Síntesis de ABS por un proceso en masa-masa

Jürgen sat at one of the few undamaged writing desks, carving a crude sketch of the monastery into the wood with a knife. His knights stood around him, some watching the cracks in the walls, others watching the door. Václav and Thomas were out searching the mon- astery—since only the two of them and Jürgen had seen the foul mist rise up from the monster’s corpse, Jürgen guessed that Thomas had learned the gifts of percep- tion from his mistress and could therefore ferret out any remaining monks hiding in the corners.

Jürgen doubted that the place would have held any more, though. Many had died in the fighting, but despite the fact that these Obertus seemed quite willing to pick up swords, they were poor warriors. Most of them lay about the room, bound and gagged, eyes bulging with fear. Jürgen had ordered his knights to drag the corpses outside—three brothers who had sloughed off some of their flesh to escape their bonds joined the monks who died in battle, the two he had fed upon and the once-human monstrosity. One of those monks had actually fled as far as the doorway before a knight tack- led him. Jürgen simply drained those monks white; he would need every drop of blood his body would hold.

The monastery was large, but not vast, and he didn’t think that it housed catacombs. That meant that there had to be an entrance to the room on the other side of that wall. In that room waited Nikita of Sredetz, and Jürgen intended to take his head.

The trouble was, he didn’t have enough time. Day- break was coming. He could sleep here for the day, guarded by his knights, and attack come the following sunset, but he wanted to be sure of where his foe slept, first. Now, he could only wait for news, and plan.

He stood and paced the room, looking over his men. Some of them were wounded; two had died in battle. He turned to a young knight named Friederich. “Do you have the chalice?”

Every knight in the room glanced up. Friederich nodded, and took a silver cup from a pouch at his side. Jürgen took the chalice in his right hand and bit open his left wrist, and then bled into the cup until it was almost full. He looked around the room again; he would have to refill the cup at least twice before all of the knights could drink, but it would be well worth it to have strong, loyal, alert troops at his command. He raised the chalice and looked around the room, meet- ing each knight’s eyes in turn.

“You have each sworn to stand under the Black Cross, to fight against the enemies of God, to bring His Holy Word to those who have not heard it. You have seen what lies beyond the light, what your fellows in the Order of the Teutons are not prepared to behold. You have taken your drink from me and you have been judged worthy to fight this crusade, for as long as the night lasts.

“I have sworn to give you strength and guidance, and so I have. I have sworn to lead you to glory, and so I shall. Marvel not at the horrors you have seen here tonight or will before another sunset, for you have the strength you need to defeat them. Your souls are made pure by God.” He handed the chalice to Friederich. “And I, Jürgen the Sword-Bearer, I make your hearts strong by my blood.”

The knights passed the chalice, and the wounded among them drank deeply. By time it was over, four more monks lay dead and drained at the door, but all of the knights could stand and walk, Jürgen’s blood knitting flesh and resetting bones in moments. All of the knights looked upon Jürgen with devotion, and although the dawn was upon him, Jürgen was not tired.

“Blasphemy,” came a hoarse whisper. One of the monks had worked his gag loose. Jürgen rounded on him and picked him up by the throat.

“You, heretic, dare to accuse me of blasphemy?” “I know no heresy,” the monk hissed. He was speaking Latin, but his accent wasn’t local. It was Greek. Jürgen re- alized that many of these monks must have traveled here after the fall of Byzantium. “I follow the rule—”

Jürgen’s grip on his throat tightened. “Where is your master?”

“I do not know.” Jürgen wasn’t surprised; most Cainites kept their havens secret from even their most trusted servants. The man’s face began to turn purple from the pressure, and Jürgen dropped him. The monk lay there on the floor gasping like a fish, his reddened face changing to a more healthy hue.

Healthy?

Jürgen looked around to the other prisoners. All of them were healthy-looking. None of them had the hag- gard, sallow look of mortals in habit of giving up their blood for Cainites.

And yet, he had seen no evidence of travelers, nor had any of his knights reported it. So upon whom was Nikita feeding?

