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Post by longstevo on Nov 9, 2007 0:57:23 GMT -5
Prologue
1580 Somewhere in the mountains of Spain
Nestled comfortably atop a mountanous ridge, an ancient monastary that was nearly forgotten by its people rose victoriously over a hidden valley. Built with stone by the hands of Moorish slaves, the ancient structure was surprisingly stable with the base of the building perched precariously among rocky outcroppings. It's magnificent tower rose seventy feet above the church, with a large cross jutting into the skyline.
It served as home to only twenty Christian monks. But the old monastary's secluded home provided these men of the cloth with the solitude they preferred. It also provided the papacy with a secret library of sorts. Many documents the church deemed 'unreadable' to the public were stored here. In other words, many Christian secrets were locked away in this monastary, away from the prying eyes of Rome's naysayers to the church.
And it was in one of the many studies of this place that a wrinkled old man by the name of Bishop Greco poured over many of these documents day after day. It was a life of endless study. Reading glass in hand, he would examine a document letter by letter, searching for something. A clue that would reveal a secret sought after by many. But Christ was not one to reveal his secrets easily, despite countless prayers by Greco. And so he continued his tireless work. When he completed the seemingly impossible task of studying every piece of work in the library, he started over again. Searching, always searching...
Fifteen fruitless years passed. But the bishop never faltered in his Pope-appointed duty. One day, while studying a particularly interesting piece authored by none other than Christopher Columbus, something seemed to leap from the pages to the old man's eyes.
When the famous explorer returned to the Spanish kingdom from his groundbreaking expedition, he turned his journal and other notes over to the Spanish king. After the king looked through and kept what he wanted, he gave the rest to the church for them to study. Most of the text was largely useless to the work of the church. But one page stood out from the rest. It was dated and contained a small paragraph and an sketching just below.
It read: ...sailing south, we lost our way in a terrible storm... came across a strange island...natives not friendly...taken to cheifain...men nor women wore many clothing, but cheiftan donned old set of steel armor with interesting symbol...unknown origins...left island soon after, returned to India...
The short excerpt had always interested the bishop, as had the rough drawing which apparently depicted the armor noted in the passage. But he had never really thought much into it. But something seemed different about the text this day. It seemed to jump from the page, yearning to pry into his brain and reveal their secret. The bishop rested his head in his hands and thought. He meditated for many hours before it hit him.
His weathered eyes snapped open and he nearly leaped from his chair. Scurrying over to a tall bookshelf, he searched the volumes until he found the tome he was looking for. He selected the book and brought it back to the table. Flipping through the parchment pages, he settled upon a page the contained a drawing of an old knight. He slid the new book next to the old journal note of Columbus.
Bishop Greco gasped.
The drawing Columbus drew was of the armor the strange chieftan was apparently wearing. It had to be. The old man's eyes shifted from the journal drawing to the neat sketch in the new book. Both pictures contained breastplates, of course with the new book it was adorned by a handsome knight. The journal only depicted the front.
The two sets of armor appeared to be very similar. They were both wide, but seemed to be made to fit the wearer snugly. But what was most important was not how it was made, but what was on it. Embossed on each set was a large cross with equal legs that started narrow near the center and widened out as the legs traveled away. It was a famous symbol in the history of the church. The bishop looked to the subtitle and looked away.
It was impossible. How could a set of armor like that be found somewhere in the Caribbean? He assumed that's where Columbus had made these notes when it was written 'sailed south of India.' How was this possible?
He looked back to the subtitle underneath the drawing of the handsome man.
It read: A Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon Bishop Greco examined it again and shook his head. How could it be?
The Knights Templar.
Why was the armor of a Templar Knight in the Caribbean?
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Post by longstevo on Nov 21, 2007 1:29:47 GMT -5
Proluge, cont.
Bishop Greco spent the rest of the afternoon wildly flipping through any and all documents he could find relating to Cristopher Columbus and his discovery of the New Land. His relentless search uncovered only one piece of information that had any relevance to what he was searching for.
Columbus' journal.
It was well into the evening hours, and the old man had ignored many visitors knocking on his door. He flipped carefully from page to page, studying over every paragraph and pouring over every word searcing for any sign or clue that would belie the secret as to there being Templar artifacts in the Carribbean.
After many fruitless hours, Greco finally closed the book, setting it face down. He ran his spindly fingers through his coarse hair and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Tired enough to possibly misinterpret Columbo's writings. He would check his work tomorrow. He probably got himself into a frenzy for no reason.
As he opened his eyes and let the candlelit room refocus, his eyes fell upon the mysterious journal once more. Something caught his attention on the back cover. It appeared that something had been carved ever so slightly into the leather bindings. Greco grabbed a candle and brought it close to the back cover.
54
Greco squinted at the number on the back. What could that mean? Fifty four. He had no idea, but the strange clue erased any fatigue from his mind. He was once again keen with excitement. Could he have stumbled onto something important from the ground breaking voyage? He began plugging the number into various mathematical equations that included important numbers from the voyage. Numbers like total miles, time elapsed, ect.
But each equation only brought him more confusion. After another two hours of simply staring at the fifty four, a lesson from his old bishop many years ago came to mind.
