The Stone Bridge: The Devil's Bible

By Michael Bolan

The Rapture continues to wreak havoc across Europe in its quest to acquire the elemental Seals, the only thing preventing the Devil’s Bible from purging the world in fire. Brought to Prague by the Fianna, the Seals’ only protection lies in the secrecy that shrouds them.
Reinald, leader of the Rapture, enlists the world’s greatest minds to free the Devil’s Bible from the depths of Prague Castle, where it has languished under lock and key for centuries. Meanwhile, the plans of the Four Horsemen unfold, wreaking havoc and misery across the entire continent. 
Not content with forcing his siblings from their ancestral home, Reinald sends a vast army to harry and persecute them, forcing them to flee ever eastwards. Taking shelter with their friends, Willem, Leo and Isabella commit to one last act of bravery, making a final stand to defend the city of Prague. 
As each nation commits its final resources into the conflict, all roads lead to the Stone Bridge that divides Prague, where the Sons of Brabant and their Fianna allies will face the ultimate test of their strength.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bolan
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540136428

Michael Bolan

It took Michael Bolan over two decades of running in the corporate ratrace to realise that all he actually did was tell stories. There was no Damascene revelation for Bolan which caused him to pen his first work of fiction, "The Sons of Brabant". An avid reader, he simply felt that he could do as good a job as many of the authors he read and decided to put his money where his mouth was.  Living and working in many countries left him with smatterings of a dozen languages and their stories, and his love for history focused his ideas on the Thirty Years War, the most destructive conflict that the continent has ever seen.  Now living in Prague (for the second time), Michael brings alive the twisted alleys of the 17th century and recreates the brooding darkness of a fractured Europe, where no-one was entirely sure who was fighting whom. Michael writes while liberally soused in gin, a testament to Franz de le Boë, who was mixing oil of juniper with neat spirit while the thirty Years War raged around him.

Book preview

For Karina - the best part of any story…

The Stone Bridge

Copyright: Michael Bolan

[e-mail]

Published: 1st November, 2016

The right of Michael Bolan to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

Prologue

Verviers, Spanish Netherlands

No-one noticed the beggar as he approached the well, joining the predominantly female queue, sidling alongside women trading gossip as they waited to fill buckets for cooking, washing and cleaning. Everyone was aware of his presence — it was hard not to be; he stank. It wasn’t the sour odour of a hard-working man whose clothes needed a good washing, but the stercoraceous odour of putrefaction: half midden, half charnel house.

Instead the townsfolk averted their eyes. They found themselves deep in conversation with their friends, gossiped about goings-on around them, scanned the skies in an attempt to predict the weather. The last thing they did was look at the rag-clad beggar as he shambled forward, flies chasing the miasma that flowed behind him. They stared at anything other than his pox-ridden face with its open, weeping sores. As a result, they didn’t notice that he carried his leather drinking cup strangely, his hand clasped over the top as if to stop the contents from spilling.

The beggar shuffled forward, amazed at his good fortune. He felt better than he had for a long time, the pain from his various afflictions gone, replaced by a golden glow. He remembered his long-dead mother’s arms holding him and felt safe, protected. Whatever the stranger had had in his pipe was good, much better than the rank tabac he could normally scrounge.

The beggar hadn’t paid much attention to the stranger’s ramblings: he knew nothing of the Rapture and cared little for the Second Coming of Christ, he had joked, having missed the first one. As for the End of Days, he knew in his bones that his own days were already numbered. He coughed wetly, each hack deeper and harsher than the last, as if to echo his thoughts. Finally drawing breath, the beggar straightened his bowed back and resolved to seek out the stranger again — perhaps the dark man would be willing to part with more of his delightful yellowish powder. It had only taken a few puffs before the beggar was willing to do the man a favour, any favour.

And so he stumbled forward in the queue, his hands clasped around his drinking cup, another gift from the stranger. In it sloshed a pale-golden cloudy liquid, which seemed innocent enough. It didn’t smell too bad: slightly sweet, slightly sour, but with a warm wholesomeness akin to baker’s dough. He thought of drinking it himself — it would be his best meal for days — but was loath to risk getting more of the stranger’s powder to smoke. So he resolved to complete his mission. As he neared the well-side, he could feel his twitch getting worse. He muttered angrily to himself. Stop it! They will notice you! But nothing happened.

