Timeline - Michael Crichton [122]
She heard soldiers below, shouting and running into the chapel. It would not be long before they were shooting arrows at her.
She tried to swing her left leg up. The more she could distribute her weight, the better off she would be. She got the leg up; the ceiling held. Twisting her torso, she pulled her body up onto the shelf, then brought her second leg up. The first of the arrows whistled past her; others thunked against the stone, raising little white puffs. She was lying flat on top of the roof.
But she could not stay here. She rolled away from the edge, toward the groin line. As she did, more stones broke away and fell.
The soldiers stopped shouting. Maybe the falling stones had hit one of them, she thought. But no: she heard them running hastily out of the church. She heard men outside, shouting, and horses whinnying.
What was going on?
:
Inside the tower room, Chris heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Then the soldiers outside paused and shouted through the door—calling to the guard inside the room.
Meanwhile, Marek was searching like a madman. He was on his knees, looking under the bed. “Got it!” he cried. He scrambled to his feet, holding a broadsword and a long dagger. He tossed the dagger to Chris.
Outside, the soldiers were again shouting to the guard inside. Marek moved toward the door and gestured for Chris to step to the other side.
Chris pressed back flat against the wall by the door. He heard the voices of the men outside—many voices. His heart began to pound. He had been shocked by the way Marek killed the guard.
They’re coming to kill you.
He heard the words repeated over and over in his head, with a sense of unreality. It didn’t seem possible that armed men were coming to kill him.
In the comfort of the library, he had read accounts of past violent acts, murder and slaughter. He had read descriptions of streets slippery with blood, soldiers soaked in red from head to foot, women and children eviscerated despite their piteous pleas. But somehow, Chris had always assumed these stories were exaggerated, overstated. Within the university, it was the fashion to interpret documents ironically, to talk about the naïveté of narrative, the context of text, the privileging of power. . .. Such theoretical posturing turned history into a clever intellectual game. Chris was good at the game, but playing it, he had somehow lost track of a more straightforward reality—that the old texts recounted horrific stories and violent episodes that were all too often true. He had lost track of the fact that he was reading history.
Until now, when it was forcibly brought to his attention.
The key turned in the lock.
On the other side of the door, Marek’s face was fixed in a snarl, his lips drawn back, showing teeth clenched. He was like an animal, Chris thought. Marek’s body was taut as he gripped his sword, ready to swing. Ready to kill.
The door pushed open, momentarily blocking Chris’s view. But he saw Marek swing high, and he heard a scream, and a huge gush of blood splashed onto the floor, and a body fell soon after.
The door banged against his body, stopping its full swing and pinning Chris behind it. On the other side a man slammed against it, then gasped as a sword splintered wood. Chris tried to get out from behind the door but another body fell, blocking his way.
He stepped over the body, and the door thunked flat against the wall as Marek swung at another attacker, and a third soldier staggered away with the impact and fell to the floor at Chris’s feet. The soldier’s torso was drenched in blood; blood gurgled out of his chest like a flowing spring. Chris bent down to take the sword still in the man’s hand. As he pulled at the sword, the man gripped it tightly, grimacing at Chris. Abruptly, the soldier weakened and released the sword, so that Chris staggered back against the wall.
The man continued to stare at him from the floor. His face contorted in a grimace of fury—and