Halcyon est-1

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  He was standing in a long, low-ceilinged room with two massive boilers along the right and left walls stretching down into the distance. The network of overhead pipes here completely obscured the ceiling, glass-faced gauges and brass-handled valves studded the pipes at irregular intervals, and blocky workstations stood at the ends of the boilers, and clustered in a central console, and along the back walls.

  Twenty grim-faced engineers looked up from their work. Some stood over the consoles, some were holding clipboards, some held toolboxes, some lay on the floor inspecting their precious machines, and one older man was sipping a cup of tea. This older officer stood just inside the hatch and turned to see the huge Mazigh step into the engine room beside him and say, “Damn.”

  The officer raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

  Syfax froze. He glanced up at the dozen faces half-turned toward him, and the enormousness of the engines, and he pointed up at nothing in particular. “Yeah, they sent me down to have a quick look at the, eh, you know…thing.” He shoved the officer back into the wall and charged into the room. There were a hundred things he could break, but he knew he needed more than half a second to open a valve or smash an instrument panel and the engineers were already running toward him, most wielding wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers.

  The major caught the first sailor’s wrist, smashed him in the nose, and stripped the hammer from his hand. The hammer flew into a glass-faced board of waving needles, and a shower of sparks flew out. In the last moment before the tide of sailors crashed into him, Syfax drove his knife into the panel right near the switch marked electrico and hoped he’d hit something important.

  The first three men to reach him all got a fist in the face or a boot in the stomach, and then the major lifted one bodily and hurled him back into the oncoming sailors. Wrenches and hammers were flying, men were hollering in Espani, and suddenly red lights were flashing and a klaxon was wailing. Syfax hunkered down in his boxer’s stance with his back to the corner and focused on pummeling the men one at a time. There was no way to reach the hatch now, not through the press of sweaty, greasy bodies.

  A hammer smashed his left wrist and he paid back the engineer with an elbow through his jaw that left the Espani unconscious on the floor to be trampled by his comrades.

  A glass jar full of washers shattered against his right temple and he squeezed his right eye shut in case some fragments of glass trickled into it with the veil of blood that spilled down over the side of his face.

  A small man dashed in close and got his arms around Syfax’s legs. The major bent down to tear the engineer away and that was all the opening the others needed. They fell on him like a pack of wolves and the last thing that Syfax saw before his head struck the bulkhead was a line of armed men streaming in through the open hatch.

  Chapter 27. Shifrah

  “What the hell does he think he’s going to accomplish?” Shifrah watched the major swim away toward the warship.

  “Who knows?” Kenan was looking the other way, out to sea. “Captain, are Espani channel markers the same as Mazigh ones?”

  “They are.” The fisherman exhaled slowly and a thin haze of smoke rippled away from his pipe. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you may have noticed that ship back there. It’s a warship.”

  “Looks like.” The fisherman nodded.

  “It means that Prince Valero is getting ready to start the holiday season just a bit early this year. A ship that size is meant to terrify, to control, and to kill.” Kenan ran his thumb along his lip. “It means he’s going back to the good old days when the Middle Sea ran red every summer with the blood of Espani, Italians, Numidians, Mazighs, and Hellans.”

  “Could be.”

  “And do you remember what would happen every autumn?”

  The fisherman nodded. “The Persians came.”

  “Yes, they did. And they would take whatever they wanted, and they would stay as long as they liked,” Kenan said. “My mother said it was always bad for business when the Persians came through, back in Port Chellah.”

  “It was bad in Italia, very bad indeed,” Nicola said quietly.

  “Bad in Malaga, too.” The fisherman shifted his foot on the winch to let out a bit of line and the sail swung out a bit farther.

  Shifrah smiled. This boy is smart, and not just clever in the way that some angry young men could be, but really smart. He understands people. He doesn’t have to lie to get what he wants. That’s a child’s game. No, this boy tells the truth. No lies to remember, no lies to get caught in. And that’s why he’s going to live a very long time.