He remembered learning of crypic scripts and other methods that writers often used to write in code. His mentor had explained to him that sometimes an author would use a certain number code to hide a secret message in their text. As an example, he produced a certain passage in the bible. As the young Greco recited the verse, the bishop pointed out that if the reader selected every fourth letter and put them together in sequence, a completly different quote could be found. The young priest was amazed, and quickly put the reading tactic to other verses, but without knowing the specific number with the author intended, figuring out the secret was all but impossible.
But now, sixty years later, Bishop Greco did know the specific number. It was fifty four. Fingers trembling, he turned the book over and slowly cracked the pages. The first page to greet him was a cover sheet, explaining the need for the journal, the author and other important administrative data. He turned again to the beginning page.
Upon this glorious day...
That was how the journal started out. Greco fumbled at his table for a seperate sheet of paper and a pen. Finding both, he inscribed a "U" on the page. Then, counting off the numbers, he wrote down the fifty fourth letter. Then, he counted another fifty four, and wrote the third letter of the secret message...
Two hours later, and very late into the night, the Bishop Greco stood from his table and looked upon the passage of text that stared back at him.
Underneath the elephant rock that guards the garden from the sea, there is a sign from God himself a sign calling for all who are worthy to bring forth light into this dark world but only those who are held in God's highest regard may call themselves the bringer of light
Greco's hands rose to his mouth in utter shock. The passage was amazing enough, and the fact that a Christian presence in that region was just as astounding, but the last four words seemed to speak to Greco personally. They not only spoke, but roared deafeningly in the silence of his dark room. Emotions toiled up inside until they burst, and the old bishop fell to his knees in prayer.
The last four words read: Come, God beckons you.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 22, 2007 1:04:35 GMT -5
Chapter 1 The Voyage Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean
The ocean slapped lazily against the royal oak of the ships bow as it cut a frothy path through the deep blue that stretched as far as the eye can see. A stiff breeze pushed the vessel onward towards its destination, filling the sails to their full capacity. The blinding white canvas filled with wind was slashed vertically and horizontally with crimson, forming a large cross on the sail.
The large ship was not alone, as it was accompanied by another twin ship. Each sported a sail of the same design; a crimson cross on a field of white, and none flew a flag of any national origin. Instead of flying a flad from any nation, they flew a flag similar to their sails, a red cross with splayed legs. Historians would recognize the splayed cross as the symbol of the ancient Templars. This caravan sailed under no king's authority. No nation claimed these vessels nor their men and crew. Instead, these ships sailed under the order of God.
The two galleons contained a full crew and supplies for six months of travel or sustainment. But on the leading ship, The Holy Redeemer, a full contingent of thirty fully armed conquistadors were crammed below deck. In the aft storage area, all their swords, firearms and other combat gear was stored neatly. These men fully understood that they could be sailing to war, despite the fact no one on board completely knew why they were sailing or where they were sailing to. The only thing they knew for sure was that it was an important mission with religious undertones. The second ship, The Sacrifice carried all sustainment supplies, as well as ten horses.
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Post by Latronis on Nov 22, 2007 1:20:47 GMT -5
OOC: need more dude!
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Post by longstevo on Nov 22, 2007 1:26:08 GMT -5
Standing on the deck, staring out into the vast field of blue that stretched before him, stood the commander of the company of warriors below deck. Captain Castillo leaned forward and rest his palms on the smooth oak rails that ran the length of the vessel. His shoulder length hair whipped his face as the brisk wind swirled about the ocean.
His light blue sack cloth shirt hung loosely over his shoulders, with relaxed sleeves hemmed just above his muscular forearms. He wore no insignia or any indication he was a military officer. Every soul aboard this ship knew who he was.
He took a moment to ponder the reasons behind this trip. Three weeks ago, he and his men had just come back from the field, perfecting their various battle drills. Bishop Greco had met the captain and pulled him aside, explaining the need for a small unit of battle worthy men willing to undertake a mission of religious significance. Being hardy Christian men, nearly all of Castillo's men readily volunteered. And that was all they knew.
A mission of religious significance.
Blind faith for their beloved Bishop led these men so far away from their homeland. Castillo turned towards the ship captain's cabin, where the bishop was staying. The ship's captain and the first mate were sharing a room out of respect to the much respected bishop. Greco had ordered all men to leave him be. He shut himself inside that stuffy cabin, pouring over the bible and other documents. Castillo could not be sure what the old man was doing, but he hoped it would soon shed some light as to why they were traveling to some distant land.
Sighing deeply, Castillo turned back towards the vast ocean and watched the sun set ahead of The Holy Redeemer, sinking slowly into the water.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 22, 2007 10:21:33 GMT -5
Captain Castillo climbed the stairs to the upper deck, where the ship's captain, Captain Louis Marche, helmed the ship's wheel.
"Good evening, sir," Marche smiled and nodded as Castillo approached.
"Buenas noches," replied Castillo.
The two men stared off into the sunset, watching the last ribbons of daylight disappear into a sky splashed with red and orange. Castillo suddenly broke the long silence.
"You know of our destination, yes?"
Captain Marche only nodded.
"You must tell me," said Castillo.
Marche turned to face him, "I am sorry, but I cannot. As I have told you before, I was sworn to secrecy by Bishop Greco, whom I love like my own father. I would loath to break his trust. Again, I apologize, my friend,"
Frustration began to mount inside Castillo. "Then I shall speak to him myself," he turned towards the captain's cabin before Marche held up a hand to stop him.
