Resurrection and Retribution
Disclaimer Note: I do not own any of the Van Helsing characters (sadly) that appear throughout this tale. They are owned by Universal Studios, and were created by the novelist Kevin Ryan.
Chapter 1: The Past Rears the Disturbing
"Dammit!" cried out a frustrated friar as his chisel slipped and cut his finger.
"Sir," cried his young assistant. "The cardinal would not be pleased with you using that sort of language in front of me." The young boy was new to the Order, a rather brilliant new addition to Carl's relief, but perhaps a little too innocent and naïve at times.
"Well, Paul, I expect you to do what most young students do sometimes." The boy's eyebrows rose quizzically. "And that is?"
"Ignore the tutor at select moments." Carl grinned. "Just the ones I select."
The both of them were slowly chipping away an almost perfect square into the tiled floor of an ancient Roman crypt beneath a younger church crypt, just outside of Rome. Normally, this would be considered sacrilege, but he had insisted to the cardinal that leakage of petroleum was best diverted from its source. For several months, the stench of petroleum had raised both suspicion and caution in the Church Clergy, sending him in search of the source. They could not allow the danger. Rome had already burned down one too many times in their opinions.
"How much farther do you think we have to go?" questioned Paul.
Carl sniffed. "Not too much, I hope." He had positioned the few candles above him, far enough to that if they fell, they would not fall in the hole, but close enough to give light. "Could you give me the smallest leather pouch of tools?"
While the boy made his way to the other side of the crypt room, Carl poked his head through the hole that they had managed to chip away at and sneezed. Yeah, most definitely they were getting nearer. The stench was horrible. He pulled his head out of the hole in response to the calling voice of his assistant and sighed with annoyance.
"Carl, which one of these hammers do....." But before Paul could finish his sentence, the ground below his feet had given away.
Dammit! I told him to tread softly in here. He rushed over edge of the collapsed area, careful with his own steps. He called out into the darkness below. "Paul! Paul! Are you alright? Paul?"
After what seemed an eternity count of heartbeats, he heard Paul's faint voice. "I'm fine. I think." He heard the boy cough and then groan. "No wait. I think I hurt my arm." Carl cursed again and then went over to the rope that was dangling overhead. He tugged on it. At the other end of that rope was a bell for alerting the few other Brothers that were assisting him up above. "I'm going down to fetch you, Paul." No sense in risking any more lives other than my own. He tugged several more times on the rope and heard the affirmative call of Brother Thomas above. "The rope is tied down, Carl!" He took the extra end of that rope and dropped it down the hole. With the Brothers on the other end, the rope was going nowhere, or so he prayed.
Carl carefully climbed down, a small lantern tied securely to his belt. Paul was only remotely hurt with a twisted arm, nothing fatal, to Carl's relief. He had the Brothers cautiously hoist Paul up with the rope tied around the boy's waist. With that task taken care of, he was finally allowed to inspect his surroundings.
It was a rather large catacomb, encrusted with tell-tale layers of mold, cobwebs, and dust. In between a least a dozen old Roman braziers were thirteen beautiful sarcophaguses with engraved floral work upon them. He brought the lantern closer to examine each one. Some of the inscriptions were still intact, while most had crumbled away. Names of long-dead military figures of the same Roman legion revealed themselves over the next few hours.
When Carl had his fill, he turned to call out to Brother Thomas above. But something in the far right-hand crumbling corner caught his eye, something not so typical of pagan Roman crypts. The word INRI above a man upon a cross. A soldier with a spear in his hand was below the man, weeping upon the ground. If it was indeed a scene from the New Testament, then it was seriously an interesting find. The scene trailed along the section of wall that one of the soldier's sarcophaguses was. Needless to say, this was perhaps his story. Most of the story was missing, all color and engraving having faded and worn away due to moisture. Carl almost wet his undergarments when he took in one of the last intact scenes. A man, the soldier, was caught in between the upraised arms of what appeared to be a God and a Demon, and most of the inscriptions around the scene seemed typical enough to the period, referring to the natural fear of a God, punishment, the usual sort one would find in a Biblical story. But it was the wording that spoke of the Left Hand of God that scared him. He had to peer inside the sarcophagus. It was the only way to be sure. No dust, no bones. There was only the remains of a much encrusted spearhead. Helsing is not going to love this...
He traced his hands farther along the wall to the other side of catacomb, looking for more that would perhaps add to the tale. As before, only the more typical scenes of pagan Roman life and the six false painted doors that gave the room more of a daily-life appearance of a house.
Carl scratched his chin and pondered upon this new information, enjoying the fresh breeze of air coming down to him from above. Wait...breeze? That meant that the air had to be flowing somewhere, because it sure wasn't returning from where it came. Cool air had to travel into warmer air. He turned around and ran his hands along every square inch of that catacomb, floor and all. One of his fingers popped into a hole in one of the painted false doors. He managed to knock away more of the stone, enlargening the hole. He stuck his lantern through. There was another room?
