The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8)

by William Dietrich

  Gunfire slackened in surprise. The sound from the cellar briefly stopped. Russians shouted to each other in consternation.

  She blew again. And then again, like the French hero Roland at the Pass of Roncevaux. The sound echoed across her estate as a call to arms. Hearteningly, I heard hunting horns call in response.

  “The entire countryside will rise,” she promised, her chest heaving.

  “I love your music.”

  “We practiced after the last invasion.”

  The Russian shooting began again, becoming more urgent.

  “We may be the best shots,” I said, “Caleb and I can man the upper door while your men defend the cellar stairs. A volley when they charge upward. Pikes for Astiza and Marie.”

  “I don’t know how to use a pike!” Countess Walewska protested.

  “You stab,” Astiza instructed. “With the pointed end.”

  The Russian commander called out again, his voice betraying anxiety. “Give up what you’ve stolen, Ethan Gage! Surrender it and we’ll leave you alone!” By Satan’s luck, the voice was wretchedly familiar. Was it possible?

  The princess sucked in breath, puffed her cheeks, and blared. The temple reverberated like a bell. She gasped for breath, face red, eyes bright, tendrils of hair plastered to her cheeks. “My estate and village can muster hundreds with guns, scythes, and pitchforks,” she wheezed. “More, if the women join. The Russians have stumbled into a hornet’s nest, Monsieur Gage.” Sixty years old, a princess without a principality, and she could shriek like a Valkyrie. I am forever attracted to strong women. This one could spit brimstone.

  Caleb and I took turns firing out the slit in the front, a game of marksmanship in which it was damnably difficult to keep score. The tree cover was thick and the Russian soldiers had gone to ground.

  “I can get off two shots for every one of yours, brother,” Caleb said.

  “And I can hit a target twice as far.”

  Shots were fired from down below up the stairway, pinging into the dome. Outside, hunting horns echoed from every direction, a Polish rally that unnerved even me. The Russians were sounding desperate as they, who’d surrounded us, were being surrounded. Yet just as the tide was turning in our favor the men in the cellar stormed the stairs.

  “Fire!” Izabela’s groundsmen volleyed and Russians cried and tumbled. Answering bullets came from below. One of our men fell, writhing from a leg wound. Marie yelled and hurled her pike, leaving herself empty-handed but eliciting a howl from one of our enemies. A Russian head appeared, Astiza viciously jabbed, and the man fled downstairs again. There were calls of frustration as the attackers regrouped. Then they surged once more, before the Czartoryski servants were done reloading, so some groundsmen hurled down suits of armor on top of them. “We need more guns!”

  Outside, Polish reinforcements were beginning to shoot into the Russian attackers from the rear.

  “This is madness!” Astiza called. “Can’t we talk?”

  I looked outside for the man demanding the swords. A miasma hung in the air, punctuated by muzzle flashes and the whiz and whap of bullets. How serene the pagan temple had seemed an hour ago, and how quickly it had been yanked into modern barbarity! I shouted out my suspicion.

  “Dolgoruki, is that you?”

  The gunfire slackened again. “A prince of Russia,” came a reply from behind a tree, “reclaiming what you stole.”

  “You’re going to be massacred, idiot!”

  “Not before we kill you first.”

  “You’ll die uselessly for antique iron?”

  “For honor and restoration!” His men banged away.

  “What lunatic are we dealing with?” Izabela asked me.

  “Prince Peter Petrovich Dolgoruki,” I said, the name sour on my tongue. “He combines blustering arrogance with courageous stupidity, and was a fool at Austerlitz. He no doubt thinks seizing the swords will get him back in favor with the tsar.”

  “Is he amenable to reason?”

  “Barely.”

  “Can he set aside his passion?”

  “Barely. Better to get a clean shot.”

  “No, your wife is right. Let’s parley. A determined assault will absorb all our bullets. They’ll use the captured temple to bargain for their lives, threatening to destroy our heritage. Talking will buy time to make their position hopeless. What can we use for a flag of truce?”