"I was also told to keep vistors away from Senior Greco. I am sorry, Captain." Castillo stared incredulously at Marche, studying his features in the fading light. A short and somewhat pudgy man, Marche had lived aboard sailing ships since the age of nine. He was famous in his homeland for his ability to handle any sort of sea vessel, and routinely placed first in the annual ship races off the rugged coast of southern Spain. A short beard clung to his cheeks and he kept his brown hair shortly cropped. He looked the part of a respectable man, and Captain Castillo knew him to be just that.
"Very well, old friend. But you must answer me one question: do we sail to our doom?"
Marche sighed before answering, "I do not know what our destinies hold for us in the land in which we sail for. But I can say that we sail to our God."
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Post by longstevo on Nov 22, 2007 11:05:33 GMT -5
Frustrations climbed to untold levels in Castillo's brain. Cryptic riddles and fancy double speak! Why was he being left out of important information? He pledged the lives of his own men, some of them he loved as his own sons, and now the man orchestrating this charade wasn't keeping him up to date with information?
Castillo cursed under his breath. He would find out what he needed to. Tomorrow, he would speak to the bishop if he needed to kick the door in or not. He whirled on his heel and proceeded below deck.
--
The air underneath the deck of The Holy Redeemer was heavy and dank. Three weeks atop the high seas with no showers was beginning to take its toll on the sweaty warriors and crew. But morale was high nonetheless. In the torch lit underdeck, Castillo quickly surveyed his men. Most of his conquistadors were already racked out in their narrow bunks. There were not too many activities to keep themselves occupied on the cramped ship. When they weren't fighting and drinking, they were gambling and telling tall tales of their past exploits. And when they were not doing either of those two, they were sleeping. As it was, five of his men were kneeling or sitting, huddled in a circle.
One man tossed a rock against the floor planks, and when the multi sided side turned up with a certain symbol, two men cheered, while two others groaned.
Lieutenant Gottschalk, easily the largest man aboard, lifted a bottle of rum to the ceiling and drank from it. Hailing from the dark forests of Northern Germania, he traveled south after his family fleed from maruading barbarians. They found a home in Northern Spain, where he was raised working on a farm. When his parents passed, he enlisted in the Spanish army, where he proved to be a formidle force. His massive arms could wield many weapons the smaller Spanish could not. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship was a massive Scottish claymore that only he could grip.
Upon seeing his commander enter the room, Gottschalk snapped to attention, blonde ponytail swinging and shouted, "Commander on deck!" The four men leaped to thier feet, rigid and motionless, ready for inspection. Castillo smiled slightly, "As you were," His men relaxed and went back to their stone game. Gottschalk joined the side of his leader.
"Any news as of yet?" he asked in his heavy Northern accent. A short stubble of blonde scruff appeared magnified in the flickering torchlight. Bright blue eyes pierced the darkness into Castillo's dark, nearly black eyes. The large German had proven his loyalty to Castillo many times over during the defense of the African raids on the Spanish coastline. The two were close friends, despite their ethnic differences.
Castillo perferred things that way. Upon gaining rank in the military, his commanders eventually gave him permission to hand pick his team. Instead of selecting men of similar background or nationality, he chose men of different race and nationality for his personal group. He believed that a melting pot of peoples, when forged together in the fires of battle, created a bond and fighting spirit invincible to the downfalls of casual combat teams. Problems such as bickering, stealing and lying always led to the dividing and eventual destruction of a unit. For some reason, under Castillo's command, his multi national units never encountered any of those problems, so he continued to bring aboard people of different races.
He himself was Spanish, born and raised among the rugged coastlines. Gottschalk was German. The only man on board who was able to challange Gottschalk for size was McGrath, who hailed from the lonely island of Ireland. Also on board the crew was John Hughes, a wise cracking Englishman who needed to be brought down a notch or two before finally being accepted into the team. DeLuca and Rossi both hailed from Italy, while Oriano and Matilla both hailed from Spain as well. One of the more interesting members was Zebenjo, a man from deep Africa who knew little to no English, Italian, Spanish, or any other European language. He spoke only in his native tongue, but that didn't seem to matter to the rest of the team. He had proven himself many times over and was generally a very likeable man, despite the languae barrier.
Castillo turned back to Gottschalk, "Nay, but I will find an answer tomorrow,"
Castillo turned away from his second in command and away from general sleeping arrangements to a bunk nestled inside the main cargo hold. Sitting down on the hardwood of the so called bed, he rested his head in his hands before laying down and letting sleep claim him.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 27, 2007 0:33:54 GMT -5
The rocking of the ship awoke Castillo from his shallow sleep. Taking a moment to blink the sleep away from his eyes, he swung his feet down from his hardwood bunk and onto the plank floor. Taking a moment to gather himself, he noted that most of his men were still sleeping. Gathering his clothes and equipment, he left his bunk and climbed the stairs to the deck.
A brisk breeze cut across the ocean, blowing over The Holy Redeemer and chilling its crew to the bone. Castillo wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and looked towards the captain's cabin.
A heavy fog saturated with water seemed to melt into the ocean. Castillo found it hard to breath with the liquid in the air. He climbed another set of stairs and walked towards the door to Bishop Greco's door. With one final look around for Captain Marche and not finding him, Castillo reached down and gripped the handle. He pushed the door inward.
