by J A Deriu
“Rainclouds, man!” Rovis exclaimed. “Are you jesting?” He walked across to the window with his hands firmly clasped behind his back.
“No, I am not. The vote was lost. Only a handful of votes in it, but it was lost.”
“How did this happen?”
“I can’t say for sure until there has been a close look, but it does look like there has been a significant change in shareholding. That would explain all the new faces and how they voted.”
Rovis looked across at Carsten and nodded his head. “How could they, whoever they are, become a majority so quickly?”
Taft opened his mouth and then shook his head. “It would not have all been new shareholders – impossible for such a change.”
“What are you saying, man? That some of the old guard would have changed their position on such a matter?”
Carsten stood, lifting himself with his hands pressed into the leather blotter of the desk. Both Rovis and Taft watched him. He gently hacked to clear his throat. “It is clear what has happened. Many thanks for your description.” He nodded at Taft. “Mister Taft, please contact those men immediately. Advise them not to be concerned with the vote by the shareholders. We will find another way to support them. Assure them that we will support them. Rolf, sit down.”
“Yes, sir,” Taft said, taking it as his signal to leave. He turned, looked back, and closed the door.
Rovis remained standing, tense, with his hands dropped at his sides.
Carsten looked across at him with a slight lifting of his eyes. “It is certainly clear what happened. Our enemies are sending us a message. They have allies already inside. We no longer control the company.”
Chapter Seven
The air had a heaviness that made it cumbersome to move, and the thick sand further slowed her pace. She had run for miles to find the lonely beach. Seaweed caught her leg, and she bent to pull it away. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and sucked in long breaths. The aqua-colored waves flowed toward her and touched her running shoes. It was not as lonely as she wanted. There were others nearby – some local children playing the game of running-away-from-waves and some Templars farther along who had thrown out a fishing line. She loosened her shoes and thrust her bare feet into the sand. The exercise was useful to clear her head. She had her bow and quiver strapped tightly to her back but padded by a fur covering to stop from chafing. She intended to shoot arrows for practice. A rock covered with seaweed provided an overhang under which she could store the bow and arrows. She felt the antiquated weapon. It had saved her life in the Qing battle. She was reluctant to part the feel from her body. They were stolen from the heirlooms of a Mughal royal family and had originated with the steppe warlords of the Mongol Empire. A learned man in the Qing had told her about the making of the weapons. The bow was made with layers of sinew from the tendon of a buffalo stretched over a maple and doused in linseed oil for a year. The grip was a carved, boiled horn. The bowstring was made of horsehair and refined after saturation in beeswax, resin, and fish glue. She pushed them out of sight.
She took off her shirt so that she was wearing her singlet and tight running pants and ran for the water. Without stopping she ran into the water and slowed when it reached her waist. She lowered and let the waves wash over her. The African water was warmer than any she had felt before. She put her head under the water. She thought of Paul and how he would have been joyous in the water and how he had died as a soldier of Christ, which meant that she would see him again. She thought of Saint Paul. “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved,” she said when she lifted her head out of the water with only herself to hear. She swam deeper so that she could not touch the bottom, and her body was tugged by the flow of the sea. She saw underneath, shells, fish, jagged rocks. She swam farther with aggressive strokes until her body tired, and then she let herself drift with her head looking at the sky. She would be looked for at the camp. She turned to go underneath, to see the fish again before leaving. The bottom was almost close enough to stand, rocks on either side, with the beach in the distance.
She turned sharply. A black shape had come quickly toward her as if shot through the water. She was quick enough to lift a forearm and block it from striking. Its impact was violent, and her body instantly adjusted and tensed. A spit of silver flashed under the water. It was a dagger, and the black shape was a man. She had no breath. She jerked back her head to avoid the dagger, which was aimed at her neck. The speed slowed under the water. She grabbed the wrist holding the blade. It had the feel of a stretched spring. The man pressed his other hand against her chest. He used his fist to push her to the seabed. Her last gulp of air bubbled out of her mouth and nose as her shoulders were forced back. She kicked up. He had the power of steel. His face was covered by a black wrapping that only let his dark eyes be seen. The rest of his body was also clad in tight black clothes. He had strength like she had never wrestled before. He placed his energy with the hand against her chest and not the one holding the dagger. His intention was to drown her.
Her head felt as if it were being hammered. Her search for air became desperate. She let go of the arm that was pushing at her chest. She flung her hand at his face. He pushed harder. Her hand had no power to leverage him off. It fell aside. Her fingers felt the sand and then the edge of a rock. She willed the energy to grip it. The rock had the sharpness of a knife. She ripped it across his neck and then along his face. His force loosened, and she was able to break his hold and swim for air and the beach. She broke the surface and gasped, the rock was still in her hand. She swung it again when he came out of the water clutching his throat. The water was at her waist. She hit him in the face with the rock and then with the fist of her other hand. She kicked at his knee so that he was stumbling toward the sand. He fell, the red of the blood stained his black clothes and the water. She hurried to him. He had lost the dagger but held up his hands to defend himself as he searched for air. She stalked close enough to strike again, watching his hands and tightening her fists.