Disclaimer Note: I do not own any of the Van Helsing characters (sadly) that appear throughout this tale. They are owned by Universal Studios, and were created by the novelist Kevin Ryan.
Chapter 1: The Past Rears the Disturbing
"Dammit!" cried out a frustrated friar as his chisel slipped and cut his finger.
"Sir," cried his young assistant. "The cardinal would not be pleased with you using that sort of language in front of me." The young boy was new to the Order, a rather brilliant new addition to Carl's relief, but perhaps a little too innocent and naïve at times.
"Well, Paul, I expect you to do what most young students do sometimes." The boy's eyebrows rose quizzically. "And that is?"
"Ignore the tutor at select moments." Carl grinned. "Just the ones I select."
The both of them were slowly chipping away an almost perfect square into the tiled floor of an ancient Roman crypt beneath a younger church crypt, just outside of Rome. Normally, this would be considered sacrilege, but he had insisted to the cardinal that leakage of petroleum was best diverted from its source. For several months, the stench of petroleum had raised both suspicion and caution in the Church Clergy, sending him in search of the source. They could not allow the danger. Rome had already burned down one too many times in their opinions.
"How much farther do you think we have to go?" questioned Paul.
Carl sniffed. "Not too much, I hope." He had positioned the few candles above him, far enough to that if they fell, they would not fall in the hole, but close enough to give light. "Could you give me the smallest leather pouch of tools?"
While the boy made his way to the other side of the crypt room, Carl poked his head through the hole that they had managed to chip away at and sneezed. Yeah, most definitely they were getting nearer. The stench was horrible. He pulled his head out of the hole in response to the calling voice of his assistant and sighed with annoyance.
"Carl, which one of these hammers do....." But before Paul could finish his sentence, the ground below his feet had given away.
Dammit! I told him to tread softly in here. He rushed over edge of the collapsed area, careful with his own steps. He called out into the darkness below. "Paul! Paul! Are you alright? Paul?"
After what seemed an eternity count of heartbeats, he heard Paul's faint voice. "I'm fine. I think." He heard the boy cough and then groan. "No wait. I think I hurt my arm." Carl cursed again and then went over to the rope that was dangling overhead. He tugged on it. At the other end of that rope was a bell for alerting the few other Brothers that were assisting him up above. "I'm going down to fetch you, Paul." No sense in risking any more lives other than my own. He tugged several more times on the rope and heard the affirmative call of Brother Thomas above. "The rope is tied down, Carl!" He took the extra end of that rope and dropped it down the hole. With the Brothers on the other end, the rope was going nowhere, or so he prayed.
Carl carefully climbed down, a small lantern tied securely to his belt. Paul was only remotely hurt with a twisted arm, nothing fatal, to Carl's relief. He had the Brothers cautiously hoist Paul up with the rope tied around the boy's waist. With that task taken care of, he was finally allowed to inspect his surroundings.
It was a rather large catacomb, encrusted with tell-tale layers of mold, cobwebs, and dust. In between a least a dozen old Roman braziers were thirteen beautiful sarcophaguses with engraved floral work upon them. He brought the lantern closer to examine each one. Some of the inscriptions were still intact, while most had crumbled away. Names of long-dead military figures of the same Roman legion revealed themselves over the next few hours.
When Carl had his fill, he turned to call out to Brother Thomas above. But something in the far right-hand crumbling corner caught his eye, something not so typical of pagan Roman crypts. The word INRI above a man upon a cross. A soldier with a spear in his hand was below the man, weeping upon the ground. If it was indeed a scene from the New Testament, then it was seriously an interesting find. The scene trailed along the section of wall that one of the soldier's sarcophaguses was. Needless to say, this was perhaps his story. Most of the story was missing, all color and engraving having faded and worn away due to moisture. Carl almost wet his undergarments when he took in one of the last intact scenes. A man, the soldier, was caught in between the upraised arms of what appeared to be a God and a Demon, and most of the inscriptions around the scene seemed typical enough to the period, referring to the natural fear of a God, punishment, the usual sort one would find in a Biblical story. But it was the wording that spoke of the Left Hand of God that scared him. He had to peer inside the sarcophagus. It was the only way to be sure. No dust, no bones. There was only the remains of a much encrusted spearhead. Helsing is not going to love this...
He traced his hands farther along the wall to the other side of catacomb, looking for more that would perhaps add to the tale. As before, only the more typical scenes of pagan Roman life and the six false painted doors that gave the room more of a daily-life appearance of a house.
Carl scratched his chin and pondered upon this new information, enjoying the fresh breeze of air coming down to him from above. Wait...breeze? That meant that the air had to be flowing somewhere, because it sure wasn't returning from where it came. Cool air had to travel into warmer air. He turned around and ran his hands along every square inch of that catacomb, floor and all. One of his fingers popped into a hole in one of the painted false doors. He managed to knock away more of the stone, enlargening the hole. He stuck his lantern through. There was another room?