The Sanktquelle was the deepest of the city’s wells and therefore boasted the freshest, coolest water. It was always guarded. Were the Sanktquelle to become compromised in any way, it would leave the city without water. For several weeks, soldiers from the Rapture garrison had been assisting with this duty, insisting the militiamen focus their attention on more important tasks. The new guards were formidable, no longer the affable city militia, but hardened fighters, decked out in blood-red armour. Under normal circumstances, their gazes would have been enough to deter him, but he was anxious to be rid of his cargo, anxious to return to the shadows he inhabited.

At last it was his turn. A guard beckoned him forward while the well-man cranked the massive wheel, drawing up a large wooden bucket of fresh water. The soldier looked the beggar up and down, and then winked conspiratorially. The beggar smiled as he reached out for the lip of the bucket. He stumbled artfully and knocked the bucket sideways, splashing water over the guards. As he reeled away from the well, shoved by the angry guard, he dropped his drinking cup into the dark shaft of the well.

Ducking away from the ensuing kicks, the beggar retreated from the well, unaware that he had just sentenced thousands to an ugly death.

The Means and the End

Leuven, Spanish Netherlands

Willem and Leo scrambled their horses forward to catch their sister, Isabella, as her mount thundered along the south road out of their former home of Leuven. Neither brother uttered a word, still speechless with shock. Their elder brother, Reinald, not content with condemning them to a life of exile from the ducal seat, had just murdered one of their childhood tutors in front of their eyes, brutally slicing the old man’s throat, letting the blood spill over his hands to lie scarlet on the flagstones. Ferdinand van Boisschot had been a great diplomat, a trusted advisor, and a friend to their dead father, Duke Henry: he had not deserved such an end. He should have grown feeble in his bed, surrounded by loved ones, slipping into the night with grace and dignity, not mutilated in the dirt. Leo, the youngest scion of the House of Brabant, ground his teeth as he leaned closer to the saddle. This was just the latest in a long list of crimes for which Duke Reinald would someday have to answer.

To reach their home, a hidden base deep within the Ardenne hills, their path took them through the warren of army camps that had sprouted in the lee of the city’s walls. These training camps had produced thousands of Rapture soldiers, men who were sent to garrison towns and villages across the land, for reasons as yet unclear to those outside the higher echelons of the religious movement. Initially, this flow had been slow, gradually assuming control of territory across the Spanish Netherlands and parts of northern France, but as the movement had become stronger, more people had flocked to its banner. Now Rapture squadrons could be found almost as far as Paris or the heart of Germany; watching and waiting for the signal to move.

After a half-league of frantic gallop, Isabella slowed her mare to a gentle trot, allowing the winded beast to draw breath. As her brothers drew alongside, she turned her tear-streaked face to look at them, the morning sun highlighting the strange scarring that divided her face, a bitter memento of her encounter with the fire lake of Vulcan’s Forge.

Leo turned his head, taking in the military view. The meadows south of Leuven had become another town, a tent city populated with hard-looking folk, men and women alike, all drawn to the Rapture’s promise of succour in this life and guaranteed passage to the next. The denizens of the camps stared back at them as they trotted their well-fed mounts away from the city. The destruction of these meadows was a crime, but it paled into insignificance against Reinald’s most recent brutality.

What in Hell’s name? asked Leo, trying to process what had just happened.

Willem, the brooding leader of the mercenary company known as the Sons of Brabant, turned to glance at his younger brother. Not now, Leo. His brow furrowed as he saw Leo about to react. Look around. His tone brooked no objections. They know who we are. And they’re not exactly thrilled to see us. Word of their humiliation of Duke Reinald in the presence of King Louis of France had obviously spread throughout the denizens of the camp. Now the three were definitely travelling through hostile territory, something Isabella was well aware of.

Willem’s sister slowed her mare, turning to look along the road they had followed. Barely a quarter league behind them, a small party of horsemen was approaching at a gallop. Will, Leo, pursuit, she said, her confident voice at odds with her once-beautiful, now heavily-scarred face.

Her brothers brought their horses to a stop. Four men were closing rapidly. The leader carried a lance with the pennant of Brabant flapping in the breeze of his steed’s passage. Leo grunted as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. Time was when I would be pleased to see Father’s banner, he said. Now I don’t know if it means friend or foe.

