Isle of Swords by Wayne Thomas Batson

the crew of the William Wallace prepared to sail. On the shore of St. Celestine under a moonless sky, Declan Ross said his farewells to the monks. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Ross asked. “I’ve already got one of you aboard. I’m dead anyway. Might as well take you all.”
    Father Valentia laughed quietly, but it was such a strange, humorless sound that it gave Ross the chills. “Should Thorne come to our island,” said the monk, “we will remain hidden in the tunnels beneath the abbey. When he has gone, we will emerge and preserve our order.”
    Ross was quiet for a long while, then he casually strode up the gangplank. “Mister Stede, nor-noreast, please.”
    â€œAye, Cap’n!” Stede replied. “Nor-noreast!”
    Ross would never forget that moment, drifting away. All the monks of the order of St. Celestine remained there on the shore. He could still see their faces in the light of their lanterns. Facing Thorne meant facing torture and death. Few survived his wrath. But they were not afraid. Ross respected that. Not knowing what else to do, he took off his hat and watched until the holy island was devoured by darkness.

    From the second-floor balcony of the monastery, Father Valentia watched the dark ships arrive. How many there were, he could not accurately tell. More than a dozen, certainly—more than enough. He watched the tall ships moor offshore and saw them drop launches and cutters into the water.
    He lingered a moment looking out over the orchards, the gardens, and the vineyards that had been his love—all things green and growing.
    â€œFather Valentia?” came a hushed voice from the hall. “It is time.” It was Father Gregory, a best friend, a true saint.
    Father Valentia looked up and smiled. He joined the other monks in the hall. They traveled down the stairs and into the sanctuary. Usually lit by the dancing flames of hundreds of candles, the sanctuary was now shrouded in shadows. The Brothers of St. Celestine gathered there, standing in a wide circle around an enormous mural of the cross inscribed on the floor tiles. Father Valentia moved to the precise middle of the cross and nodded. Four monks stepped forward from the circle. Each walked to one of the four ends of the cross mural. As each man stepped onto the painted tile, there was a faint scraping sound, like stone sliding on stone. The tiles where each of the four monks stood dropped downward an inch.
    At that moment, a circular outline appeared around Father Valentia’s feet. The hidden platform slowly began to drop below the level of the floor. In a few seconds, Father Valentia was safely in the catacombs beneath the monastery. There, he stepped off the platform and held down the trigger bar that protruded from the wall. This time, the platform rose up past the sanctuary floor. Beneath the circular platform was a wrought-iron spiral staircase. The monks descended the staircase one by one, and when the last one went down Father Valentia let up on the trigger bar. The sanctuary floor returned to normal.
    Father Valentia turned to the other monks, his flock, and said, “Father Gregory will lead you to the hidden catacombs—where you will remain until the threat is gone.”
    As Father Valentia followed behind them, he thought about their elaborate hiding place. Even if Thorne and his pirates entered the sanctuary and discovered the platform, they would never recognize the four pressure plates needed to trigger its movement. Only the monks knew of the catacombs. Maybe we will survive Thorne’s attack, he thought.

    Long white hair and sideburns like silver daggers running down his sunken cheeks made Bartholomew Thorne look like a ghostly apparition as he stood in the center of the sanctuary. His brow bristled and hooded his cold eyes in shadow. He’d sent five hundred men to search the monastery. Scout after scout returned, but no sign of