Inside, Captain Marche and Bishop Greco were both huddled over a table. They immediately looked up at the intruder. Their faces shown of immense displeasure.
"Captain! What did I tell you?" growled Marche.
Castillo closed the door behind him, shutting most of the daylight out of the cramped, candlelit room. "My men are anxious, and for the record, so am I. You must tell me know, to where are we headed?"
Marche looked at Greco, who lowered his eyes as he gave in. He looked at the ship's captain. "Would you give us a moment?" After hesitating, Marche nodded and left the room with a gush of cold air.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 27, 2007 1:11:23 GMT -5
Greco sighed once more. In the dark room, the old bishop appeared as if he were twenty years older than he was. Dark bags hung underneath his eyes and his hair flew wildly. Fatigue gripped the old man in its cold embrace. It looked like he were about five minutes away from falling into sleep...or death.
Castillo, forgoing all military, political and religious codes of conduct, did not fall to his knee in respect, nor did he bow his head. "Father, where are we going," he asked flatly.
Greco forced a weak smile, "The knowledge that you are serving God is not enough, my son?"
"Serving God is more than enough. But my men would like to know if they are expected to lay down their lives in that service."
Greco turned his back, long robes sweeping the deck, as he milled about aimlessly. "Any man of God should be ready to lay down his life at any time for the Heavenly Lord."
Castillo, feeling an unexpected surge of anger, slammed his fist down on Greco's small table. The loud crack made the frail Greco jump, "Damn it to hell, Bishop! You'd better tell me where this ship is headed, or I swear to you you'll have a mutiny on your hands by noon!"
Sadness crept into Greco's eyes and his shoulder's slumped. "I had hoped to show you, but as I research this further, I see our crusade may not be as simple as I had hoped. Come, please sit"
The bishop motioned for a chair, but Castillo remained standing, crossing his arms.
With another weary sigh, Greco began his tale.
"During my research many months ago, I discovered something strange in the writings of Columbus. Something that suggests Christian influence in the southern region of the New World. Christian influence that was implanted in that area long before our brave explorer. Upon further research, I discovered a secret code hidden in his work," fumbling around the mess of paper scattered across the small cabin, he produced the note scribbled on a piece of parchment.
"Underneath the elephant rock that guards the garden from the sea, there is a sign from God himself a sign calling for all who are worthy to bring forth light into this dark world but only those who are held in God's highest regard may call themselves the bringer of light"
"From how I understand this, in addition to other works and documents, this is referring to none other than the Lord's Garden of Eden!" Excitement began to rise in Greco's voice.
"While comparing Columbus' notes and journal to revised world maps, I believe the location of this island is here." He pointed to a spot on the map sitting atop the table.
Castillo was not sure of what to say.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 27, 2007 21:39:45 GMT -5
Speech escaped Castillo’s lips. “What exactly are you trying to say?” he finally stammered.
Greco’s shifting eyes darted back to the maps and piles of paperwork scattered about. When he found the parchment he was searching for, he produced it. A rough sketching from Columbus’ journal depicted a piece of armor with a wide-legged cross adorning the front. Familiar with ancient history, Castillo knew this to be the style of breastplate often linked to the Templar Knights.
Confused, he looked up to Greco, “What is this?”
Greco excitedly snatched the paper back away from the captain to study it himself. “From what I can tell and from what is noted in the journal, this piece of armor was seen adorned by a village chieftain, on this island, in 1494,”
Taking a breath, Castillo replied, “What was it doing there? The Templars were eradicated almost three hundred years ago. There must be a mistake. In addition to that, our civilization hasn’t seen these shores. This is the new-world, we are among the first traveling to this region.”
Greco held up a finger in protest, “Ah, that may be. We are among the first explorers, I would say. But, not the first travelers here,”
“What are you saying?”
“I delved deep into the records of the Knights Templar, and after deciphering a code, discovered a secret passage. I jotted down the more important parts…” the bishop again shifted through paperwork until he found the right page.
“In so many words, the writings of the Templars indicate that during the siege of Jerusalem, they came upon the Temple of Solomon. Inside, they found either vast treasure, or an artifact believed to hold immense importance to Christ. I couldn’t translate that section clearly.
“After the sieges ended, the knights transported the treasure out of the war-torn region to their banks in France. After that, the treasure simply disappeared. Many scholars believe that the treasure was simply a mass trove of gold and bullion, which was simply dissolved into the Templar system of banks. But this secret passage sheds more light to things…
Castillo shifted nervously. His heart began to pound. Could they be on the trail of an ancient Christian artifact? Or incredible treasure, even?
“Apparently, the Pope Clement knew the significance of this artifact, or treasure, and before he and King Philip IV plotted against the Templars. He ordered Jacques de Molay, the Templar Grandmaster, to send the treasure to an unknown corner of the world, out of King Philip’s hands. For the pope knew that the king’s reasons for disbanding the Order was to get access to their treasure and money. So, he simply ordered de Molay to send it away.
“And so he did. He hand selected a team of twelve knights, swore them to the protection of the artifact or treasure, and sent them away. He gave them no destination, so that way he could not break under the stress of torture and betray them. And from there, the Templar treasure was erased from history…” Greco’s voice trailed off.