Squinting northwards, Willem considered their options. The three were in the midst of the sprawling camp complex, surrounded by hundreds of potential enemies. He doubted their mounts would have sufficient strength to outrun their pursuers. We wait and see who they are and what they want. His right hand dropped to rest lightly on the hilt of his sword. But be ready for anything.

*****

Within minutes, their pursuers drew up, stopping directly in front of the three siblings. Their leader stepped his lance and dropped to the ground.

Well met, my Lords, my Lady. With your leave, might I suggest a change of direction?

Willem walked his horse forward until the roan’s chest almost touched the newcomer. He looked down at the man with a nagging sense of familiarity. That depends, sir. On who you are and why this change of direction might be in our best interests.

Threat hung in the air, but neither man moved.

The man’s moustache jiggled. Oh come now, Will. You know me, although I’d wager you never once got a good look at me in the dark all those years ago.

Willem stared, now certain that he did know this man. He was back in a dark alley in the tanners’ district of Leuven, passing an oilskin-wrapped bundle to a cloaked stranger in exchange for a small carved chest. On the numerous occasions these transactions had taken place, never once had Willem asked his mentor what was being exchanged, or who his counterpart was. Now it was the voice which betrayed the man, a grating dissonance which distorted every word, like two voices were competing for supremacy. De Rijk? You certainly have his voice.

The man nodded, seemingly pleased to have been remembered. Nigh on twenty years and you do remember. I’m flattered, my Lord.

Willem jumped from his horse and grasped the man’s hand. Well met. Now, what is this about a different course? He looked up at his siblings, itching to continue their flight, and held up a hand. It is well, Leo, Isabella. This is de Rijk, or at least, it seems to be.

My Lord Willem, interrupted the man. Time is short, you must away with me. Your brother has set many traps along your way. You will never reach your camp alive. He has offered a bounty of ten thousand gold for your head. De Rijk’s face dissolved into a cynical grin. You’re only worth half of that, he commented to Leo and Isabella, Five thou’ for each of you! What’s more, he has instructed the Comte de Wavre to assemble a force of two thousand and annihilate the Sons of Brabant, to kill you all and burn your camp to the ground!

Hell’s teeth! swore Leo. One gold coin could buy a farm; a bounty of twenty thousand would be enough to equip a small army. They paled at the thought of a military attack on their camp.

De Rijk pressed on. We need to head north, to the lands of the United Dutch. From there you can take ship the length of the Rhine and the Mosel to Trier, approaching your home from the southeast.

Willem shook his head. No. That will take weeks, months even. Time we don’t have, if what you say about Reinald’s attack on our home is true. I’m sorry, we’ll just have to risk Reinald’s ambushes — we must get back home and prepare our people for what is coming. He mounted his horse once more. But thank you for the warning.

De Rijk stood in front of Willem’s roan and grabbed its bridle. Mark me. If you continue on this road, you will never make it back to warn your people. Lastage has already sent messengers to the Wayfarer’s rest in Hirson. Their messages will reach camp way ahead of you. Trust your people in your absence. Besides, he added with a wry smile, your journey will be faster than you could ever imagine.

That’s as may be, but the answer is still no.

Lastage said you were pig-headed, grumbled de Rijk. He told me to tell you that the acorn never falls far from the oak tree. Said you’d understand. He let his hand fall from Willem’s horse and stood back, gazing upwards at the three.

Willem’s face fell. He nodded slowly, his face clouded. Very well, he agreed. We will follow you. He wheeled his mount to face his brother and sister. I will explain along the way. But we head north, not south, to take ship for home.

*****

Willem stared at the boat in amazement. If indeed, it even is a boat. His thoughts were scrambled. The vessel certainly enjoyed many of the characteristics of a water-going craft: wooden hull, sails, oarholes and the like, but there the similarity ended. There were two parallel hulls joined by spars, a planked deck straddling them like joists, with cargo netting at either end. Each hull was long and narrow, with a sharply pointed end. He had never seen anything like it. They look like javelins, he commented to the beaming captain, who nodded towards the bow.

Gilt letters were etched into the side of the nearmost hull, sparkling in the sunlight bouncing off the water. The Twin Spears, the inscription read. The captain’s expression brightened further, his chest swelling. "You have a good eye, m’Lord. The Spears be at your service." He offered a florid bow.