  “I think we should do something about this ship, captain,” Kenan said. “You and I both know that the major is just going to get himself killed.”

  “Most like.” The fisherman nodded. “That’s why I let him go. I’m no traitor.”

  “I know you’re not. I’m not asking you to kill anyone or even to damage that ship back there, but I do need your help.”

  The old man reached down and tightened his winch line again. “How?”

  “The channel markers.” Kenan pointed at the buoy rocking on the rough waves at the mouth of harbor. A small bell clanged on top of it, and just below the below the bell was a ring of mirrors to reflect search lights and starlight. “They’re damaged by rough weather all the time. Waves. Lightning. Driftwood.”

  “True.” The fisherman turned the tiller slightly.

  “I think some of these markers here are due for a little damage.”

  The fisherman shook his head. “We all need the markers. If we muck about with them, then the fishermen start running aground, losing traps, crossing lines, tearing nets. That’s a lot of good men losing their livelihoods for you. No, sir. I’ll take you to Tingis and you can have your blockade. That’s more than fair.”

  Kenan frowned, then leaned down to paw through the major’s discarded coat. He sat up a moment later with a tiny Italian two-shot revolver in his hand, pointed at the captain. “I’m sorry about this. You’re a good man and you don’t deserve this, and I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if I have to. So now you’re going to help me break those markers, or I’ll kill you and then break them by myself.”

  The fisherman’s eyes narrowed. He chewed his pipe for a moment. “All right then.”

  His tone was as flat as ever. It might have meant he was willing to help, or that he was willing to die. But he nudged the tiller and the little sailboat swung toward the first marker buoy.

  “Thank you.” Kenan slipped the gun into his pocket and leaned back.

  Shifrah slipped her arm down around the young man’s waist and rested her head on his shoulder. It was an uncomfortable position, especially on a cold rocking boat, but she knew it would work. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and held her against his slender body, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

  She smiled. Dangerous, smart, and powerful, yes, but still just a man.

  Day Ten

  Chapter 28. Lorenzo

  They trotted slowly up the wide gravel road from Valencia along the shore toward the huge black docks on the south side of the harbor. Taziri was quick to point out the absence of the warship and for a moment they simply sat in their saddles and stared out over the water at the handful of brave little fishing boats rocking on the wintry waves. Then Lorenzo nudged his mare onward to the docks.

  “There must be someone there who can tell us what is going on,” he said.

  “The stone is very close now, Lorenzo,” Ariel whispered from the triquetra around his neck. “Very close. Be careful.”

  Taziri followed in silence.

  Up ahead they saw another rider sitting in the middle of the road and looking out to sea. Soon they recognized Salvator Fabris’s oiled mustache and the golden rapier on his hip. The burned and stained canvas bag hung from the rear of his saddle against his horse’s flank. As Lorenzo and Taziri approached, the Italian called out, “You can imagine my surprise to find the ship rather�
��gone.”

  “Yes, well, clearly Magellan heard you were returning and thought the most sensible course of action was to hide his entire armada and hope you would just go away,” Lorenzo said. “I wish I could do the same, but once again you seem to have something that belongs to me.”

  “Stop worrying so much, Quesada. You think I would use it against Espana?” Fabris shook his head. “Give me some credit. Your country and mine are more alike than any two in the world. We are natural allies in all things, from the Roman Church we defend to the wine we drink. This stone will be a sword and shield against the powers of the east. The Empire of Eran. The Constantian Church and the Mazdan Temple. They are the true warmongers, and they are ones who should fear my intentions, not you.”

  “You’ve threatened my wife, stolen my property, attacked my students, and murdered two of my companions. A lesser man might take that personally.” Lorenzo smiled. Stay calm, no matter what. My only hope to win here is by shaking his resolve first. “Fortunately, I am not a lesser man. Give me the stone now and I’ll let you go in peace. Go back to Italia and defend your home howsoever God directs you.”