  “Let me at least contribute something,” said Marie. “I, too, believe in negotiation.” She reached under her dress and ripped off a piece of white chemise, giving us a glimpse of leg and ankle. It’s odd what a man will notice.

  Izabela used an old spear to thrust a white flag through the doorway. “Parley, Dolgoruki! Parley! Cease fire before more are needlessly killed!”

  “You surrender?” His voice was shaky.

  “I’ve a proposition to save both our lives.”

  “The only proposition is to give up the swords!” The imbecile had spark, I’ll give him that.

  “The only proposition besides compromise is death, my bold prince.” Izabela’s voice was cold with warning. “Your men are surrounded. By dusk there will be a thousand Poles here. Each one remembers Russian savagery. They’ll hunt you to the last man.”

  There was a long silence.

  “At least hear what I have to say,” she persisted.

  “The rogues below have dragged off their wounded and backed into the cellar,” Caleb reported. “They’re waiting for orders.”

  “Use the respite to barricade,” I said. “Take the sturdiest museum pieces and choke the stairs.”

  Servants began to comply.

  “I’m low on powder, brother.”

  “Me too. I may have use for my medieval horse pick.”

  But finally Dolgoruki stood away from his sheltering tree and stood defiantly, holding a useless cavalry saber. “I’ll listen.”

  “Sheath your silly sword,” Izabela commanded. “And approach on foot, alone.” She shouted into the forest. “No shooting, by order of Princess Czartoryski! Hold your fire as long as the Russians do! If they break the truce, kill them all!”

  Horns tooted to signal understanding.

  The prince was in a general’s uniform, somewhat pretentious for the leader of a few dozen men. I guessed he didn’t want the other commanders of the Russian army to know this side errand and had marched off with a modest company of volunteers, assuring them quick victory and easy loot.

  Instead, Izabela had given him a real fight. Dolgoruki came to the foot of the stairs and stood as truculent as a school bully. The princess stepped out the iron doors and studied him with distaste, her war horn at her side.

  “Get Ethan out where I can see him,” the Russian demanded. “I don’t want a rifle in his hands.”

  So I made sure I did keep my rifle in hand as I stepped onto the portico. I stayed close to a pillar, grounding the loaded weapon by its butt. “Indeed you don’t, Dolgoruki.”

  “You’re a thief and murderer, Gage. The report is that you killed your own manservant. And you, Princess Czartoryski, are jeopardizing the fortunes of your entire family by sheltering a criminal.”

  “Which Gage are you referring to?” said my brother, stepping out to a pillar on the other side of the door and grounding his musket as well.

  His appearance made Dolgoruki gawk. He looked from one to the other of us as if we were a magic trick. “The snake has molted.”

  “For a blundering soldier surrounded and outnumbered, you have a risky instinct for insult, lieutenant,” Caleb said, deliberately misstating the uniform rank. “Strong words and weak position gets a man killed.”

  “I am a prince of Russia.”

  “With a lieutenant’s command.”

  My brother had his own knack for insult. Must run in the family.

  Dolgoruki flu
shed. “How are you two related?”

  “Brother and guardian,” Caleb said. “I’m the responsible one.”

  “You’ve joined an odious conspiracy, guardian.”

  “It’s called return of confiscated treasure to its rightful owners,” I said. “Princess Czartoryski is assembling a museum of national heritage to celebrate her nation’s rebirth.”

  “When Bonaparte reestablishes our country,” Izabela put in. She had her own skill at getting under Dolgoruki’s skin.

  The prince did his best to draw himself up with haughty scorn, but he couldn’t very well look down his nose at us since we were up on the temple portico and he was at ground level. “You can defeat me with your village militia,” he tried, “but unless you want war with the tsar you’ll give the swords back now.”

  “It seems to me we’re already at war, thanks to your bumbling ambush, and that you’re losing it,” Izabela replied. “I have an offer. If you accept, we become allies. But if you don’t, by nightfall you’ll be my prisoner and your men will be dead. I’m not exaggerating about a thousand followers.”