As Isabella’s gaze darted through the shadows, Leo stepped forward, a childish grin splitting his chiselled face, I bet she’s fast! he blurted, eager to get aboard their transport.

The captain nodded sagely. Oh aye, she is that, m’Lord! he said, before raising a cautionary finger. And she turns on a florin, too, so we can avoid pretty much anything afloat. His face dropped slightly as he added, But I’ve sailed more comfortable scows. Be warned, she rides like a spavined nag! His comments were met with grunts of affirmation from the crewmembers bustling around them. Now come aboard — we leave in a few minutes.

The three siblings strode across the boarding plank and stowed their bags aft on the cargo netting, tying them securely. Isabella looked up at her brothers as she tied her pack down with one final knot, Shame about the horses, she remarked.

Willem looked down at the woman in front of him. His sister had endured so much, tortured and burned horribly, but her empathy for animals was undiminished. We’ll get new mounts beyond Trier, when we leave the river for home.

Isabella nodded. I know, but we seem to do nothing but part company from our friends, both men and beasts. Her regrown hair hung in a sad semblance of its previous glory. Don’t listen to me, Will. I’m just tired of this. Her voice dropped. And I miss Conor.

Willem dropped to a hunker, and lifted his sister’s chin. You needn’t worry about him, he quipped, it’s the Empire that I’m concerned for!

Isabella looked into her brother’s dark eyes, drinking in his quiet confidence. You’re right. She pushed herself to her feet so that Willem couldn’t see the concern in her eyes. An ill-feeling told her that all was not well with her lover and his friends on their journey back to Prague.

*****

Their captain had been true to his word; the strange craft hurtled southwards along the broad Rhein, skimming the water’s surface like a well-cast stone. He didn’t lie about the discomfort either, thought Isabella as she jolted into the mast for the hundredth time. Their speed lent her confidence. The captain’s claim that they would pass Trier late the following morning no longer seemed ridiculous. The brute had promised not to sleep until then, and as she clutched her heaving stomach, she understood why. Sleep was a physical impossibility as the captain veered the boat from one side of the river to the other, somehow capturing the breeze in both directions.

It had taken but a few hours to leave the salt water of the Hollandse Diep, negotiate the sluggish Waal and enter the Rhein itself, breezing through the border region where the Spanish Netherlands became the Holy Roman Empire. They had smashed through the river barricades of Koln, at one point flying clear of the water as the captain ran the vessel’s shallow draft up the oil-slick beams of the weirs. Before pursuit could be scrambled, they were long gone, leaving rivermen scratching their heads at the nature of their craft.

As night fell, they entered the mouth of the Mosel, weaving their way towards the Bishopric of Trier and beyond it, Luxemburg. From there, it was but a couple of days ride to their Ardenne camp.

Had it not been for the violent course of their boat, Isabella might have relaxed.

*****

There was no warning, no time to prepare. One instant, their vessel was flying along the Mosel valley, making the most of the swirling gusts that dropped down into the winding river valley, and the next it was airborne. They had left the water several times on their journey, but this was different; it was as if the bow had struck a giant unseen rock. The front of the craft dipped deep into the water, while the rear arced upwards in a steep curve, flipping over like a tossed coin. The force of the impact smashed the light craft into several pieces, baggage and bodies spilling everywhere.

Isabella and her brothers had been dozing fitfully, the rigours of their flight finally outweighing their discomfort, when the boat had crashed. They were flung high into the air, still tangled in the netting where they had burrowed to hold themselves in place. Their bodies, and those of the crew, splashed into the water like stones, the speed of their passage driving them deep under the surface.

Although most of their townsfolk could not swim, Isabella and her three brothers had grown up splashing in their father’s ornamental lake. Duke Henry had had the lake created to indulge his pastime of fishing, but the children had co-opted it as their private swimming pool. As a result, three boisterous boys and one headstrong girl had learned to swim like the Duke’s prized trout.

Yards beneath the river’s surface, Isabella felt her body slow and her sinking stop. Without hesitation, she struck for the surface, cursing the drag of her wet clothing, thankful that she was not wearing a dress and stomacher. Her head broke the surface and she drew air into her straining lungs. The river was dotted with flotsam and she saw a few heads bobbing as the sailors struggled to find purchase on anything floating.