The waves broke at her ankles. She waited while her breathing steadied. He made a quick movement with his hand toward his leg, and in a moment, he held a dagger again. It was a thick and short type. He held it toward her with one hand while he pressed his other hand against the bleeding at his neck. They eyed each other. His face mask had slipped, showing a crooked mouth. His eyes were calculating his next move. She moved an arm to strike and then changed to kick his arm. His hand fell, showing the gash at his neck. He grimaced and wildly slashed the knife to give himself room. She swerved to avoid and kicked hard at the back of his hand so that the knife fell. It landed at her feet, and she crouched to pick it up. His leg struck out like a snake, and she was masterfully tripped, landing on her backside. She tightened her grip on the knife and readied it for a thrust. The front of his tunic was saturated in thick blood. He looked at her emotionlessly for a moment, calculated, hesitated, and then turned and loped away. He hurried his pace, looking back. He ran past the rocks.
He was moving quickly, the trees of the jungle ahead. She athletically ran to the rocks, diving when she reached them. Her chest grazed against the rough surface. She reached under and pulled out her bow and quiver full of arrows. She handled an arrow and let the quiver fall. She lifted the bow, closed one eye, and notched the arrow. The assassin was moving into the jungle, his head turning back, his body showing the stress of his ripped neck. She took a moment to aim, angled the bow upward slightly, and released. The arrow arced across the sand, diving as it neared its target, slicing through his shoulder, and forcing him to the ground, his arm flung onto the sand.
She turned toward the waves. “Templars!” She yelled to be heard over the noise of the sea by the oblivious Templars who were fishing in the distance. “Templars, come.” She waved and moved to the fallen assassin.
She said nothing of the attack, other than to Captain Knight Miles. She did not want it to distract from what
had to be done. The Templars carried the assassin back to the camp. He was not dead. He was tied, bandaged, and placed under guards. The camp doctor would treat him, and then Miles would question him. The captain complained. “He is from the assassins’ guild – of that we can be certain. The matter of interest is – who was he working for? Prising that information from him will be an impossibility, I fear. An assassin does not talk. In his mind he is already dead.” She told him to do the best that he could and prepared for the morning meeting.
They crammed under the awning of a tent with the sides open to allow for the warm air to pass through. She was distracted for moments looking over the bodies, as if expecting a shape to pounce at her, as had happened in the sea. The liaisons had returned, and Captain Marco was reading their reports. “At the port of Tana, the Volunteer forces are landing. There are upward of a dozen different groups.” The harsh sunlight stressed his perpetual stubble.
“The port of Tana – is that not the capital of the Kingdom of Imerina?” Richord asked, waving away insects.
“That it is.”
“Then why would they be landing in such a place? It would be full of Persian spies and moles.”
“Yes, likely,” Marco answered.
“That is not our concern, Richord,” Fulke the Bear said. “The Volunteer forces will group where they will. More relevant, what is their composition? I believe the Romanovs have gone home.”
“Yes, they have,” Clavdia said. “Financing became a problem. But no one can fault their early support in the Qing campaign. Please continue, Captain Marco.” Clavdia noticed a group standing at the rear of the tent, their backs against the sunlight, their faces blurred. She could not immediately answer who they were.
“Lord Commander. The Volunteer forces have been bolstered by many organizations and Orders,” Marco continued. “The freelancers will be collected under the Montgisard Militia, which we have official sanction for.” He stopped after a general snigger from the Templars. “Well, we do, sort of. Nonetheless, to continue, the organizations of note are the Order of the Holy Ghost – they have reported numbers of a thousand – and the Brothers of the Gun and Sword – who have reported five hundred. Outside of the orders, the largest contribution will be from the Habsburg family of the Habsburg State. Numbers are unclear, but it is said that Harry Habsburg himself will be joining this expedition.”
“Ha,” Richord scoffed. “I will believe that when I see his pampered face. What of the Knights of Saint John? Have they joined in Tana? I bet not.”
Marco hesitated and then turned his head to look at the rear of the tent. “They are not in Tana, Captain. They are here.” Other heads followed him to look toward the rear. “For those of you that have not met, may I introduce the Knights of Saint John, the Knights Hospitaller, and their Lord Commander, Magnus.”
One of them stepped out of the light. He was thickset and had his fingers hooked into his leather belt, which dropped under his stomach. He wore a black tunic with a thick white cross on the front. His shrewd eyes scanned the group. He moved with the confidence of a professor to the center of the group. His crown was bald with white hair at the sides and a groomed beard covering his jawline. He held up his hand. “Greetings, brothers, from the Knights Hospitaller. We have only arrived in the last hour and are grateful for the invitation. We strive, like you, for an earthly conquest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.” He turned to Clavdia. “Greetings, Lord Commander,” he said with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
Her hand tightened around the rosary beads that she was holding. “Welcome, Lord Commander.”
Richord leaned forward as if to inspect the Hospitaller. “You are late. You missed the last battle.”
