THE DEVIL’S PATH
A NOVEL
BY RICHARD TURNER
Copyright © 2014 Richard Turner
Editing and Formatting By B&R Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 1
Ottoman Empire - November 1453
A bitter northern wind raced through the jagged mountain passes, bringing with it a blinding snowstorm, the likes of which had not been witnessed for generations. Farmers at the base of the mountains saw the growing storm as an ominous sign and hurriedly sheltered their pitifully few livestock inside their tiny homes, lest they lose their livelihood, and be ruined. Toothless, white-haired old men sought solace in long hidden away bottles of wine and prayed that the storm; surely heaven sent, would somehow pass them by, but they were wrong. Visibility soon dropped to a mere hand’s length. Several foreign merchants foolish to try and push on through the blizzard in hopes of reaching the nearest town to sell their goods found their way blocked by feet of snow, their frozen corpses to be found in the spring, buried deep under a blanket of snow and ice.
A narrow trail no wider than a goat path meandered up from a tiny village, leading deep into the snow-covered mountains. It was a dangerous climb on a good day, but during an unforgiving winter storm, it was foolhardy. Yet, two strangers, ignoring the pleading of the people they passed begging them to take refuge inside, struggled onwards against the howling wind. Unable to see, they used their frozen hands to feel their way along the ice-encrusted rocks, barely moving. Onwards one-step after the other; they slowly climbed higher along the side of the mountain.
Charles, Duke of Burgundy, looked over his shoulder and knew he was going to die. Through the swirling maelstrom, he looked, but could not see, their pursuers; yet deep down in his soul, he knew that they were out there, searching for him, trying with all their might to stop him from fulfilling his sacred vow. Charles knew that it was only a matter of time before they eventually caught up with him. He was exhausted, near starved. His tormentors had been following him and his young Page, Andre, for the past several days. Always in the shadows, he only caught fleeting glimpses of someone…something following him. They had kept their distance until earlier today, when Charles and Andre began to climb the mountain; their opponents sped after them like a braying pack of hounds after a fox.
Charles did not fear death. His life did not matter; he had to fulfill an oath given proudly and willingly before going to meet his maker. Nothing else mattered to Charles, only keeping his pledge. A Knight and man of God, Charles had committed his entire life to the preservation of Christendom. His once-sparkling bright blue eyes were now tired and bloodshot. A thick, ragged blonde beard covered his gaunt face. Had his mother been there that day, she would not have recognized the man struggling to remain on his feet. He looked more like a poor vagabond than a Knight. Although only in his late twenties, he looked and felt considerably older. His once proud vestments were now nothing more than dirt-encrusted and lice-infested rags. He took his shirt, tore it into strips, and then wrapped it around his hands, feet and head to prevent frostbite. However, nothing he did seemed to help. His body had long grown numb from the piercing cold.
Behind him, Andre, a youth barely in his teens, his head wrapped against the wind until only his chestnut brown eyes showed, stoically pushed on; he knew his master’s fate would be his. Together they labored upwards ever higher into the mountains. Charles’ breaths soon grew hard and painful as his lungs ached for oxygen. His spirit may have been strong and resolute, but hunger and fatigue were taking their toll on his weakened body.
The path soon grew slick and treacherous from the never-ending snowstorm. Several times Charles thought he was going to slide over the edge of a precipice and disappear into the pitch-black chasm below them, but at the last second, his heart racing wildly in his chest, he would find a rocky outcropping to hold onto. Turning his head to the heavens, he mumbled his thanks. His fate, whatever it may be, was not going to be decided that way.
Both men had barely eaten anything in nearly four days. Charles wanted to rest and eat what was left of their meagre supply of bread and cheese to gain some small measure of strength, but any pause would only allow their pursuers a chance to catch up. Ignoring the gnawing hunger pangs in his stomach, Charles and his loyal Page continued to climb ever higher. Although he could not see the sun, Charles knew that it would soon be night. It would be foolhardy to keep moving in the dark, but he had no choice. He knew they would never stop. They would never rest.
No matter what, they had to keep going.
Charles could feel in his soul that they were getting close. He could not see very far in the whiteout, but he did not have to; Charles had memorized every detail of their route in his mind. Before setting out, he had diligently studied scriptures and maps found in the Church of the Apostles collected over the centuries from all over the Holy Land. Selected by the Fathers of the church for this task, he had thought of nothing else for months. Then one night, before the city fell to the massed armies of the Ottoman Empire bent on seizing Constantinople, Charles and Andre had escaped across the strait by boat, silently making their way past the Ottoman Armada anchored off shore. They quickly made their way east, plunging deeper into the heart of the Ottoman Empire.