  He glanced behind, as if to count. “You’ll die too,” he said stubbornly.

  “Possibly. This war is as stupid as any other. So we can fight it out to the end or you can accept my proposal.”

  “Which is?” He sounded like Harry when contemplating vegetables.

  “That you partner with the Gage brothers here.”

  That struck a blow not only to him, but us as well. What in Hades?

  “Are you joking?” the Russian said. “For what possible reason?”

  “To retrieve a relic even more valuable than the Grunwald swords, an artifact that will restore your career and save Russia.”

  Dolgoruki looked suspicious. “What relic is this?”

  “Something that again and again has changed the history of the world. Something that could insure Russia’s survival in the coming wars.”

  “What coming wars?”

  “Come, prince, you’ve met Napoleon. Don’t be naïve. The Gage brothers can help you as they’ve helped me.”

  “We can?” I asked.

  “But it will require enormous valor on your part, Prince Dolgoruki, and enormous sacrifice on mine, since I’d dreamed of retrieving this icon for myself. It’s my compromise for peace. In return, the Grunwald swords must be guaranteed to Poland and the Gage family gets to live in peace and safety when they complete the quest. Russia must grant them amnesty.”

  “That’s unacceptable. Besides, I’ve no amnesty to grant.”

  “You’ll be in a position to seek any favor you wish from the tsar, once you retrieve what I’m offering. So I demand your word of honor that you’ll guarantee Gage family safety. Otherwise you surrender, or die, and the swords still stay here, and Russia gets nothing. Your choice is a futile death, or a chance at heroic immortality.”

  “Why me?” he asked suspiciously.

  She let the question hang in the air a moment. “Because you’re expendable. No man who has sought this prize has ever returned.”

  Incredibly, this seemed to intrigue Dolgoruki as much as it alarmed me. “If we stop this battle, you’ll reveal this prize?”

  “I’ll tell you where it is, and how to get it.” She was cool as an estate agent striking a bargain.

  “I must go with the execrable Americans?”

  “They’re all quite necessary to success.”

  “Princess, what is this place?” Astiza whispered anxiously.

  Izabela ignored her. “Do you agree?”

  I wanted to interrupt too, asking just what it was we were necessary for, but it did seem expedient to end this battle—even if it meant partnering with the annoying Russian. So I waited.

  “Agreed,” he finally said.

  “Agreed to what?” Izabela pressed.

  He hung his head and muttered. “I agree to give up the swords in return for a better trophy. If you convince me it exists.”

  “No.” Her voice was clear, carrying to the Russian soldiers and the Poles beyond. “You agree to stop this ridiculous attempt to steal back swords that have been the rightful property of Poland for four hundred years, in return for my revealing an alternative. Otherwise, all of you perish. Your men must lay down their arms and return to their army. You must proceed by yourself, alone, with the Gage family.”

  He shook his head in frustration, but what choice did he have? “My men will not surrender their arms,” he stubbornly tried.

  “They will or die. And if Russia dares comes again, they’ll find my servants armed with captured Russian guns.”

  Dolgoruki hesitated.

  “Sire, do not humiliate us!” one of his men pleaded.

  “I’m offering you redemption and your men life,” Izabela insisted.

  Dolgoruki fumed, but the hopelessness of his position was clear even to him. It looked like half of Poland had filled in behind him. His depleted command was surrounded by an armed mob. He turned to another officer. “Take the men back across the river. If I don’t return in four hours, return to our regiment and explain that I’m on a mission for Mother Russia.”

  “But prince, I don’t trust these Poles!”

  “Neither do I, but neither do I fear them. Nor will I throw away your lives for nothing. Today, do as I command. We’ll find better fortune tomorrow.”

  The man reluctantly saluted, and the Russian soldiers slowly began to stand up and reveal themselves. The agreement was whispered from man to man, and conveyed to the troops in the basement. After a low debate, the cellar soldiers filed out its broken door, carrying their wounded.