Will! Leo! she screamed, swinging her head from side to side.

Over here! Willem swam towards her with sure strokes.

Isabella grabbed a floating spar, using its buoyancy to support her tired frame. As her brother approached, she cried insistently, And Leo? Where’s Leo?

Her calls met with no answer. Will, she shouted, he’s not here! Her brother reached the spar she was holding, his face pained. Are you well? she asked, noting the blood streaming down the side of his head.

I’m cut, he responded through clenched teeth, but I’ll live. Where’s Leo?

Isabella stared at him, frustration and terror amplifying her voice. God’s teeth, Will. Do you ever listen? He’s not here. I’m going to look for him.

Willem could only stare in horror as she let go of their float and dropped beneath the inky surface.

*****

Dropping into the depths of the Mosel dredged inappropriate memories from the recesses of her mind. As a young lady, Isabella had visited Constantinople with her father. Much of Leuven’s wealth came from the spices which were brought from the edge of the world along the Silk Road to Christendom, arriving at the great docks of the Ottoman capital.

Her father, sensing the opportunity to cement his city’s position as a major trading hub, had decided to take control of the transport of the precious cargos at source. He had taken Isabella to show her the palaces of the Turks, and the great beauty of Islamic art. He hadn’t reckoned on her appreciating the beauty of the Sultan’s grandsons, one of whom had taken her to the cisterns beneath the city to swim. After the pair had stripped off and splashed giggling into the water, the young prince had extinguished his torch, plunging the pair of them into absolute darkness.

To Isabella, diving into the black waters was the most intense experience; robbed entirely of one sense, she had felt her others burst into life. She could hear like a bat and smell like a bloodhound, and when he had touched her…

Angrily forcing herself to concentrate, she tried to envision the direction of the boat’s travel and struck smoothly downwards in the pitch darkness, aiming for where she thought the largest remnants might be, praying that the sluggish current would not have caused the boat to drift far.

She reached the riverbed after moments, her fingers brushing through silt and weeds. Still watching her progress in her mind’s eye, she shifted course and swam along the bottom for a dozen strokes, before turning around and coming back, trusting the movement of the current to shape her search into a rough grid pattern. After four sweeps of where she thought the boat must be, she was desperate for air and forced herself up to fill her empty lungs. Turning tail like a duck, she dropped back to the riverbed and swam straight into a wooden beam.

Trying not to breathe out as she weathered the pain in her forehead from the collision, she reached out her hands to feel the shape of what she had struck. Realising she had found the remnants of their boat, she felt her way along the spar to where the deck had been. Her fingers ran over chests, packs and small barrels in a frantic search for Leo. Her hands brushed a human limb, cold and unmoving, and she jerked her hand back as if burned. Overcoming her fear, she followed the leg to the rest of the body and felt a waxed jerkin, the likes of which the sailors had worn.

Damn you Leo! Where are you? she thought, abandoning the body and moving further along the deck. The sleeve of her leather jacket snagged on something and she used her free hand to release it. Grasping what had caught her, she felt a sharp blade slice cleanly into the palm of her hand. She gasped in pain, losing bubbles of precious air. Wary now, she traced the line of the blade to find it grasped loosely in the massive hand of what could only be her brother.

Her hands scurried up to his face. His long locks floated like riverweed in the current. There was no reaction, no sign of life whatsoever. By her reckoning, he had been underwater for minutes. Her brother was dead.

*****

Loath to leave Leo, but bursting for breath, Isabella kicked for the surface. Her mouth was already open when she breached, sucking in air like the bellows in Marchena’s forge. Within seconds she was spearing downwards once more. It took her a few moments to relocate the boat and its tragic cargo, but she soon had her brother’s giant frame in her arms. Using the wooden deck for purchase, she struggled to push herself upwards with her burden. Leo’s body rose slowly and then stopped, snagged on the netting.

Cursing the world, she tugged fruitlessly for a moment before she remembered cutting her hand. Reaching down Leo’s arm, she found his shortsword still bound to his hand by its wrist strap. Good for you Leo, she thought, grabbing the blade and using its razor edge to slice through the netting. Freed of its bindings, Leo’s body rose easily with her kicks.

When she surfaced, she couldn’t call out immediately, her protesting lungs taking priority. Breath back in her body, she screamed, Will!

The answering