In the moments that followed, both teammates were on the receiving end of invisible blasts of energy, fired at them by one of their attackers. They unbalanced and fell to the floor, bowled over rather than injured. The energy blasts continued, effectively pinning Elias and Lochloinn to the spot.
Niall, though caught unawares by the collapsing floor like everyone else, had managed to stretch his arms and upper body over to the upstairs window and seize a handhold on the windowsill as the rest of the room fell around him. He next lowered himself to the ground, taking advantage of his amazing elasticity to ensure a painless landing. Unfortunately, the blizzard conditions stirred up by his opponents hampered his further movements—the raging wind pounded Niall’s elongated body against the wall, and although he wasn’t hurt, he couldn’t escape the unrelenting pressure of the wind.
That left Ravid, who had finally managed to reach the team’s stockpile of weapons. In his case, the wind torrents had actually helped, blowing him in the direction he needed to go.
Ravid selected two of the weapons, a heavy broadsword and a narrow-bladed stiletto dagger, and then turned.
In front of him lay chaos. Beds, bedding, furniture, planking—all lay strewn through the room, incessantly stirred up and tossed around by the relentless blizzard. The air in the room was filled with snow and ice in constant motion, blending with splintered wood and pieces of furniture driven by a nearly unstoppable tornado. Sean and Martin, both seemingly unconscious, lay on the ground—not motionless, because the blizzard winds kept pushing their bodies around, but certainly not moving of their own volition.
Niall, over against the right hand wall, attempted to slither and slide under the wind, towards the attackers, but bursts of energy tossed in his direction impeded his progress. Thankfully, the raging wind blew most of those bursts harmlessly away.
Over to the left, out of the direct path of the wind, Lochloinn climbed to his feet, intending to rush towards the kitchen where the attackers still lurked. Elias, sheltering behind one of the couches, tried shouting at the kitchen, “We’re friends, you know us, you don’t want to hurt us.” Unfortunately, Elias, thought Ravid, your persuasive powers are probably wasted here. You’re shouting out in English, and, even if they can hear you over the wind, I don’t think that these people understand English. It’s a pity you don’t speak Napoletano, the language of the Kingdom of Naples.
Lochloinn was making good progress in his attempt to reach the kitchen, until his movements caught the attention of the person controlling the blizzard. That individual redirected the blizzard at Lochloinn, instantly driving him backwards—but at the same time providing a clear opportunity for Ravid. For the moment, there was no wind between the Outcast Angel and the blizzard-maker.
Ravid lifted his stiletto dagger, balanced it carefully—and then threw it directly at his foe. The stiletto flew straight and true—and its hilt impacted against the skull of his target, knocking him out and instantly stilling the blizzard.
Ravid preferred to incapacitate rather than kill his human opponents, if he had the choice, because he knew exactly what lay in store for them if they died in sin and went to Hades. However, sometimes the choice was taken out of his hands—given the supernatural powers arrayed against him in this sneak attack, Ravid feared that his broadsword would need to drink deep of their blood if that was the only means of stopping these people and saving the French king.
Ravid looked around. Now that the wind had stopped, Niall had rushed over to the weapons cache, grabbed two swords and thrown them over to Elias and Lochloinn, before selecting a sword of his own. In the kitchen, several of the attackers also drrw their weapons. This, thought Ravid, is not going to be easy.
Lifting his broadsword high above his head, Ravid shouted out a challenge. “We fight in the name of Henri IV, to protect him and to save his life from these treacherous assassins!” As his three colleagues roared their assent, Ravid repeated the challenge in the Napoletano language. Might as well let these killers know that they have to get through us first.
What happened next caught Ravid by surprise. The leader of the attackers replied in the same language. “Wait! Stop! What are you saying? Our purpose also is to protect the French king.”
SIXTY
Seconds Later
23 Rue de la Ferronnerie, Paris, France, Early Afternoon, Friday May 14 1610
That proclamation must be a trap, thought Ravid, a diversion to distract our team before we can strike back. If it is a trick, he’s wasting his time—I’m the only one of our team who can even understand their language. Meanwhile, Ravid’s team members continued to approach the kitchen, very much ready and eager to fight after being on the receiving end of most of the punishment so far.
The attackers paused, looking to their leader for guidance. Now that the two teams were so close, Ravid could see just how very young their opponents were. Perhaps this attack really was in error, he thought.
Ravid spoke quickly to his team. “Wait, we may be able to resolve this before anyone else gets hurt.” His three team members, eager to retaliate, were slow to respond at first, so Ravid had to reinforce his instructions. “There may have been a misunderstanding. We may actually share the same goal, to protect the King. Wait a moment while I talk with their leader.”
More resistance and then, finally, Ravid was obeyed. Niall—keeping one eye carefully fixed on the attackers—went to look after his brother, Sean. Elias crossed over to Martin. Lochloinn stood where he was, glaring at his opponents and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
Ravid spoke at some length with the leader of the attackers, who identified himself simply as Johannes. “How can I trust what you say,” said Ravid. “You attacked us with no explanation, destroying this place and injuring our people. Then, when the tide turns against you, you claim that we are on the same side. How am I supposed to believe that?”
