IRON LOTUS
A NOVEL
BRAD R. COOK
Copyright © 2016 by Brad R. Cook
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Treehouse Publishing Group,
an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Cover design by Kristina Blank Makansi
Illustration background and Graphics: Shutterstock
Steampunk frame: Illustrator Georgie Retzer
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Interior layout by Kristina Blank Makansi
ISBN: 9780996390125
For my family
IRON LOTUS
I am indebted to my father for living, but to my teacher for living well.
—Alexander the Great
CHAPTER 1
ASSASSINS AT EVERY TURN
Athens 1883
Third time’s a charm. At least that’s what I hoped. We’d already chased the demonic Milli-train from Zululand after the battle. From Cairo and then to Acre, missing Genevieve and the Knights of the Golden Circle in both cities. Now gliding through the skies on the aero-dirigible, Sparrowhawk, we soared into Athens, Greece. I didn’t know why Baron Kensington insisted on this city. We were across the Aegean Sea, and on the wrong side of the Ottoman Empire from where I thought the Milli-train would be scurrying around.
I stood on the bridge staring out one of the port windows. Before me lay sights I’d read about my whole life. Perched on the Acropolis, the white marble Parthenon gleamed in the fading sunlight. The ancient temple lay in ruin, but still captivated me with its beauty. Normally, I’d be thrilled to explore it, but Genevieve wasn’t here to run through the ruins with me. The baron’s daughter was gone. Captured by the Knights of the Golden Circle, held by her mother, a vicious assassin, and the vile Colonel Hendrix. I’d sworn an oath to find her, but that had been weeks ago, and now, doubt ate away at my confidence. I feared we’d never see her again.
Captain Baldarich leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and said, “Heinz, bring her about and settle in the airdocks.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the pilot said in his thick German accent as he pushed forward on the wheel.
Baron Kensington stepped onto the bridge and walked up behind the captain. “How long until we touchdown?”
“Not much longer now,” the captain said as he spun around in his chair. “But are you really expecting to find anything here? Maybe we should be checking Istanbul instead.”
“No, but we must stop none-the-less.” The baron pounded his closed fist against the railing surrounding the captain’s chair. “We will find that infernal monster.”
“Will we?” I said under my breath, or so I thought. The entire bridge turned toward me and the lump in my throat dropped to my guts.
The baron gripped his cane. “I assure you, I will find the Milli-train.”
“How hard is it to find a giant train with legs?” I spun on my heel, “We were supposed to catch them in Egypt, but they slipped past all the Templars. Then we were waiting for them in the Templar fortress in Acre only to find out they’d already passed us. Now we’re here, and she’s not!”
The baron’s expression hardened. But the feeling of guilt which would normally have cooled my inner fire, faded.
The captain stood up and pointed at me. “Mr. Knight here has a point. Even I assumed the Templar network would be able to track a giant demonic train walking across Africa.”
“It is my wife and daughter on that train, remember.” The baron inhaled deeply. “I, too, am frustrated, but certain matters here in Athens demand my attention.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the captain cut me off with a sharp look. “Shouldn’t you be attending to your duties? Find Mr. Singh and get the Sparrowhawk prepped for landing.”
I nodded, and forced my response to the baron back down my throat, “Aye, aye, Captain.” With several quick steps, I rushed to the deck below. The blue-turbaned young man, Mr. Singh, directed the crewmen holding the thick ropes of the wingsails in place. Wooden yardarms stretched out each side of the aero-dirigible, and patched, white-canvas wingsails billowed in the strong wings. Both needed to be retracted before landing. As I walked up, Mr. Singh pointed to the lashings hanging on one of the inner walls.
“Mr. Knight, prepare to secure the wingsails.” The young, bearded-Sikh, commanded the men with a stern tone. Only a year older than me, I considered him one of my closet friends. He was Boatswain of the Sparrowhawk and the greatest air-sailor I’d ever known, besides the captain, of course. As the aero-dirigible banked into its final landing position, Mr. Singh waited. He didn’t check outside, but, but closed his eyes and felt when to act. “Prepare to tow the lines” he raised his hand, and the crew reaffirmed their grips on the thick, braided rope.
As ordered, I grabbed several thin ropes off the wall. A second crewman joined me; he took the starboard side of the aero-dirigible, and I stood by the port recess, which ran half the length of the airship. The wind whipped around me through the opening on the side of the hull, so I pulled the goggles hanging around my neck up over my eyes.
I’d served as a crewman on the Sparrowhawk for several weeks now. Each day was more tiring than my class work at Eton College, but far more thrilling. After the battle in Zululand, we’d had a number of repairs to make, and they all were accomplished in the air as we chased the Milli-train. I thought of Eton often, usually comparing my life there to my life on the Sparrowhawk. I’d given up the structured day of classes for the routine of airship duties, but unlike the noblemen’s sons who had been my classmates and treated me like a lowly colonist, the crew of the Sparrowhawk had become family.