“Until now. If Columbus’ account is correct, and a native was seen with Templar armor, it’s only reasonable to assume that they either landed on or near this island. This passage here, the Underneath the elephant rock…, from Columbus’ journal, suggests that our great explorer stumbled upon the treasure, or at least a clue to it. Once we reach this island, we should begin searching for a…um…an elephant rock…”
Greco’s cheeks flushed. He realized that an ‘elephant rock’ was a silly thing to look for, but it was all he had to go off of.
Castillo on the other hand, began sifting through the mess of paperwork himself. He had always loved history, and the story of the sieges of Jerusalem fascinated him so. He had sailed to the shores of Jerusalem, where the war between Christians and Muslims still raged. He found the first flames of the conflict incredibly interesting.
“So, what you’re telling me, is the Templar treasure may be located on this island?” He indicated the small spot of green of the field of blue that was the ocean. Greco nodded.
“So…what exactly is this treasure or artifact?”
Beads of sweat began to form on the bishop’s brow. He was becoming obviously flustered. “Um…”
“Father? What is this treasure?”
“Well,” the bishop began to fidget, “I cannot say for certain, but the only clue I discovered was a rough Greek translation,” the old man’s voice began to crack. “It read, The dish of my lord.”
Castillo frowned, “The dish of my lord?”
Greco nodded excitedly, “What is a dish?
“A dish? Besides a cup? A mug, bowl, chalice or goblet?”
Greco shook his head, eyes filled with wonder. Castillo racked his mind for other words for dish, “A tumbler, vessel, a grail…”
Greco snapped his fingers and pointed towards the captain. “And who is our lord, my son?”
“Jesus Christ, of course,” as soon as the words escaped his mouth, Castillo’s heart jumped straight to his throat. He attempted to formulate words.
“Yes…that’s right…” nodded Bishop Greco. “THAT, is what we are searching for…”
Castillo put the words together in his mind.
The Cup of Our Lord.
The Grail of Christ.
They were on the path of the Holy Grail.
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Post by longstevo on Nov 29, 2007 0:44:34 GMT -5
Castillo squinted as he stepped out of the bishop’s quarters. The fog, despite the lack of sun, shone brightly all around the ship. He took no notice however, as his mind was still reeling from what he had learned inside.
The Holy Grail. Could it be? Had it in fact been found? Scholars had long debated its very existence, for no physical proof ever came to light. A long time Christian, Castillo had long believed in the Grail but never had time to research it nor read about its curious history. All he knew for sure was it was the cup used by Joseph of Armithea to catch the blood of Christ during the Crucifixion. Legend had it that it was imbued with magic once it touched Christ’s blood. Whether or not it actually possessed powers, it would be a glorious addition to the church once it was found.
Now that he understood the mission at hand, his outlook on the expedition turned one eighty. Visions of the Grail flew around in his mind. What did it look like? Was it adorned with jewels, or simply plain, yet elegant? Was it gold colored, or something else? And one question seemed to echo louder than all the rest: was it, in fact, imbued with the power of God?
Castillo’s train of thought was interrupted by a member of the ship’s crew.
“Land ho!”
It took only a moment to wash away the jumble of dreams of the Grail and bring himself back to the present.
Land. They finally reached land! Could it be the island Bishop Greco spoke of? The Island of the Grail? The same Grail empowered with God? Castillo could only wonder…
In minutes, every member of the ship had emerged from below deck and lined the rails. Their eyes scanned the foggy horizon, searching for any sign of this land.
“To the south!” shouted the young boy from the crow’s nest.
The men poured from every other side of the ship to the port side, causing the ship to lean to the left.
“I don’t see it…” mumbled a crew member.
“Wait,” Gottschalk said quietly, “There. I see it!”
Almost on cue, a large craggy rock emerged from the fog a mere half mile from the ship. As the vessel approached, the tower of rock continued to climb into the gray sky.
“Hard to starboard!” commanded Captain Marche. The deckhand behind the wheel cranked it to the right. With the fog, there was no telling where the rest of the island was. To be safe, Marche would circle to the right and anchor to avoid running aground.
Suddenly, the ship was abuzz with excitement. Each man was talking and chattering, asking questions to which no one knew the answer. The fog continued to conceal the island, only allowing the men to see its curious tower of stone.
Castillo felt Greco approach behind him. “Gather your soldiers, Captain,” the bishop whispered into his ear, “We leave for shore in one hour.”
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Post by longstevo on Nov 30, 2007 19:27:32 GMT -5
The Holy Redeemer bustled with soldiers and crewmen racing about the ship. The deckhands hurried to ready the landing boats. Oars were produced and set, and each of the five boats were raised and resting just overboard, suspended by ropes hanging off the main mast. They now awaited their cargo: the conquistadors.
Underneath the deck, twenty of the thirty holy soldiers stood, strapped and ready for battle. Breastplates were buckled, helms snapped, and muskets loaded. They milled about, making final preparations for each other, awaiting their commander.
In the back of the deck, Captain Castillo and Sergeant Gottschalk finished arming themselves. The large German set his Scottish broadsword against the wall and adjusted his own chest armor. Castillo grasped his belt and tightened it one notch. Hanging from the elegant and decorated belt was an equally elegant scabbard. In the scabbard was an old long sword.