  “Leave your weapons,” Dolgoruki commanded. His men reluctantly stacked muskets and slowly backed through the Polish ranks, hundreds of Izabela’s fighters watching them go with ominous silence.

  Soon the prince was completely alone.

  “Done,” he said, as if the retreat had been his idea. “Where and what is this prize?”

  “It’s not to be shouted,” Izabela said. “Step up here.” Dolgoruki mounted the steps between the lions in his high cavalry boots, spurs jangling, sheathed saber swaying like a tiger’s tail, brave and humiliated. He scowled at me.

  “The icon is in another castle,” she said, “at the edge of the Ottoman Empire in the high Carpathian Mountains. All of you must work together in order to get it.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “That will become clear in due time. You’ll agree to help the prince, Ethan, in return for amnesty from Tsar Alexander and reward from Poland. Success will give the prince new renown, you forgiveness, us the swords, and laurels for all involved. A title, I think you said.”

  So one difficult task by my confidant Adam Czartoryski had turned my family into fugitives, and now I had a new one from Adam’s mother. Did Czartoryski let slip to the Russians that the swords were coming to Pulawy, only to turn the tables on Dolgoruki? Izabela had made sure Caleb and I came armed. What had she told my brother last night? How much of this had been planned, how much accident, and how much fate?

  Once more we were in bondage to someone else’s ambition, and in partnership with a man I despised. Prince Ethan was apparently pawn Ethan, and my greed in St. Petersburg had ensnared me in webs I still didn’t fully understand. I looked at Caleb. Was my brother a part of this manipulation as well? He neutral look revealed nothing. “And why haven’t you already fetched this prize yourself?” I asked our hostess.

  “Yes. If this icon is real, why don’t you already have it?” Dolgoruki seconded.

  Izabela lowered her voice. “Because the Trojan palladium, prince, is possessed by Cezar Dalca.”

  And at that, both Dolgoruki and Caleb sucked in their breath.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Carpathian Mountains are a thousand-mile-long crescent of rugged peaks that wrap around a land ap
art. All of the range is wild and cloud-cloaked, but its southeastern quarter soars eight thousand feet to cup a rugged frontier region called Transylvania, Latin for “beyond the forest.” This windy tumble of cliff and pine is the reputed refuge of a renegade duke and bandit chief named Cezar Dalca, a reclusive warlord whom our expanded fellowship pledged to find. In his stronghold we hoped to seize an icon as old as history itself, and finally redeem our ambitions.

  Our goal, I was told, was the Trojan palladium—an old Greek statue with powers I’d yet to fully understand. Caleb and Dolgoruki were apparently aware of its reputation and owner but declined explanation until we neared Dalca’s stronghold.

  “Best not to worry until you have to,” Dolgoruki said.

  “Don’t put stock in tavern stories,” Caleb added.

  Which made us worry all the more.

  The Romanians call Transylvania Ardeal. The Saxon settlers who dominate the valley towns prefer Siebenburgen, or “the seven fortresses.” Here the proud Dacians made a final stand against the conquering Roman emperor Trajan, who lusted for their gold and silver mines. Later invaders included Hun and Magyar, Avar and Turk, soaking the land in blood. Today the Carpathians are a rampart of the Austrian Empire. The Ottoman provinces of Moldavia and Wallachia lie just beyond, their captive Christians oppressed and restive. Even as we traveled, Russian armies were marching to brew another war.

  Transylvania seemed detached from such events, gripped in its own universe. By legend this is where the world’s darker creatures stalk, crawl, and fly. Its treasures are supernatural, guarded by gypsies, thieves, vagabonds, witches, werewolves, vampires, sorcerers, wizards, necromancers, and hermits—or so claim the mystic texts. If our sojourn in Prague last year brought us to the European capital of mystery, this is mystery’s hinterland. Magic resides like mist in Transylvania’s hollows, and wolves still prowl its forests. Two bears once rose on their hind legs to inspect us as we passed. Astiza told us that Transylvanians believe bears are trapped, enchanted men.