Jürgen snatched the monk off the floor again. “Does he feed on you?”

The monk looked confused, and then frightened. He started babbling in a language Jürgen did not un- derstand. Jürgen locked eyes with the man and bared his fangs. “Talk, worm. Does he feed on you or your brothers?”

“No,” whispered the monk. The knights looked on with interest.

“Who, then? Travelers? Hunters?” “No,” he stammered. “Cainites.”

Although he had been expecting this answer, the horror of an elder who fed only on the blood of vam- pires stunned Jürgen. “Where do these Cainites come from?”

“He… calls them here. They all arrive wearing the robes of the Church, but they do not leave. He does not tell us who they are. He simply lets us go on about our business. He does not even see us, except for when we pray. He is beyond us, exalted, he does not—”

Jürgen dropped him and nodded to one of the knights. “Gag him. Tightly, this time.” He sat back down at the desk. Suddenly the impending dawn seemed only moments away, and sleep tugged at Jürgen’s heart. He

felt the fire in the room grow warmer, and the heat felt uncomfortable; he longed for the chill of death that the day-sleep granted. His Beast yawned loudly, demand- ing that he sleep, trying to force his mind to shut down, to die for a few short hours.

Jürgen could not allow it.

He stood and strode towards the door. One of the knights called after him; he ignored the voice. He lis- tened in the hall, heard footsteps, and walked towards them, carefully stepping around the beam of sunlight now coming in the main door.

He heard a sound like a peddler’s sack being dropped from a wagon. Sleep had apparently claimed his childe for the day.

Jürgen rounded a corner and saw Thomas standing over Václav’s inert body. The knight looked helplessly at Jürgen. He brushed Thomas aside and raised Václav’s head, slapping his face lightly. He received no response. Grunting in frustration, Jürgen bit into his finger and smeared the blood across his childe’s lips. Václav’s eyes flew open and then fluttered. “Stay awake,” Jürgen growled.

“My… lord,” said Václav slowly. “We have found the entrance, I think.” Jürgen looked behind him and saw that they had smudged a section of the wall with ash. The entrance was there, blocked so that only a Cainite of superlative strength could open it.

“We must attack. Now. We cannot allow Nikita to survive until sunset.” He waved at Thomas. “Fetch the others. Bring them all here; leave Friederich behind to guard the monks. Go!”

Thomas fled down the hallway. Jürgen helped Václav to his feet. “But, my lord, how can we fight dur- ing the day?”

Jürgen glanced at the wall, listened, and heard nothing. “I think that Nikita will have a much more difficult time functioning while the sun is high than I will, or even you. And that is why we must face him now.”

“He feeds only on Cainites, Václav. The Thirst of Caine has taken him.” Václav’s eyes grew wide. “Yes,” said Jürgen, shaking his head. “That is why Dieter es- caped. He has grown so old, so far from the world of man, that he doesn’t even see mortals anymore, except those who know how to attract his attention. Had I known, I would have brought not only Jervais on this trip but Christof as well. But there’s nothing for it now. We must fight by day.”

“But my lord, if we fight by day, when we are so weak—”

“Then how much weaker must an ancient be, one who commits the sin of diablerie on his own kind, one who manipulates God’s Church, a traitor? During the day, the Beast holds sway over him completely, and dur- ing the day, the Beast wants nothing but slumber.” Jürgen heard footsteps approaching and stared at the door. “We will take his head while he fumbles with con- sciousness.”

Jürgen’s Beast began to speak, but then shied away. Jürgen stood and pulled Václav to his feet. He stared at the door, still tired, but unflinching. The knights came down the hallway towards them, and Jürgen set them to the task of moving the stone. He watched as the wall began to give, then crack, and finally fell inward in a heap of rubble.

Jürgen threw a torch into the room, but could see nothing but stone and dust.

“Here, then, is the lion who called the animals to him to pay him respect,” murmured Jürgen. “But you will not add my dust to your parlor, nor my soul to your memories.” He drew his sword and stood straight, the distant sun irrelevant, a minor nuisance. He stepped through the fissure in the wall to meet the Archbishop of Nod.