“I’m sure that it’s difficult for you to believe me,” said Johannes, “yet for the sake of the king, I beg you to try. We have been sent here because of the treaty between France and Savoy. Our Master believes that the King of France and the Duke of Savoy are both in mortal danger as a result, and he has sent us here to guard the king while another team is tasked with protection of the duke.”
“If you expect me to believe that,” said Ravid, “then you must tell me the name of your master.”
“I’m afraid,” said Johannes, “that I cannot tell you that.”
The two leaders stood staring at each other for a long moment—until they were interrupted by sudden shouts and screams coming from outside.
SIXTY-ONE
Rue de la Ferronnerie, Paris, France, Afternoon, Friday May 14 1610
The king’s carriage turned briskly out of St Honoré and onto the Rue de la Ferronnerie, the king waving not quite so enthusiastically at the crowds along this part of the route. The royal arm, in fact, had grown quite weary through prolonged waving because, until the king had finally noticed and spoken very vehemently indeed, the driver had guided the carriage on an extended, circuitous route through the city, trying to avoid the Les Halles region.
Now that the royal carriage had finally arrived in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, the driver was attempting to rush through the damned street at a gallop—but he was suddenly forced to rein in and then bring the horses to a complete halt because the path ahead was blocked. A cart filled with wine casks had broken down on one side of the road and a haycart blocked the other side of the narrow thoroughfare.
Neither cart showed any signs of moving, so two of the king’s guardsmen climbed out of the royal carriage and strode over to the carts, determined to clear the road quickly so that the king’s journey could proceed.
The third guardsman remained beside the king. However, when it became apparent that another pair of hands would in fact be needed, The king sent his sole remaining protector over to help, leaving just himself and the driver in the carriage. That proved to be a fatal misjudgment.
Be
fore the driver could react, before he could cry out a warning to the guardsmen, a figure rushed out from the crowd, clambered up a carriage wheel and jumped into the carriage beside Henri. Pulling out a wickedly sharp knife, the intruder then stabbed the king through the ribs.
His mission completed, the assassin threw himself down from the royal carriage, stumbled and then recovered and dashed away into the crowd. A moment later, there were shouts and screams from onlookers as the king could be seen lurching forward from his seat, blood pouring out from his side. Before anyone could reach him, the king collapsed onto the floor of his carriage.
Witnesses would later describe the assailant as wearing a plumed hat, white doublet and grey over-tunic and having dark, shoulder-length hair and a closely-trimmed beard. One of the king’s guardsmen, Medoro, who had seen the killer leap from the carriage after striking the fatal blow, rushed back from the cart he had been attempting to move and frantically chased after the assassin. Medoro was certain that he recognized the man as one François Ravaillac, a Catholic loyalist who had attempted to meet with the king without success on several occasions.
Too late to prevent the tragedy but determined to bring the killer to swift and brutal justice, Medoro plunged into the crowd in desperate pursuit of the assassin. He was not close enough behind to observe that the object of his pursuit had lingered in an alleyway, nor did he see the man’s appearance somehow flicker and change. The wanted man no longer sported a beard, his hair had shortened and lightened in color and his face had become cherubic rather than haunted. He had also grown three inches taller than the man the bodyguard thought he was seeking.
To complete his escape, Ruben tossed aside the conspicuous plumed hat and the grey over-tunic and straightened the plain doublet underneath. He then exited the alleyway and walked easily to safety, moving slowly past the devastated guardsman who was searching in vain for the now-discarded François Ravaillac.
SIXTY-TWO
Moments Later
23 Rue de la Ferronnerie, Paris, France, Afternoon, Friday May 14 1610
Niall opened the window so that the two teams could hear the shouts from outside. The loudest and most heart-wrenching cry, taken up and echoed by many voices, was the last thing that either team wanted to hear: “Le Roi est mort!”
“We’ve failed,” said Ravid, speaking to his team. “Henri IV has been killed.” He repeated the announcement in Napoletano, but that wasn’t truly necessary—the realization that the king was dead was already evident on the faces of the opposing team’s members.
Ravid moved closer to the kitchen, broadsword at the ready. He called out to Johannes. “Keep your team where I can see them. It appears that you have succeeded in your evil scheme.”
Johannes was quick to respond. “I told you, our mission was to protect the French king. If he is truly dead, then we have failed as well.”
Ravid ignored that comment. He called out to Elias. “Please go and find out exactly what has happened and report back as soon as you can.”
Elias slipped out into the street, leaving the two teams facing each other warily. While they waited, each team tended to their wounded. Niall cleared one of the couches and lifted a gradually awakening Sean—whose back was badly bruised but thankfully not broken—into a more comfortable position. Martin was still unconscious but Lochloinn straightened and then bound his colleague’s leg, using a broken piece of planking and some fabric from one of the curtains that now lay shredded on the appartement floor.
