He had caught only a glimpse of the enemy. All in black from head to foot, eyes shining through oval holes in his mask. Truly like a devil.
The stalker had deliberately doused the light, which must mean he could find his victims in the dark.
Simon's body went from hot to cold. While he stood here helplessly, the men with him could be dying. He tried to force himself to think, but his mind was motionless as a stone.
All around Simon was confusion. He heard Grigor, the guard who had staggered into the room just before the light went out, moaning with pain. He heard men stumbling about. They kept bumping into him. He lowered his scimitar to avoid stabbing someone by accident.
A crash made Simon jump. That was the lantern, smashed probably, by the man in black, so that no one could relight it.
Next he would start killing them, one by one.
God, if only I had some light. Just a little.
The odors of the precious spices the Monaldeschi stored in this pantry pervaded the air—saffron, cardamom, pepper, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon. When Simon had first entered the spice pantry a short time ago it had seemed a pleasant enough smell. Now it was making him sick.
Was there still a lighted candle in the cellar outside?
"The door!" he shouted. "Get the door open." Friar Mathieu repeated his command in the Armenian tongue.