As suddenly as the storm had hit, it stopped as if the hand of God had intervened. Turning a sharp bend on the narrow path, Charles saw what they had been searching for; a smile crept across his weathered face as he looked out upon a long snow-covered glacier that bent off towards the west. His heart raced in his chest. They were so close now, but so too were their pursuers. Looking back down the winding trail, Charles cursed under his breath as a man wrapped from head to toe in fur came
into view.
He was barely a minute or less behind them now.
Reaching under his coarse, snow-covered woolen jacket, Charles pulled out a cloth bag. He looked reverently down at the bag for a moment, as if debating if he were doing the right thing, before hurriedly handing it to Andre.
“Go with God, Andre,” said Charles firmly. “You must leave me and place this where it can never be found, unless by the will of the almighty himself.”
The young boy, his hand shaking, hesitated for a moment before reaching out and taking the bag. “But my Lord, what of you?” asked Andre, his voice trembling with fear.
Behind them, the fur-covered man closed in. Two others appeared from out of nowhere and hurried to join him.
Charles looked over at the men struggling up the narrow snow-covered path; calmness descended upon him.
It was time.
“Go now, Andre, and no matter what happens, don’t ever look back,” firmly ordered Charles. “Our fates have become undone here at this point in our journey. I have briefed you well. You know where to go and, more importantly, you know what God needs you to do. Do not worry about me. I will see you again in heaven, of this my youthful companion, there is no doubt,” Charles said with a warm, reassuring smile.
Tears streamed down his beat-red, wind-burnt cheeks. Andre nodded his head, tucked the bag into a large leather haversack slung over his shoulder, and then without looking back he warily stepped out onto the glacier, the snow crunching beneath his feet as he slowly walked head down, away from his master.
“Hurry boy,” yelled Charles over his shoulder.
With his heart pounding away like a base drum in his frail chest, Andre began to move as fast as his legs could carry him over the slippery surface.
Charles reached under his filthy robe and slowly drew his sword. A gift from his father when he left for Constantinople, Charles’ sword was sharper than any blade he had ever come across. It truly was the work of a master craftsman.
The three men saw the gleaming sword in Charles’ hand and stopped. Stepping back, Charles edged onto the glacier, his eyes locked on the strangers.
The men seemed to hesitate, not sure of what to do.
Charles stopped retreating and like Horatius guarding the entrance to Rome, he stood firm, barring the way.
Andre looked back. He saw the three men splitting up, like a pack of ravenous wolves circling their prey. His heart ached. He wanted to turn back, but instead he kept walking away from his master. With tear-filled eyes, he started to run.
The lead fur-covered man stopped and pulled down his hood, revealing his face. A red-bearded man with cold dark-green eyes stood there with his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.
Charles gritted his teeth and felt his body boil with anger. The man was no stranger. His name was John, a fellow Knight in his order.
With a smile, John stepped forward, his hands open and outstretched, offering no harm. “Charles, don’t be a fool,” said John calmly. “You may believe what you are doing is right, but we need what you have to retake Constantinople from the Ottomans.”
Charles, his eyes burning with rage, placed his sword between his feet. “We…or you ... need,” said Charles bluntly. “It is too late. God has forsaken Constantinople. It is lost.”
John stopped and looked deep into Charles’ bloodshot eyes. “My friend, you’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight,” he said with a feigned smile. “Just let me pass and I will not harm the boy. All I want is what he is carrying.”
Charles knew he was lying. John was a deceitful and untrustworthy man. How he was ordained in their Order was a mystery to Charles. Seeing the two other men standing on either side of him, just out of arm’s reach, Charles closed his eyes for a second. All feelings of fear seemed to drain from his body. With a look of fierce determination in his eyes, Charles raised his sword and stood ready to do battle.
“Don’t be foolish now, Charles,” said John tensely. “My men and I are more than a match for you. Don’t throw your life away. Stand aside and let us pass.”
Charles looked into his compatriot’s eyes and saw only lies. “Leave now or die,” said Charles.
“Have it your way,” snarled John.
In an instant, both attackers drew their swords and charged at Charles.
Anticipating their attack, Charles quickly stepped back, dropped down onto one knee, and swung his sword into the open stomach of the closest attacker. Blood spurted out all over the snow, turning it red. Spinning on his heels, Charles ran forward and then rolled over on his shoulder, coming up beside the surprised second assailant, who had just thrust his sword where Charles should have been. With one sharp thrust, Charles drove his sword deep into the man’s unprotected side. With a hiss escaping from the dying man’s lips, Charles pulled his blade out of his opponent, wiping the man’s blood off on his robes.
