"Leon! Tres!" Abel exclaimed.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Bungler," replied Father Leon Garcia, waving his fingers. "The truth is, we intended to come sooner, but it took a little time to dry my clothes."
"I recommend saving unnecessary conversation for later, Dandelion," interrupted Tres in a hardened voice. As he intimidated the soldiers with his machine gun, the short priest stared unemotionally at the giant. "In the current situation, His Holiness' security and rescue are our first priority."
"I know that. Really—interfering with a person being cool..." Leon glared sideways at Father Tres Iqus' masklike face, but he obeyed what Tres had said. Haphazardly picking up his comrade from the floor, Leon jutted his jaw at the boy Pope, who was still unconscious. "Abel, you take care of His Holiness. Escape outside the city before us. The gunman and I somehow will take care of the missile."
As he struggled to stand, Abel spoke desperately: "P-please wait a minute. That . . . I'll get that... Vaclav."
"You're no use in that shape. Regardless of whether you say you're okay, I won't listen," said Leon. He tried to reject his comrade's request, but Leon couldn't help but notice that Abel's eyes beneath his glasses were unusually serious. Shrugging, Leon said, "All right. You can return to the castle. The gunman and I—"
"I'm your opponent, hairball!" shouted Philippe like a deep, dark voice echoing from hell. His lips twisted in anger as he finally pulled the chakram out of his hand. "Interfering with me, not once but twice! I'm infuriated!"
Addressing his comrade, who'd hefted his gun, Dandelion broke out in an unholy smile. "Hey, Tres, don't interfere. I'll be this idiot's opponent," said Leon. "This time won't go like yesterday. Get ready, because I'm going to broil you, you round eel!"
"You can't move from here!" Havel scolded the officers trying to leave the underground hall in a sharp voice. Softening his tone slightly, he expounded on his explanation. "As long as the Vatican doesn't dispose of this missile, they can't move their army. Because of that, they're trying to lure you to the surface and attack underground when we're short-handed. Therefore—"
"Get out of the way, Havel!" bellowed an irritated officer who also held the title of baron. "Our relatives are going to the cathedral. Are you telling us to allow our families to be killed before our eyes?"
"I'm not saying that—I'm simply telling you to avoid doing anything stupid that might help them with their plan," Havel replied.
"Stupid? Are you, with the social standing of a commoner, calling us stupid?" the baron shouted angrily, his face turning bright red.
The officers of the Neue Vatican army chiefly consisted of second and third sons of common lords in the area around Bohemia. To them, it was an unpleasant experience to be ordered around by anyone, but there was nothing worse than being ordered around by an unknown priest of doubtful origin.
"No matter what you say, we're going to the cathedral! Cowards can stay here!" proclaimed the officer. After the baron rebuked Havel, he led the officers out of the underground hall.
Watching them leave, Havel's shoulders slumped powerlessly. "It's over . . ."
The missile's ominous silhouette towered overhead toward the dark ceiling. Havel was certain that as long as he had the missile, the Vatican wouldn't be able to lay a hand on Brno. No matter how bad the situation got, if they just protected this abominable thing, they couldn't be beaten. If they bought time above ground and kept the alignment of the surrounding lords, they could amass enough strength in this castle to hold out against Rome. Where those of true faith gathered was the real dwelling of God—but that notion already seemed to be fading like a dream.
"Aren't you going?" asked Havel, dropping his eyes to the ground. He noticed there were people other than himself in the hall. Dozens of boy soldiers wearing shabby clothing glared at the priest as if they wanted to complain.
"Why are you lingering? The Bureau of Inquisition will attack here soon. Escape quickly!" urged Havel.
"I-if you're staying behind, Father, we'll stay, too," announced the boy carrying a machine gun, speaking on behalf of his companions.
"Father, we're staying with you. We won't lose—even without those nobles," said a boy.
"Yeah. We didn't come with the nobles. We came here because you were here, Father," said another boy.
"We can't run away and abandon you now, Father," said another.
Surveying the boys talking to one another in strong rustic accents, Havel sighed. In the end, he hadn't been able to do anything for them. On the contrary, he'd dragged the beloved children into a predicament. He knew he'd be the first one to be judged for this incident. "Everybody, please listen . . ." Suppressing what was swelling up in his heart, Havel stopped speaking. He regarded each of the boy's faces and said solemnly, "We will lose."
The sound of gasps reverberated throughout the dark hall.
The priest continued delivering his speech to the boys who grew stiffer with each incomprehensible word. "The Bureau of Inquisition will come here soon to dismantle this bomb. When that's finished, the siege army will invade. The outcome already is decided."
The boys shouted with beseeching eyes as though they were infuriated that a deal had been broken.
"B-but, Father!" exclaimed a boy.
"Father, didn't you say that the righteous can't lose—that God will be our ally if we do the right thing? Was that a lie?" said another boy.
The one-armed priest, still downcast, bit his lip. "Blessed are the poor" were the words he'd shared with them before. He'd taught them that regardless of whether you're poor or weak, you should do the right thing because God is always watching—and this was the result. What could he say to them now, when it was too late? Should he encourage them—or apologize? There was only one thing he could say now.
"That's a lie," said Havel, ignoring the boys' faces, which looked more stunned with every word he uttered. "There is no God. We will lose—and when we lose, we'll be captured by the church army or killed. If you want to survive, you must run away."
Taking the hand of one of the boys, the priest placed a small metal object into the boy's palm and made a fist around the boy's hand. "This is the key to the storehouse. If you take food and goods and run away, you shouldn't find yourself in trouble for a while. During that time, please find a tranquil place."
"You liar!" jeered one of the boys as hot tears trickled down his face.
"You deceived us, you fake priest! You lied to us and made us do what you said!" shouted another boy.
Havel took their abuse silently without bothering to wipe the spit from his cheek. His eyes devoid of emotion, he fended off stares burning with anger.
"Let's go, everybody. Who wants to die in a place like this?" asked the boy with the machine gun. Taking their cue from the boy leader who'd turned on his heel, the other boys followed, running as fast as they could, hurling slander at Havel on their way out.
"This is good," Havel lamented in a whisper. Now, the boys would escape the city or choose to throw down their weapons and surrender. But it would take at least a few hours for them and the citizens who heard their story to escape safely. If the church army began attacking during that time, everything would be over. Havel had to buy time by any means. But can I buy time now? he wondered to himself. Because there had been a commotion in the cathedral, the Bureau of Inquisition surely had already moved. With my body missing its right arm, and being unable to use the trump card and the invisibility camouflage, how in the world can I buy time? Havel simply had to do it. He was the one who had caused the incident earlier in the day, so it was the only way.
Suddenly, a quiet voice echoed as if speaking out into the nighttime forest. "They say God ordered us thus: 'My people, conquer, attack, and destroy any heretics.'"
Havel hadn't seen the slender woman whose shadow stood in the doorway appear.