“Like all here we have joined the force for the remission of sins and to see the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the site of our Christ’s burial,” Magnus replied.
“More relevant than that, what are your numbers? How many men do you bring?” Richord asked.
“Our numbers are modest. We will be honored to stand alongside our brother Templars.”
The meeting continued. Magnus sat at the front of the group and intently listened to the reports. The speakers became hesitant, with furtive glances at the guest. Clavdia fatigued and bone-sore after the assassin, said little and let the meeting drift. Magnus used the hesitation to add his considered voice to the conversations. He talked of the Hospitallers’ journey to the island as if they had already encountered an enemy. He spoke with humor, and laughter spread over the group. Without interruption his speeches grew longer. He talked of tactics and battle formations, quoting from textbooks. He began another set of instructions. “We spent time in Tana with the Volunteers and the other Orders, as well as getting a feel for the locals. Asking them hundreds of questions about what waits ahead.” He joined his fingers in front of him and straightened. “One topic was recurrent in the discussions among the local and those of us from New Europa. And although it could be argued that it is not my place, I am compelled to add it to the matters for discussion in this forum.” He paused, like a politician. “It is that there is a reluctance among these fighters to be led into battle by a woman.” He turned to Clavdia. “I mean no disrespect, Lord Commander. This is my learned commentary. It could be superstition, it could be caused by anything, but it is genuine.”
“Why raise this?” Richord barked. “Who leads the Templars is only the business of the Templars.”
“I mean no disrespect.”
“Well, you give plenty.”
“Calm yourself, Captain. I only talk of this matter as I strive for victory, as we all do. What if this could be the factor?”
“Templars do not change their leaders based on the views of Hospitallers,” Richord answered.
“I do not suggest that,” Magnus said calmly, stroking his beard. “But what if there was a nominal leader? One that would keep all pleased.”
Richord puffed. The others sat still in silence.
“Who do you suggest?” Clavdia asked.
“Ha, it is not for me to suggest,” Magnus answered. “The choice would be rich. Look … for example, you have Captain Miles there, the hero of the Black Swans.” Miles jerked as though he had been shot. “Or you even have the general of the Janissaries. Imagine the effect that would have on both the morale of our forces and that of the enemy.” He pointed to Deen, who was sitting legs crossed on a mat with his arms resting on his knees. “To be led into battle by the greatest general of the sultan.” Magnus held his arm toward Deen.
Clavdia opened her mouth but stopped, unsure of what to say.
“If I may speak?” Deen said. Clavdia nodded. “I thank the loyal knight for his remembrance of me. Yet he is forgetting that my last battle was a loss. I was bested by the one you have said others have no confidence in. I think it would be easy to change their opinion. There is no such thing in battle as nominal.” He turned to Clavdia. “Thank you for allowing me to speak, Lord Commander.”
Miles stood up, glaring at Magnus. “You say that it may be superstition that is causing these opinions. Well, I’m superstitious too. Our Lord Commander has led us to three victories, and you don’t change that. Tell these people if they don’t want to be led by our Lord Commander to not come to the battlefield.” He turned to Clavdia. “I’m calling my time on this meeting, Lord Commander. I’ve got more important things to do.” He walked out of the tent, looking back once at the Hospitaller. The others took it as the signal for the end and moved to leave. Magnus moved back to stand with the other Hospitallers.
She sat alone on a mat in her tent, her legs crossed like she had learned in the Qing Kingdom. Her hands were clasped in front of her, bound by her rosary beads. On her lap was her open Templar manual, the loose pages moved with a breeze that had found its way through a crack. She closed her eyes and remembered its teaching. We cannot fight outside enemies if we are unable to conquer those within. We
must control our own bodies before a military force is placed under our control. We must purge our soul of vices before we face barbarians. Her body accepted the tension. “It should not be this life that concerns you,” she recited from memory. It was Godefroi de Bouillon, the first King of Jerusalem after the conquest, who said, “Man must remember that he is only dust and will return to dust.”
“Lord Commander,” Pedro called from outside. A moment later his head looked inside, and she had opened her eyes and dropped her hands. “He is here, Lord Commander.”
“Send him in.” She relaxed and put the book aside and the beads inside her pocket.
He stood tentatively in the open tent flap. Pedro smiled and dropped the flap so that she was enclosed in the tent with the Janissary general.
“Sit down, General,” she said.
He looked at the mat, saw the spare end, and sat across from her, crossing his legs like she had. “I see you have adopted the Oriental ways, Lord Commander.”
“I am always learning.”
He eased putting his hands on his knees, comfortably adopting the same position. He wore a blue singlet stained with sweat. “I apologize for my state, Lord Commander. I was notified that you wanted to meet and not given time to clean.”
“Were you playing moraingy?” She looked at a graze across his jaw.
“Yes, Lord Commander. It is an interesting martial art, well taught by the natives, and your Templars play very tough.” He felt his jaw.
“As I would expect. I will learn it myself.” She smiled. “I wanted to meet with you. We have not talked in conference. Firstly, I must thank you for the clearing of the citadel.”