  “How long would you keep the stone? A week? A month? How long before Magellan or some other military commander discovers it and takes it for himself and turns it against your neighbors? Magellan is no saint and barely a patriot. I should know, I’ve sat through enough of his egomaniacal tirades. He wants war. He craves it. A great war in which he can cement his place in history. He wants his name to be remembered.” Salvator shook his head. “Men like him cannot be trusted with power, and men like you cannot be trusted to stand against men like him. You’re too forgiving. Too trusting. Too holy. The world doesn’t need holy men. It needs strong men.”

  “And who says my husband isn’t a strong man?”

  Lorenzo looked up at the figure on the hill above them. Qhora sat astride Wayra, a dagger in her hand, his old army coat flapping about her in the morning breeze, and her tricorn hat perched proudly on her head. The huge eagle strutted carefully down the icy slope. “Good morning, my love.”

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Lorenzo smiled at her. Dear God, she’s perfect. “You’re looking lovely. Well rested. And not at all in prison.”

  “I know. Didn’t Salvator tell you? The Espani soldiers threw him out on his ass as soon as they realized what he really was.”

  “And what am I?” Fabris asked.

  “Not a good man.”

  Salvator smiled at her. “Your husband, on the other hand, is indeed a good man. The world would be a better place if more men were like him, but alas, the world is full of monsters in human guise and it will take more than good men to safeguard the civilized world.”

  Qhora came down to the edge of the gravel road. “Captain Taziri, it’s good to see you again. Thank you for looking out for my Enzo.”

  The Mazigh woman nodded. “He wasn’t too much trouble.”

  “I’ve found something you might want to see, captain.” Qhora nodded at the black docks. “The soldiers have something here that belongs to you. They’ve even been trying to fix it in your absence.”

  “My plane?”

  “I’ve befriended the man in command of this place, a Captain Ortiz,” Qhora said. “I can take you to the hangar right now to see your machine.”

  “Won’t the soldiers mind?” Salvator asked with a grin.

  “Of course not.” Qhora turned her bird up the road. “It’s Sunday.”

  Salvator nodded knowingly as he nudged his horse away from the Incan woman. Wayra snapped her huge head forward and screamed at the Italian’s nervous mount, and then the great eagle raised herself up to her full height to shriek and trill over and over. Qhora stroked the bird’s neck until she fell quiet again. “Shh, shh.”

  She smiled at Salvator. “That was her blood song. The hatun-ankas are very protective of family, including their riders. They mate for life, and raise their young quite lovingly and tenderly. And when family is threatened, they sing the blood song. It summons the rest of the flock to war. They are flesh eaters and blood drinkers. Wonderful creatures.” She stroked Wayra’s neck, her eyes fixed on the frowning Italian.

  Taziri glanced at Lorenzo, and he waved her on toward the naval base gates at the top of the road. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  The women rode on toward the base. Qhora called back, “Enjoy your present dear.”

  Salvator looked down at the hidalgo. “Present?”

  Lorenzo jerked his head up toward the hill that his wife had descended. Atoq sat at the top silhouetted against the colorless morning sky. The huge cat roared.

  “Ah yes, your dueling partner.” Fabris nodded. “I remember him well. Strong leg work, but a rather muddled and brutish style.”

  “The stone, senor,” Lorenzo said. “Place it on the ground, and leave.”

  “I decline.” The Italian drew his rapier and kicked his horse into a gallop, driving down the shallow hill toward Lorenzo.

  The hidalgo drew his espada and nudged his weary mare into a light-footed trot. When Salvator passed by he slashed at Lorenzo’s face, but the Espani batted the rapier away and then guarded his back, catching the Italian’s second attack just behind his neck. They trotted apart.

  “You’ll have to kill me to take this stone, and I know you won’t kill me,” Salvator said. “What good is a soldier who can’t kill? You’re a broken sword, Quesada. Useless!” He charged again and this time Lorenzo held his horse quite still until the moment of contact. The hidalgo yanked his mare into a side-step so the Italian’s thrust whisked past his shoulder, and then he threaded his espada into the swept hilt of the rapier and flicked the Italian weapon high into the air.

