The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Time to get Elena, he knew.

  A flickering glow from down the road stopped him. His brow furrowed as he saw the light grow brighter and heard the jostling wheels of an approaching carriage. Driving Tornado deeper into cover, Zorro made out Ferroq at the reins of the carriage, McGivens riding alongside.

  Not a good sign.

  Zorro’s gaze narrowed as the conveyance entered the winery, Armand leaping out first, followed by two fighting figures dragged kicking and screaming to the ground by the smiling Ferroq: Elena and Joaquin.

  Shaking his head in wild horror, Zorro hissed, “Nonononononono—”

  McGivens joined Ferroq and together they roughly shepherded mother and son into the winery.

  The train was headed straight for the winery. Zorro’s breath quickened at the thought of the rocketing explosion that would soon light up the sky—taking his beloved and his son with it. He whipped Tornado into frantic motion, blazing a path back the way they had come, images of the spitting fuse searing into his brain.

  Within the moonlit courtyard, Armand strode boldly ahead, Ferroq and McGivens propelling Elena and Joaquin after him. The count’s hand closed on the trigger to the secret entrance.

  “Pity I’ve attracted the attention of Federal Agents,” said Armand wistfully, “we’ll be forced to take our leave for Europe sooner than expected.”

  “What makes you think we’re going with you?” demanded Elena.

  Armand smiled and gently touched her face—before hurling her down the underground staircase. “What makes you think you have a choice?”

  From the hills above, Zorro came racing down, Tornado bursting into a mad gallop. The fuse had crackled and burned along the train near the locomotive and was now firing its way toward the factory. Surging forward on Tornado, his face taut with effort, Zorro deftly calculated how much time he would need to arrest the fuse’s progress—and knew it would be all right. He was about to haul on Tornado’s reins when a sudden shift in the cool night air alerted him. He heard a biting whistling sound—

  Solid steel smashed into his chest and he was catapulted back from his saddle, landing hard on the chilled earth. A stocky man gripping a shovel in his enormous hands came at him out of the darkness as Tornado wheeled around and galloped back toward the bank.

  Zorro scrambled up from the ground and yelled to his horse, “Estupido! Get back here!”

  Sizing up the masked man, the stoker—for that was surely his vocation, his body reeking with the acrid scent of coal—tossed the shovel aside, leveling his fists at his opponent.

  Zorro shook his head. “Trust me, this is a very bad time.”

  The sizzling fuse shot past the men. Zorro dove for it—but the stoker’s huge foot stomped on his spine, thumping him down. A heavy fist smashed into the base of Zorro’s skull, a blinding flash of white light searing his sight as pain and rage roared within him. With an animal laugh, the stoker removed his boot from the masked man’s back and flopped Zorro over, grabbing him up by a handful of his costume and savagely leering at him.

  “Killing you will make me famous,” he growled.

  Zorro blinked, a half-dozen images of the stoker swimming in front of his face as his brain struggled to right itself, a twisted version of a child’s kaleidoscope.

  Whack!

  His head snapped back as a relentless rain of heavy-fisted blows hammered him. Unsparing uppercuts, jolting jabs, leaden left hooks—the man had been trained as a boxer. His punishing barrage drove Zorro back, even as the lit fuse hissed toward the heavy bottle of nitroglycerine. Fists raised, bobbing and weaving, the stoker laughed, “This is too easy.”

  Zorro’s boot sliced up between the stoker’s legs, connecting with a satisfying crunch. Emitting an agonizing whine, the stoker dropped to his knees.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” snapped the masked man, spinning and racing for the angry fuse. Zorro reached for it—

  And a sandbag fell on him, smashing him down. A sandbag smelling of soot.

  The stoker!

  “Always…wear… padding,” grunted the big man as he pinned Zorro to the ground.

  Zorro’s gaze shot ahead. The fuse flew forward, there was no chance of stopping it now. God forgive me…my love, my son, I will see you—

  He sniffed the air—and saw a puddle of water from where the stoker or some other pig had relieved himself. The fuse sped for it, reached it, and fizzled out.

  Madre di Dios! The guy really is full of piss and vinegar.