Ripped from my thoughts by Mr. Singh’s gesture, I focused on my duties. As the crew pulled the thick lines hand over hand, I watched the yardarms swivel into the side of the airship. Like the sails of a Chinese Junk, the wingsails of the aero-dirigible had wooden struts running through them for greater stability. The struts lined up and the canvas folded between them as the wingsails retracted. Once settled inside the hull, Mr. Singh ordered the outer hatches closed. I sprang over the railing and lashed the sails together to prevent them from shifting or rattling. With a loud clank and thump, the mooring clamps secured the airship. The vessel lurched slightly as we stopped, but I remained standing having finally found my air-legs.
I finished my last sailor’s knot, and climbed back over the railing. Mr. Singh sent the crewmen off and then waved me over.
“Alexander, please do not run off from the Sparrowhawk like in Acre.”
“I won’t,” I said, “and I apologize, but I truly thought I saw Genevieve.”
“I know.” He gripped my shoulder. “We will find her. You must have faith.”
I wanted to agree, but it had been over a month, and we were now on our second continent trying to find Genevieve. I leaned against the railing and exhaled, “With each day, she slips further away.”
“She is strong, and I do not believe her mother wishes to hurt her. She had plenty of opportunity on the train. The baroness might be an assassin, but if she’d wanted to hurt Genevieve, she could have.”
“I’ll try
to have faith, but I might be too cynical.”
Mr. Singh laughed and walked toward the stairs. “At least you are an honest man.”
I shuffled downstairs to the gun deck and entered my room at the bow of the airship. The storage room had served as my bedroom since Genevieve and I had snuck aboard two years ago, and the captain let me remain here instead of joining the crew on the deck above. I hadn’t changed anything. The curtain Mr. Singh hung for Genevieve’s privacy still split the room, and the coil of rope we’d used for Rodin’s bed remained tucked up on the sloping front wall.
Since we’d come aboard, the little bronze dragon, about the size of an eagle, lay curled up inside his usual spot. Rodin lifted his head to acknowledge me, and I walked over to rub under his chin. “I miss her, too.”
Swinging out the mechanized arm holding my hammock, I hooked it to a ring on the center beam, and climbed in. As my feet dangled over the sides, I kicked off my boots. Gone were the polished laced shoes, and stiff armored wool of my Eton College uniform. I’d traded them for khaki pants, a grey Henley, and my black vest. I still wore the leather strap that wound around my leg and torso. Holstered on my leg was my Thumper, which had never left my side since I’d joined the crew. I’d never felt more like myself, and yet, happiness without Genevieve came in fleeting moments quickly whisked away by the wind.
“I know I should go up to dinner,” I said to Rodin, who’d flown over and curled up with me in my hammock. “I hope the captain won’t be too upset.” The dragon nudged his head under mine and nuzzled up against my chin, poking me with his horns. I reached up and scratched his neck. “I thought we’d track her down before we got to Egypt, but Africa was far larger than I expected, and who knew the Milli-train would be so fast.”
My heavy lids kept closing and snapping back open, and when I yawned Rodin did the same. I was glad no one had come down to scold me for not coming to dinner, and as the crew shuffled above preparing for bed, I stretched and relaxed. As I sank into oblivion, heavy boot steps on the gun deck made me pop up. I craned my neck as the captain entered with a plate of sausage and honey drizzled rolls.
“I thought I might find the two of you together.” He set the plate down on a barrel, and swiped one of the three rolls. With a smile, he held up the honey drizzled delight. “My compensation for bringing you dinner.”
Rodin sprang from the hammock, soared over, snatched the second roll, and flew to his bed. I rolled out of my hammock and grabbed the third before they all disappeared. I popped it in my mouth and swooned, savoring Gustav’s delicious baked treats.
“I know you’re upset,” the captain said, finishing the roll. “But do I look like I’m giving up?”
“No,” I mumbled with a mouth filled with bread. “I’m not giving up, either. I won’t stop until I find Genevieve.”
He chuckled, and clapped his hands. “Now that’s the conviction I’m looking for.”
I swallowed and sat on the hammock. “Then why waste our time on this side of the Aegean?”
“I don’t know. We’re here at the baron’s request.” The captain leaned closer. “He’s as torn up as you. He—we all— truly thought we were going to catch them in Acre.”
“When we were attacked, I thought we’d found the right place.” I grabbed one of the sausages, bit off the end, and pointed the remainder at the captain. “But we missed them.”
The captain crossed his arms. “That ambush was annoying, but, you held your own. So, tell me, are you keeping up your training with Mr. Singh and Ignatius?”
“I am. Mr. Singh is teaching me saber, Ignatius, pistols, and Hunter’s added distance shooting, too.”
“Good.” He pointed at me. “What about the books your father sent?”
I turned away but the captain’s souring expression pulled me back. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve read a few pages of the Greek philosophy book, but my duties on the ship—”
“Don’t take all day,” the captain finished. “I want you reading every day.” He chuckled. “You might not be at Eton, but I’ll not have you slacking on your studies on my watch.”
“Aye, aye, Capt—” I doubled over and grabbed my stomach as it twisted in knots. It wasn’t Gustav’s cooking, but something far worse.
“Trouble?” The captain’s face hardened as he flipped back his long, red leather coat and cranked a small box attached to his belt. Electricity crackled within. A thin-coiled cable ran to the lightning cannon holstered on his hip. “You’re better than a trip wire with bells.”