While this was happening, Johannes and his team members worked on the young man who was responsible for the blizzards. They applied some of the scattered snow to his head in an ultimately successful effort to revive him. Ravid watched carefully, ready to deliver a more permanent blow if the slowly-recovering attacker attempted to launch any more blizzards.
A short time later, both groups turned expectantly as the door handle began to turn. Elias was back and ready to report—but he wasn’t happy.
“We can’t blame this group,” said Elias, indicating the other team. “It was François Ravaillac after all—he stabbed the king, exactly as Jesse foretold.”
“But we watched Ravaillac leave Paris!” shouted Lochloinn.
“I know,” said Elias, “he must have slipped back into the city once he was out of our sight.”
Elias was naturally devastated. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand how Ravaillac was able to resist my compulsions.”
Ravid quickly explained the situation to Johannes. “The king was killed by a French Catholic assassin. From what we know so far, it seems that your team was not involved. I suggest that you leave here now, while you still can.”
Johannes and his team quietly left the appartement, taking their still-groggy colleague with them. Ravid locked the door behind them, hoping to avoid any more unexpected guests.
The volunteers were not happy. Lochloinn in particular was incensed. “Are ye jest lettin’ ’em skip away, laddie?” he asked Ravid. “After all th’ damage they’ve caused ter this wee hoose—and what they done ter Sean ‘n Martin?”
Ravid responded by addressing the whole team. “These were simply foot-soldiers. We want their leaders—which means we need to find out who sent them. For now, though, our primary concern is to get out of this appartement—and we need to leave at once. The king’s guardsmen, the Quarante Cinq, must already be racing towards the Rue de la Ferronnerie, determined to interrogate witnesses and capture the king’s assassin. It won’t take long before they hear from some of our neighbors about the chaos emanating from this building—the Quarante Cinq will soon be crawling all over this place demanding answers.”
He looked at each team member in turn, noted their tattered clothing, their cuts, and bruises and—in Martin’s case—broken bones. “We’ve all obviously been in a fight, one that we don’t want to answer any difficult questions about. Get changed into fresh clothing, gather your belongings and let’s get out of here. We’ll split up. Leave the Les Halles area as soon as you can and then get out of Paris. We’ll rendezvous at Dijon in a week.”
Ravid paused a moment, looking around the shattered appartement. “And I’ll send a message to Jesse, asking him to arrange for this appartement to be repaired. It’s the least we can do for Monsieur and Madame Gombaud.”
They had barely begun when there was a mighty pounding on the front door.
SIXTY-THREE
A month earlier
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Morning, Wednesday April 7 1610
Luca stood behind the hidden peephole, ready to eavesdrop on the meeting about to take place in the room below. Thanks to whoever had designed this secret chamber, Luca expected to be able to see and hear the conversation clearly.
Luca and his classmates had been released from their three-week isolation training in the Tower that very morning. Luca had been heading down to a morning meal when he overheard two servants gossiping about an imminent meeting. Thankfully, he thought, I had time to get into place here before the meeting started.
As Luca settled in to watch, the Master arrived in the room below. That’s odd, thought Luca, Della Porta hasn’t given his visitor much of a greeting, simply a brief nod of his head.
The visitor was seated with his back to the wall on which the peephole was mounted, beside one of the several desks in the room. Della Porta chose a seat alongside rather than opposite the visitor, another apparent sign of disrespect, and then took out parchment and pen from the desk and began writing.
Luca was puzzled. What kind of meeting is this?
The mystery was finally resolved when the visitor moved his chair slightly and Luca finally had a good view of his face. It was one of the Janus twins. Ah, realized Luca, it’s a long-distance conference between the members of the Consiglio.
The Janus twins—not really twins, there were eight of them, and in fact they were not even related—had all gained the power of telepathy thanks to the Exousía potion. The twins could sha
re thoughts with each other over vast distances and the Council of Four made use of their talent to maintain instant communications between the four groups. The Academy itself also used several of the twins to enable remote communications when it sent groups of Alchemae on long-distance missions.
Luca had seen the twins in action only once before, from this very vantage point—as a just-graduated student, he was certainly not authorized to know about such secrets.
“Ready—Ready—Ready.” That’s so weird.
The Janus twin spoke in three different voices—one gruff, one cheerful and the third somewhat deep—channeling messages from three different twins. Della Porta nodded and Luca knew that the three twins at the other ends of the conversation would be translating that nod into a “Ready” of their own.
Della Porta began the discussion, reporting on progress with the Plague project. Judging by the pointed questions forwarded by the Janus twin, this project had been proceeding far more slowly than other members of the Council expected. Della Porta fielded the queries with mostly non-committal answers. I don’t know what this ‘Plague project’ is about, I should do some digging.
“What about the tomb?” asked the deep-voiced Janus. “Any luck?”
“None so far,” said Della Porta. “We’re still convinced it’s down in the catacombs somewhere but so far no-one we’ve sent has managed to find it.”
“Keep trying,” said the deep-sounding voice. “The Darke Warriors have always been extremely keen to find that body. I think we can assume that it carries something worthwhile—we must find it before they do.”
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 18