Despite it’s age, it appeared almost new, and fully serviceable. Inlaid with gold mined from the deserts of Northern Africa and silver from outside Old Constantinople, the blade saw service in several battles and wars strapped to the side of many high ranking knight commanders. Unfortunately, much of the history of the sword was lost, but the last wielder of the blade was Castillo’s grandfather, one of the final grandmasters of the Knights Hospitallers located in Spain.
The blade itself, a beautiful Christian sword, was engraved with many religious symbols up and down the hilt, but the most striking feature of the sword was a highly detailed engraving of Christ’s Crucifixion. Showing the Lord hanging from his cross atop a lonely mountain, the image conjured up the same feelings inside Castillo as he would experience while studying a similar image on a painting.
He would feel pride in his Lord and religion as well as how he dedicated his life to God. He would also feel sadness for the torture and pain Christ had to endure. And he would also feel thanks for the forgiveness granted to mankind. In that forgiveness, Castillo had lived his life as best he could, yet as is the case with most men, no man is complete without a blemish on his past. Yet Castillo worked hard to push the past behind him, he learned through life that not all demons die easily.
Hans Gottschalk grunted as he tightened his own belt tighter before turning to his commander, “Say, do you suspect there is even any people on this rock?”
Castillo adjusted his scabbard one last time, “Well my friend, your guess is as good as mine,” He paused, deciding whether or not to tell his trusted second in command about the treasure that made up the ultimate goal of this quest.
Gottschalk made the decision for him. The immense Norseman stood head and shoulders above the much smaller Spaniard. “Sir. I find now the time more than ever, to demand from you what the purpose of the expedition is. You know that I, as well as each man on this ship, would lay down our life for you. Not all of us would sacrifice our lives for God, but we would all die for you.” The heavy accent was difficult for most to understand, yet Castillo had heard enough words from his longtime friend to understand clearly.
Castillo cringed. He knew he was right. Each man had fought and bled next to him. They defended their coasts from marauding bandits atop the high seas, laid siege to Moorish outposts in Africa, and clashed with barbarians from the North. Each man aboard this ship had proven himself in battle more than once, and they were all brothers to each other, from different homelands or not.
Castillo reached up and set his gloved hand on Gottschalk’s shoulder, “ My friend. Our father, Bishop Greco, has discovered something unbelievable on this island. If it is not here then it is close by. I will tell you, but you must promise not to speak of it to the men, for if they were to discover what we seek, I fear we may have a rebellion.”
Gottshalk nodded, “Of course, captain,”
Castillo looked from his left to his right, making sure of no hidden ears nearby. All the men were at the aft deck, finishing preparations. He pulled his friend close.
“The Grail, Hans,” Castillo pulled back and smiled as Gottshalk’s eyes widened at first, before frowning skeptically.
“You mean to tell me, the one Grail of Christ our Lord is on this rock?”
Castillo grinned and nodded.
“Nonsense! It does not exist!”
Castillo quickly put a finger to his lips to quiet the big man, and quickly retold of what he learned from the bishop upstairs not one hour ago.
“And he is certain of this?”
“Yes. He tells me God spoke to him through Columbus’ script. There is no other place this could be. My friend, we can change the church! We can change the world with this find! God will surely bless us for eternity for bringing the priceless relic back to the light! Imagine the lives we will touch.”
Gottshalk nodded. A dedicated Christian himself, he too sacrificed his life for God. “Yes. I have faith is Father Greco. If he sees this as a worthwhile journey, then I shall also.”
Castillo smiled, “As I knew you would. Now come, let us begin,”
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Post by longstevo on Nov 30, 2007 19:53:15 GMT -5
Chapter 2 The Landing
The calm ocean sloshed gently against the bow of the rowboat as the five boats slowly made their way towards the mysterious pillar of stone still visible above the low lying fog. Castillo turned towards the twin ships The Holy Redeemer and The Sacrifice. Slowly, the fog crept into between the small caravan of boats and claimed the ships. Within minutes, the tall masts of the two disappeared, and the men were alone.
The fog fell upon the boats heavily, and the silence was utterly deafening. Castillo glanced at his men, to make see if they could hear his heart beating against his steel breastplate. Apparently, they could not, or it perhaps the sound of his heartbeat was drowned out by their own. Zebenjo rocked slightly on his bench, muttering something repeatedly in his native language. Castillo assumed it was a prayer of some sort. He set his hand on the shoulder of the African warrior and smiled reassuringly. Zebenjo smiled back, seeming somewhat at ease for now.
Castillo squinted into the fog. Surely the beach was close now. They had been rowing for close to ten minutes when the southern sky began to darken. Castillo leaned forward, looking closer. What could it be? He guessed it to be no more than one hundred yards away in the thick fog. The strange darkness began to grow as they approached. When he suddenly realized what it was, his heart jumped in his throat.
A sheer wall of rock rose immediately from the ocean nearly three hundred feet high. Its stark rock was as black as night, and its smooth face appeared to offer no handholds for climbing. They could not land here. The cliff was so high, no one could see anything of what rest atop of it.
“To the west!” called Castillo, “Search for a viable landing spot,”
The western most boat turned its bow to the right and began paddling.