“Not so helpless as I had thought,” said John as he drew his sword and stepped forward.
Charles knew John was as skilled as he was with a blade. Keeping his eyes locked on John’s, he stepped back away from the slick, steaming pools of blood seeping out onto the ice.
In a flash, John raised his sword and swung it down hard towards Charles, hoping to cleave the man in two. Instead, he heard a loud clang and saw the sparks fly as both swords clashed. Stepping back slightly, John pulled back his sword and tried a quick thrust towards his opponent’s now-unprotected stomach.
Charles brought his sword down, sharply deflecting John’s attack. Sweat began to glisten on his brow. It was going to be a hard fight and Charles knew it.
John stepped back slightly, raised his sword above his head and then with a mighty cry, he charged straight at Charles. Swinging his blade down towards Charles’ right shoulder, he had his thrust stopped in mid-air by Charles’ upturned blade. With a flick of his wrist, a small dagger slid out from under his sleeve. Grabbing it with his left hand, he bent at the knees and then stabbed it as hard as he could into Charles’ unprotected armpit. He smiled as the blade sunk home. Twisting it, John sought to thrust open the bloody wound.
Charles felt a white-hot searing pain digging into his armpit. In that instant, he knew he was finished. Dropping his heavy sword, Charles staggered back on his feet, pulled out the dagger, and looked disbelievingly at it for a moment before tossing it away in the snow. Pain tore through his body.
“You fought well, old friend, but I have things I must do,” said John. “I will finish this quickly. You deserve that much from me,” John said, raising his sword to deliver a killing blow.
Charles fought the waves of pain and nausea rippling through his body. He saw through blurry eyes John walking towards him, a smug grin on his face. His mind fought to stay focused. He had to do something. He had to fulfil his oath.
Dropping to his knees, Charles saw the world begin to dim. His breathing became ragged. He was not long for this world.
John stopped beside Charles and brought his sword up above his head.
With what little strength he had left, Charles drew a knife hidden inside his robe and slammed it home into John’s stomach. Warm blood instantly flowed over his cold and aching hands.
With a look of disbelief in his glassy eyes, John doubled over, and then fell onto the snow, right beside Charles, his breathing pained and labored. With a grunt from his clenched teeth, John collapsed onto the snow and ice of the glacier and died.
“Did you think you were the only one who fought dirty?” said Charles with his dying breath. A second later, he too was dead.
Andre never saw what became of his master. Doing as he was told, he pushed on into the growing gloom. Like the men who now lay dead, Andre simply vanished from sight into the night, as if neither he nor they had ever existed.
Chapter 2
Atlanta – June 1864
The night grew hot and muggy. Dark storm clouds filled the sky.
A lone man walked beside a long narrow stretch of railway tracks. A thunder-like r
umble far off, in the distance, made the darkened figure stop and look anxiously towards the ever-encroaching Federal lines. He peered wearily into the darkness. Something made him uneasy. Was there someone else out there? A cold sweat broke out down his spine. He was barely twenty years old, but after three years of war, he looked twice his age. His dirty and bearded face was in need of a good long bath. Shaking his head at his foolishness, the man decided that it was only the sound of an approaching early summer storm, nothing else. With his pistol clasped tightly in his hand, he edged forward along the railroad track. Seeing an abandoned train station begin to emerge out of the night, the man smiled to himself—they were here. Turning about, he opened the closed shutter on his lantern and rocked it back and forth a couple of times, before closing the shutter, plunging himself back into the dark.
Down the track, towards the Confederate lines, a signal flashed back.
Letting out a deep sigh, the bearded youth stepped the tracks. The man, a Confederate soldier who had once been a railroad worker before the war, gripped his pistol tight in his hand.
The feeling was back. Something was not right.
An eerie silence suddenly gripped the countryside. The loud croaking from dozens of frogs in the nearby swamp all at once stopped, plunging the night into unbearable silence.
A terrible thought suddenly gripped the soldier’s mind…he was being hunted.
The sound of a train’s engine moving ever so slowly down the tracks towards him broke the silence, the noise startling. His heart hammered away in his chest. Taking a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves, the man tried to swallow but found that his mouth had turned cottony dry. He wanted to run, to flee, but he had to stay and guide the train, and its massive 32-pounder cannon encased in steel like an ironclad on land, past the train station and into a firing position another half-mile down the tracks.
A splinter of wood cracked in the dark.
Spinning about on his heels, the man aimed his pistol into the darkness and fired. The flash of the flame escaping from his pistol momentarily blinded him.
The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Page 1
