Free The Man of Bronze by James Alan Gardner Page B

gates of hell . . . immanentize the eschaton . . .”
    He stared at me blankly. I said, “It means bringing about the end of the world.”
    “No, Lara, these people are all right. They’re the good guys. Really.”
    I rolled my eyes but said nothing. Reuben had always been too trusting. Finally, I asked, “What were you doing for them?”
    “Just research. Investigating rumors about bronze statuary.”
    “What type of bronze statuary?”
    “Umm. Er. Oh, here’s our turnoff. Turn left down that track.”
    Reuben refused to say more. I was too busy driving to argue. The road was light gravel covered with three inches of snow; any moment, I expected the Accord to get stuck in some hollow where the snow had built up too deep. I had precious little room to maneuver around any blockages: snow-hung pine trees crowded on either side, stretching their branches above us. It seemed as if we were driving down a white-lined tunnel into a black unknown. If I hadn’t been worried about Reuben’s bullet wounds, I might have turned around and gone back . . . but my friend needed treatment, and St. Bernward’s Monastery—the Order of Bronze—was the closest place to find clean bandages.
    Besides, I wanted to meet these people: to get a feel of who they were. If the Order of Bronze were Satanists or lunatics, I might have to take drastic action to free Reuben from their clutches.
    For twenty minutes we drove through the dark. Our Accord bounced over rocks and potholes hidden under the snow, but sounds seemed eerily muted. The snow subdued every whisper . . . even the car’s engine. Once, we came to a stretch where the road ran along the shore of a jet-black lake. The water steamed, unfrozen despite the cold—most likely because of underground hot springs—but I couldn’t help picturing dark creatures lurking below the surface, ready to grab us as we drove past. I was relieved when we plunged safely in among the trees again . . . then immediately grew angry with myself for indulging in ridiculous fantasies. Usually, I know better than to unnerve myself with pointless imaginings; but there was something about the landscape, the silence, the brooding solitude . . .
    I was glad when we broke out of the forest and saw our destination.
    The monastery sprawled gloomily atop a low hill. It showed no lights—not a single candle—so the only illumination came from the few stars not obscured by clouds. Fields had been cleared in a wide ring around the monastery’s stone walls, but the Accord’s headlights picked out nothing but stunted weeds poking through the snow. I suspected the open area wasn’t for farming crops; it served as a no-man’s-land—a zone with no cover—so intruders couldn’t approach the central complex without being seen. Who knew what weapons were trained on our car as we climbed slowly up the rise?
    The stone walls, topped with an abundance of razor wire, blocked all view of what lay beyond. When we reached the gates—two slabs of steel more suited to a military bunker than a harmless religious retreat—Reuben said, “Get out of the car. And, uhh . . . maybe you better take off your guns.”
    I sighed. It wasn’t an unprecedented request—I’ve visited numerous religious institutions, and the doorkeepers almost always demand I leave my weapons outside. For some reason, they believe firearms are out of place in “retreats of peace and solemnity.” However, it’s one thing to disarm oneself while visiting the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Dalai Lama; it’s quite another to drop one’s guns at the door of an obscure cadre of possible demon worshippers. The Dalai Lama wouldn’t try to cut me open and devour my liver. With the Order of Bronze, I wasn’t so sure.
    Grumbling, I left my guns in the car. Reuben was already stumbling toward the gates. He was trying to hold up his hands like a hostage at a bank robbery—obviously to show any watchers how harmless he was—but he didn’t have the strength