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Post by longstevo on Dec 4, 2007 20:53:43 GMT -5
Captain Castillo ordered his row-men to catch up to the lead boat. While passing his other men on his way up, none of them caught his gaze. They were instead transfixed upon the intimidating wall of rock rising like a tidal wave from the ocean. But instead of the loud chaos an upset ocean brings, an uneasy silence clung to the fog.
Upon reaching the lead boat, the highest ranking man aboard, Sergeant Rodriguez turned his attention to his commander.
“Orders, sir?”
Castillo only pursed his lips and shook his head. “Stay the course, sergeant,”
“Yes, sir.”
It seemed like hours, but the captain knew that only minutes had elapsed. A troubling thought began to creep into his mind. The farther they traversed this unknown coastline, the farther they traveled from their ships. And in this thick fog, there was no telling where they were in relation to the The Holy Redeemer and The Sacrifice. He also didn’t know how long he could expect the fog to obscure his position. Fog was known to hang on the Spanish coastline for days at a time before burning off. He shook his head and pushed the concerns to the back of his mind.
The only sound slicing the silence of the open water was the dipping of the oars and the gurgle of water as they cut into the ocean. Castillo’s hand fell onto his longsword. His gloved hand traced the elegant hilt, from the ball, up the handle and to the hilt. He could feel the details etched in the steel and traced many of them with his fingertip. His mind began to drift back to days long past.
--
He remembered his father in fleeting memories. He died in battle while the young Castillo was only a toddler. His mother raised him with his father’s grandparents, as she had no means to support herself and the young boy. He grew up an only child, running free over his grandfather’s large farm. The house was filled with love, but discipline was administered with a strict hand. He was a happy child, but well behaved one.
His grandfather took him under his wing and taught him all about the world through is childhood. Castillo learned of the ways of the farm, hunting and fishing. As an adolescent, he was very saavy in the ways of the outdoors, and he attributed it to his childhood and his grandfather.
When Castillo reached the age of thirteen, his grandfather’s health began to fail. It was during his last day that his grandfather pulled him close to his deathbed late one night.
“My son, Arturo, soon I will be gone from this world, and my estate will pass to you,” his grandfather’s voice was rough and fading. He did not have much time left, “Along with my properties and money, you will inherit a powerful item,” the grandfather coughed before pointing to an old, rusty chest nearly hidden in the corner.
“In there, you will find an artifact from another time. It symbolizes a chapter from another time in this world’s history, as well as a previous chapter in my own life,” he paused, gathering his words.
“When I pass, take the sword you will find to the city’s monastery, and find Friar Greco. He will know what to tell you about it. He is a fine young man. He will tell you what you need to know,”
The young Arturo grasped and squeezed his beloved grandfather’s hand. His fingers were dreadfully cold.
His grandfather coughed once more, “I once used to be an important man, Arturo. People once looked to me for important decisions. But, I did it all for God.”
With that, his grandfather tried to sit up and pulled Castillo close, “Remember, son, whatever you do with your life, make sure God’s will is behind it. For service to God is everything, and service to yourself, is nothing,”
And those were the old man’s last words as he closed his eyes to sleep for the night, only to never awaken. Two days later, the young Arturo found courage to open the heavy box in the corner. With hinges creaking in protest, the chest easily gave up its treasure.
The large chest was empty, save for an old sword laying on the bottom. Amazed by its beauty and elegance, Arturo needed all his strength to lift it from its container. He gripped it by its hilt and held it in front of him. Admiring the superior craftsmanship, a series of words popped out at him. Written in Latin, the young boy struggled to decipher the words.
Castillo, Defender of the House of God
Arturo immediately left for the monastery with the blade hidden in a pushed cart. Upon arrived at the front gates, he spied Friar Greco tending to the monastery’s garden. Upon approaching the young holy man, the friar turned to him first and apologized for his grandfather’s passing.
When shown the sword, Greco only knelt to Arturo’s level and nodded. He explained to the boy that his grandfather was once the headmaster of the now dissolved Order of the Knights Hospitaller of the Holy Land of Spain. The weapon was of another time, but was once wielded by his great-great grandfather in the last official crusade against the Saracens.
When the boy looked at him in confusion, Friar Greco explained that the men in his family lineage were sworn protectors of the church and Christ, choosing to serve their lives in knighthood. For many generations, his grandfathers had served as the head of one order of knights or another, and several of them had once carried this very sword.
But sadly, Greco explained to him that with the Crusades nearing an end, and the days of the large orders of knights were closing fast. The friar advised the boy to keep the sword as an antique, and a reminder of his grandfather. He offered the boy the chance to continue his family’s service to God in the robes of an alter boy and later in those of a priest, as the church no longer had the use for a military arm such as the Knights Hospitallers.
But the boy left the monastery that day with a different idea in his head. His forefathers carried the cross along with their swords, and he would do the same. He would form a group of men to do the dirty work of the church, much as his fathers did. He would carry the cross on his back, much as Jesus did. And when his judgement day arrived, St. Peter would look upon him with favor.
And so the sword was locked up for many years, while Castillo served in the conventional army for several years. But upon his release, he set his plan into motion…
--
Castillo caressed his long sword just once more. Gone were the cobwebs and dust from that stuffy storage chest. The grand blade had been serving in the free and open air for close to twenty years now. And little did its wielder know, it was embarking upon its greatest journey to date.
