified.
The Judge did not release his prey, but he ordered the men of the Inquisition to reveal the two figures hidden under the hoods. It was the librarian and Octave. “Your friend with such a perfect face, however, reduces the capacity of the cart by one,” continued Judge, master of the archaeologist’s silence.
This time, however, Erol reacted. Octave was going to pay for this adventure with his life.
The Judge held back a grin and finally dropped Suzanne’s chin; her cheeks bore the marks of his rings and their ornate stones.
Erol continued his plea. He stuttered painfully: “I am nothing but a … grave robber! Octave is the brain power! It was him who—it was him who discovered the compound under the Dammastock!” Erol turned towards his young student. But Octave, half conscious, could hardly make a case for himself at this point. The wound on his back had provoked a fever that rendered him lethargic.
The Judge Executor snickered. “Le petit implant robber is already half dead and he does not have your experience, Monsieur Feuerhammer.”
Erol did not have the time to do any further pleading. Barely lucid and blinded by the coagulated blood that permeated his eyes, Octave did not see the Judge approach him. Along the way, one of the Paladins had handed him a short steel rod.
A cry tore through Erol’s lungs when the weapon descended on his student’s head. Restrained by a soldier, Octave’s body remained motionless, but his cranium and neck collapsed under the shock.
The judge administered a second blow. Then a third; the boy’s blood doused the white cape and the face of the Inquisition’s executioner. Carried away by a diabolical frenzy, the Judge pounded Octave’s head endlessly until it rolled to the ground. At the end of the carnage, he returned the mass to its owner before cleaning his forehand with a tabard.
The shock almost drove Erol to the ground when several gunshots resonated. For a second, he thought this would be the end of his adventure but the soldiers of the Foundation made a deafening entrance. Armed with rifles and protected by their Kevlar armors and their helmets of gilded iron, they quickly circled the Inquisition’s troops. The archaeologist was surprised to see even a drone flying above the Judge’s head. The city guard had arrived with great pomp on the backs of ostriches. But it was too late.
On his winged trotter, a captain, whom Erol recognized, swore with all his lungs before pointing his cavalry sword a few centimeters from the Judge’s forehead.
This latter did not blink. “Blasphemous! You have no authority over me, Capitaine! I would appreciate it if you would lower your weapon or your impudence shall be punished.” His voice had remained extremely calm.
“Gopfertammi! Leave, executioner. Or I’ll order my men to nail you right here.”
Rifles were rare and their munitions even more so. Nevertheless, Erol was aware that they would not hesitate a single second from emptying their magazines into the guts of the Paladins.
Under his thick blond eyebrows, the jet-black eyes of the captain challenged those of the Judge, who ultimately gave in.
“Fort bien. I think it is time for us to retire,” concluded the Judge. “Keep in mind that Sainte Maev will be informed of the heresy that reigns here.”
At the sound of the horn, the Paladins of the Inquisition took their leave with a tumultuous quarrel. Now empty, the prison wagon closed the procession, pulled by oxen.
When he arrived at the gates, the Executor-Judge turned around to look at Erol for the last time. The archaeologist was now certain that this was nothing but a short reprieve. He, and especially Suzanne, had attracted the wrath of these dangerous madmen.
The young woman was currently being cared for by the soldiers. In hovering flight, the drone had deployed a respiratory assistance system.
Octave’s body lay a few meters away from her. He did not have the strength to look at it. Everything had happened so quickly, and he had been so incredibly powerless.