the Church has hunted for these items, the most deliberate effort carried out by the Templars in the Crusades, invading the Middle East. Others have brought them to the Church, some out of goodness to see right done, others for political favor or financial gain.”
“Why have I not heard of this room before?”
“The best way to keep a secret is for few to know it,” Clement said. “In this case, the Cardinal Archivist also possesses the knowledge, in case of a pontiff’s sudden death.”
The Pope went to the wall of weapons. With a steady hand he reached up and carefully removed a sword, the blade shining like chrome in sunlight. It was a long broadsword, its hilt thick, golden, and slightly curved toward the tip, the double-handed grip wrapped in silver wire. The pommel glimmered gold, the disk bearing the image of an oak leaf. It was a simple piece of craftsmanship but it radiated beauty and might. Holding it upright to catch the torchlight, Clement looked it over from tip to end, admiring what he held.
“Here is Durendal,” Clement said.
“It’s a work of art.”
“It was once the weapon of Roland, a captain of Charlemagne, slaughtered in the battle of Ronceveux Pass. Legend recounts Durendal once belonged to Hector of Troy, reforged from his sword after his death at the hands of Achilles, but that has never been proven. It is a powerful weapon, unbreakable, enchanted by several Saints. It should aid us at this time of need.”
“Ahh yes, I know of it. Didn’t that sword vanish…into a river?”
“Poisoned stream,” Clement corrected. “And yes, it disappeared from the sight of man. Roland tried to destroy it, but when he failed he had to hide it from his enemies. As with many things lost, it was found—and eventually brought here.”
Cormac nodded. “We are arming ourselves then?”
“Indeed. The knights are equipped with powerful talismans. Philip Plantagenet has the power of the Grail at his command and who knows what else. Even most of the fey creatures of Annwn possess magic. The only chance the Basilica has of withstanding what marches toward it is to even the odds.” “You know the potential of each relic here?”
Clement pointed at a lone book sitting on a pedestal near the door that Cormac had missed. “The Exsequiae Codex. All of the relics here have been documented.”
“I assume you are showing me the Vault to equip me as well?” Cormac asked.
Clement found an oiled belt with a scabbard, and after tightening it about his waist he sheathed Durendal. He then pulled down a dark gray broadsword from its placement on the wall, its metal glistening like a darkened rainbow. It was longer than Durendal, longer than Cormac’s legs even, but Clement held it as if it were light as a feather. The blade was the opposite of the one Clement carried on his belt; the entire sword appeared to be iron, its hilt wide jagged blades like sharp thorns, its pommel a dagger-like diamond, the weapon absorbing the light and reflecting none.
He handed the sword to Cormac, hilt first, all too carefully.
“This is Hrunting.”
“Hrunting…?” Cormac asked, unable to remember where he had heard it before.
“Yes, Hrunting. The Demon-nail.”
“It can’t be,” the Cardinal Vicar whispered. “That’s fiction!”
“Fiction to whom?” the Pope asked. “Those who lacked the ability to document the story originally as history? Oral traditions are corruptible; they can become history or tale quite easily. Beowulf was real. Hrunting is real. It is one of the oldest relics to have been brought to the Vatican. Roman Catholic monks recovered it in Northumbria, sometime in the eighth century I believe, and they brought it to Rome. Hrunting can slice through stone. No one knows how it does this, nor how its iron can be stronger than steel.” Clement paused, prepared to release the sword. “Take it, now.”
Cormac took the blade. Hrunting was as light as a feather but he almost dropped it anyway. A tingling immediately traveled into his hand and up his arm, a throbbing like his entire limb had fallen asleep. The feeling passed after seconds, but heat continued to emanate from the hilt.
Cormac tightened his grip. He did not want to drop it.
“None of my predecessors know what that feeling in your hand is,” Clement commented. He handed Cormac a belt and sheathe. “But it matters not. Hrunting is powerful. It will keep you safe for what comes.”
“I like the sound of that, Your Eminence,” Cormac said, a bit sarcastically.
“This room must remain protected.”
“It will