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Post by longstevo on Dec 14, 2007 23:41:14 GMT -5
It seemed as if the flotilla of rowboats had been slicing through the mirrored ocean for nearly an hour. The flat stone cliff seemed to have a sheen to it, giving it a surreal feeling that light was actually reflecting off it, like a giant, black mirror. It gave Castillo an unsettling feeling, but he pushed his caution aside. He needed to remain courageous and brave for his men.
Castillo continued to study the skyline of the top the stark ridge to their left. Suddenly, through the fog, an immense wall seemed to jut right in front of them. Castillo looked the left, seeing the wall in the same spot, meaning they were still on course. The sheer black wall rising in front of them meant that the main cliff cut into the sea, forming an angle. Studying the area where the landform made the change of direction, the captain spotted a small spit of brown sand, just inside the visibility of the mist. He tapped his oarman on the shoulder and pointed towards the land. They would investigate.
As the caravan switched direction, Castillo studied the new formation slicing into the sea. Just like the wall they had been traveling with, the base seemed to simply rise from the frothy water. And as his eyes rose, the rock seemed the same. But when he got to the top of the new ridge, he saw it was not flat. Instead, it seemed to curve slightly downward for a ways, before dropping sharply into the sea. He stared at the downward curve, and noticed that a large gap in the rock ran vertical to the ocean, just inside the curved edge that fell into the water. The jutting cliff must have been small, for sunlight, or fog rather, could be seen through the chasm.
With an abstract thought, he almost pictured a strange animal from another land in the stone. He had not seen this creature up close in his lifetime, but he had seen many pictures in books. “Curious,” he muttered under his breath, “That stone could almost pass for an elephant head…”
Then he remembered.
Underneath the elephant rock that guards the garden from the sea, there is a sign from God himself a sign calling for all who are worthy to bring forth light into this dark world but only those who are held in God's highest regard may call themselves the bringer of light
--
Boots leapt from the rocking boats and onto the soft, foreign sand of another world. Castillo sailed from the boat as well, whispering harshly commands to his men. In seconds, his twenty men formed a combat line twenty yards from the ocean’s edge. Kneeling in the soft soil, their muskets raised and eyes searching for anything that moved, the conquistadors appeared to be God’s angels making their first steps into Satan’s kingdom. Castillo took a moment to picture his men in this regard. Finally turning, he met Bishop Greco and his three subordinate priests.
The old man was shaking uncontrollably with excitement. His crazed eyes met Castillo’s icy blue orbs, then flew to the cliff protruding out into the foggy mist. “The elephant!” the old man shrieked.
Castillo tried to silence him with a harsh look. But the bishop didn’t seem to take heed. He instead turned to his fellow men of the cloth and continued to babble on. Turning his attention to his men, he found them just as he left them, stone solid and stoic. He marveled at his men once more, before making his way to his lieutenant, Hans Gottschalk.
“What do you see?” asked Castillo quietly.
“There seems to be a cave, or other small opening, just inside the rock face,”
The opening was easy to see, as there was not one shred of green foliage in the sand. “Take three men and investigate,”
Gottschalk nodded at the simple order. He tapped three men closest to him. They immediately rose to their feet, following the large German to the unknown. The men kneeling aside those who were reassigned shifted, covering for their absent comrades. Castillo turned back towards Greco, and to his horror, saw the bishop running towards the cave that he had just sent his men to scout.
“Father! Get back here!” shouted the infantry captain. But his order fell on deaf ears. The three other priests hurried along close behind. With frustration mounting in his chest, and seeing his tactical advantage of being low key disappearing, he gave the order for his men to quickly change positions to near the cave entrance. The men did so without question.
Gottschalk turned quickly at the sound of footsteps approaching. His face twisted in disbelief as he saw the bishop leading an unorganized mob of priests and armed soldiers. His trusted soldiers quickly reorganized and set up a defense, splitting their forces to cover both the east and west side of the small beach. The holy men were less than efficient about things, however.
Bishop Greco gasped as he stepped out of the sunlight and into the cool darkness of the cave. “Where is it…” he asked himself. The cave itself was nothing to marvel at. It was like many other caves in many other locations in the world. It was simply an insignificant hole in a cliff wall. Each man in the crew had seen many like it. But what made all caves different from each other, was where they led to, and more important, what they held inside.
“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” Bishop Greco appeared as if he were losing himself. Suddenly, he abandoned searching and fell to his knees. He clasped his hands in prayer and began praying. It was quiet enough that the words were indistinguishable. The bishop’s three young protégés fell to the ground as well, reciting a prayer.
Castillo snapped his fingers, gaining the attention of all his men. He pointed to a soldier, named Cambria from Greece, and pointed to the sack he carried. Cambria understood. He opened to bag, retrieved an oil soaked torch, produced a flint stone, and with a strike of the stone, the young soldier offered his captain a blazing torch. Five more torches were produced from the bag and were lit from the first. Castillo, Gottschalk, and the bishop and the three priests were given a torch.
In a hushed whisper, Castillo ordered, “We stay close, within arm’s reach of each other, and nobody gets lost,” before he could finish his sentence, the bishop and his men were off, shuffling down the cave’s path before the captain could even try to stop him. “Damn it!” cursed Castillo under his breath. He turned back to his men, “We will stay close. Lieutenant, you have the rear. I will lead,” Gottschalk nodded. The men rose, and filed between their leaders.
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