  The golden sword clattered on the gravel road many yards from Fabris.

  Lorenzo dropped from his saddle and picked up the rapier. It was beautiful. The mirror finish of the blade, the smith’s scrollwork signature, the gleaming hilts, the slender crossguards. “The rapier is better than the espada,” he said. “Stronger. Thinner. Longer. Lighter. The design brings us all one step closer to the ultimate sword, the perfect gentleman’s weapon for slaughtering his lover’s husband.” He threw the rapier to the Italian. “Dismount.”

  Salvator snatched his weapon out of the air. “And if I don’t?”

  Lorenzo gestured with his blade to the eight-hundred pound cat on the hill above them. “I don’t suppose I can fight a mounted rider, but Atoq will slaughter the horse with you still on it. I imagine that scenario will end rather poorly for you.”

  Fabris dismounted. “I’ve killed good men before. I won’t hesitate to do so now.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  Salvator attacked and Lorenzo defended, and then the duel began in earnest. As he fell into his routines and his carefully choreographed circles of attack and defense, Lorenzo watched the Italian’s eyes.

  What sort of man is he really? A patriot? A killer? A thief? A warrior? What does he believe in?

  Their blades rang out again and again, echoing dimly across the flat beach below the road where the sand lay frozen under a layer of ice and grime. Salvator favored the press, driving forward, closing within half a pace of his opponent. But Lorenzo didn’t give him the control he was seeking. The hidalgo stood his ground and let the Italian squirm half an arm’s length away, their swords clashing fiercely until Fabris was forced to step back again, and Lorenzo pushed forward.

  He’s stronger, but I’m faster. He’s taller, but I’m steadier. And he’s wearing the wrong shoes for this terrain. Very Italian of him.

  Lorenzo swiped at Salvator’s legs regularly, forcing the man back to the edge of the dead grass above the beach. Fabris slashed at the hidalgo’s neck, keeping Lorenzo’s defense tight around his face.

  After the first minute, Lorenzo’s injured arm was warm. After the second minute, his arm was aching. And after the third minute he knew he would have to win soon or else falter and be killed by a mustachioed man wearing the wrong shoes. />
  “The man you killed on the mountain was your countryman,” he said. “An Italian.”

  Salvator smiled. “Most of the men I’ve killed were Italian.”

  Try something else. “The skyfire stone isn’t natural.” Lorenzo shifted to keep his opponent pinned against the edge of the bluff above the frozen sand. “I know why it’s so hot. It drinks in aether and imprisons the souls of the dead within it. That stone is a tomb for ten thousand Espani men, women, and children. It belongs on holy ground, and it belongs here in Espana.”

  “That will make a fascinating footnote in my journal,” Salvator replied.

  “I’ll ask you again. Yield and go in peace.”

  “Yield and I’ll kill you swiftly.”

  Damn your pride. “Atoq!”

  The saber-toothed cat roared and bounded down the hill, his heavy paws thumping and crashing through the light ice crust on top of the snow.

  Salvator’s eyes flicked to the left, toward the cat.

  Lorenzo lunged. Not his own lunge, the destreza lunge taught by his dear old master Carranza. This was an Italian lunge, a lunge many considered to be perfect, a lunge crafted by the master Ridolfo Capoferro.

  Dear Lord, thank you for the gift of Silvio de Medici’s pride.

  He felt his espada scrape down the length of the Italian rapier toward the man’s belly. Fabris twisted at the last moment and the espada sliced into his coat, piercing his flesh at the farthest edge of his kidney.

  Salvator froze, his teeth clenched in a terrible rictus of surprise and pain.

  Lorenzo held the strike for only half a moment before sliding his blade back out. Salvator pressed his left hand to the wound and grimaced, his own sword drooping toward the ground. On reflex, Lorenzo raised his boot and brought it down sharply on the Italian blade, snapping it just below the golden hilt. As Fabris raised his hilt to smash down upon the Espani’s head, Lorenzo snatched up the broken blade and shoved it through the Italian’s hand and deep into his side.