I nodded and pulled the Thumper from my belt. I opened the metal baton’s breach and inserted a percussion cap. Captain Baldarich drew his lightning pistol as we heard a creaking sound coming from the gun deck. He stepped out first, Rodin landed on my shoulder and we followed.
One man in a long dark coat and bowler hat with brass goggles around the band, stood on the gun deck as a second climbed up through one of the hatches. A third disappeared up the stairs. They looked exactly like Hendrix’s henchmen who had attacked my father and me at Eton. I wondered how many were already on board.
The captain fired, an arc of blue electricity zapping one henchman. The man slumped to the deck, his body twitching and blocking the hatch in the floor. The other henchman pivoted toward us and snarled. He lowered his pistol. I pressed the button of my Thumper. The piston on the metal baton roared forward and retracted. The concussive blast knocked the henchman into one of the cannons, and sent his gun skittering away.
Baldarich yelled, “Find the baron,” as he ran over to the copper tube poking out of the ceiling. He cried, “Kampfstationen!”
Taking the stairs two at a time, I didn’t stop at the mid deck even though I heard henchmen scuffling with the crew. I followed the captain’s orders, and headed straight to the top deck. The baron’s cabin sat next to captain’s and the first thing I noticed when I approached was that the door lay slightly ajar. I paused. With my thumb, I slid open the breach of my Thumper. The spent percussion cap popped out and I caught it in my hand before it fell to the deck. Silently, I pulled another from the pouch secured to my leather strap and slipped it into place.
As glass shattered in the cabin, I rushed forward, smashing my foot against the door. The wooden door whipped open and bounced against the wall. Before me, the baron lay pinned to his bed struggling with a man swathed in black, his face covered by a long scarf trailing from a black turban. The assassin tightened his garrote around the baron’s neck even as the baron twisted and kicked, trying to free himself, struggling to breathe as his face shifted through shades of blue.
This was no ordinary henchman, nor was it the assassin from last year who masqueraded as a Zulu warrior and terrorized Eton College. But I didn’t wait to figure out who it might be. I raised my Thumper and pointed—but then hesitated—from this distance I might strike the baron. I ran toward the end of the bed and jumped. One foot landed on the footboard, the other on the soft mattress. With the Thumper raised above my head, I lunged toward the assailant and swung my weapon like a baton.
Before I could land my blow, the assassin flipped backward and landed on the headboard. The baron was free. Choking, gagging, and struggling to fill his lungs with air, the baron pulled off the knotted sash around his neck and flung it aside. He rolled off the bed grabbing at his cane and pistol hanging from a nearby chair.
The assassin’s eyes, dark pupils so wide I couldn’t see color, reacted with a warrior’s intensity. He pulled two long, curved daggers from the black sash around his waist, and lunged at the baron. I aimed my Thumper and fired. The assassin twirled away from the blast and landed on the floor as the top of the head board exploded, sending shards of wood flying. The baron grabbed his pistol, knocking over the chair in the process, but was able to spin around and fire as I popped open the breach of my Thumper and loaded another cap. The assassin moved with an impossible grace and speed, twisting and contorting to avoid each bullet. Soaring through the door, Rodin roared and flapped wildly, shooting out a
column of fire igniting the assassin’s turban. A final concussive blast from my Thumper glanced across his left arm, and he slowed. The three of us proved too much.
“Don’t move!” the baron rasped, his pistol pointed at the man’s heart. The assassin stared down the baron. I lowered my Thumper and stepped forward. The assassin whipped his hand into his sash, pulled out a dart, and in a single motion tossed it at the baron. I gaped as it struck the baron in the shoulder. The assassin launched himself through the porthole as smoothly as an eel slipping back into his dark cavern.
I rushed to the porthole, barely big enough for me to fit through, and expected to see him splattered on the ground below. But the assassin sprang off the moorings, grabbed a cable with his right hand, and slid to the ground.
I swirled around as the captain rushed into the room.
“Everyone all right?”
“The assassin slid down a cable to the docks!” I pointed out the window.
Baldarich hurried over and peered out. “He’s already disappeared into the darkness.”
The baron coughed, and in a raspy voice choked out, “I’m alive thanks to Alexander.” He pulled the dart from his shoulder and set it on the nightstand.
“But what if that’s poisoned?” I asked.
The baron opened a drawer, removed a glass vial, popped the cork and drank the contents. “Four Thieves Potion.” He winked at me. “I never leave home without it.”
I sighed with relief remembering that Eustache’s medieval cure-all would prevent any poison from killing him. Rodin landed on my shoulder, but didn’t take his eyes off the baron.
The henchmen have been rounded up,” the captain said. “Looks like they were a distraction for the assassin.”
CHAPTER 2
DIOGENES THE LITTLE DOG
The tension shattered with the morning light. Captain Baldarich doubled the guard, and the Greek authorities even sent some troops to protect the docks. I lay in my hammock. Mr. Singh relieved me of duty because of my actions last night. He was trying to be nice, but I would rather have cleaned out the engines than lay around stewing in my thoughts.
Iron Lotus Page 1