  Wriggling out of the stoker’s grip, his heart rising with relief, Zorro kicked him in the head and scrambled to get to his feet. In the fleeting instants it took Zorro to regain his footing, the stoker had snatched a torch from a brazier near the wall. With a howling cry, he swung it wildly at Zorro’s face. The masked man easily deflected the torch, smacking it from the stoker’s grip. The fiery torch toppled end over end—and dropped onto the fuse, reigniting it!

  A sudden jangling of steel chains caused Zorro to whirl toward the stoker—who slammed a pulley and chain dangling from a steel girder into his masked opponent’s face. Staggering back, Zorro could offer no resistance as the stoker noosed the chain around his neck and yanked it tight.

  “Time for a lynchin’!” yelled the stoker.

  Choking, his eyes popping, Zorro clawed desperately for his sword as the fuse snaked near the hanging bottle under the nitro car. His trembling gloved hand closed on the hilt. Seconds passed like years until finally he thrust the sword handle backward into the stoker’s gut. The stoker doubled over with a stunned wheeze, his grip on the chain loosening. The cold steel around Zorro’s throat uncoiled and the masked man dropped to the ground. Lashing out again with his sword he severed the chain, sending the steel pulley plunging onto the stoker’s head with a sharp crack that knocked him out cold.

  Zorro bounded toward the nitro car, the fuse relentlessly closing on its target soon to blow everything Zorro cared about in this life to bloody pieces.

  Elsewhere near the tracks, Armand stood with Beauregard and said, “We’ll rendezvous at Clanton’s Pass, you and your men can assume control of the train there.”

  The colonel smiled. “I’ll have a carriage waiting to take you to the docks.”

  Exchanging quick formal nods, they parted, Armand striding on toward the train. He stopped by the passenger car to bow to his fellow knights. McGivens and Ferroq held Elena and Joaquin a dozen paces off from the group.

  With a pale flourish of his hand, Armand forced a smile and said, “Until we meet again in Europe, gentlemen—au revoir.”

  A fluttering of fabric alerted Armand. He spun as Zorro leaped into view, bounding for a particular car.

  Seeing his hero, Joaquin cheered, “Zorro!”

  McGivens drew his pistol to fire on the masked marauder, but Joaquin’s foot whipped up, brutally snapping into the gunman’s knee. The bullet went wide, pinging as it ricocheted off the locomotive. Joaquin bolted toward Zorro—while McGivens cheerfully took aim at the back of the boy’s head.

  Elena screamed, “NO!”

  Salvation was at hand. The pistol with that word carved in its grip exploded as Zorro dove for Joaquin, knocking him out of the way. Zorro felt a tug against his sleeve as the bullet ripped through it, grazing his arm. He tumbled to the ground, snapping back to his feet and racing wildly away as the fuse he had set reached the hanging bottle.

  The glass bottle fell, the hard ground reaching up, ready to shatter it. Zorro’s hands arced beneath it, catching the bottle like a father gently catching a baby—with only inches to spare. He took in a deep breath of the cool night air, tainted with the acrid smell of burned cord, and glanced down with relief at the bottle of nitro in his hands. He edged back into view, Armand and all the others staring at him. They knew damn well what he held in his hands.

  Armand gestured—and a guard snatched the still shaken Joaquin. The count shrugged. Now they each knew what the other held. Strolling toward Zorro, Armand bent down and held out his h
ands for the bottle.

  “If you please?” asked Armand.

  Zorro’s face was a dark mask of fury, his eyes gleaming with the desire to draw his sword and cut Armand to pieces. But he knew he was beaten—at least for now. The guard could snap Joaquin’s neck at any moment, and Ferroq gleefully pressed his curving scissor-like crescent blades to Elena’s throat.

  Eyes fierce, trapped, Zorro rose and handed the bottle to Armand.

  “Merci,” mused Armand, gently setting his burden on a crate. His smile was that of a cat that had drunk all the milk in the house and didn’t care who knew it. “And your sword.”

  Zorro tossed it to the ground with an echoing clank.

  Armand signaled McGivens, who snickered as he slugged Zorro in the gut, folding him over and dropping him to his knees. The masked man grimaced as his arms were bound behind his back, the rope tied so tightly his hands went numb in seconds.

  Appraising his captive with casual arrogance, as if he were in the midst of hosting another wine tasting, Armand peered down at Zorro. “Yes, and remove his mask.”

  Alejandro glared up from behind his mask, his gaze locking with that of Elena. His heart sank as he took in the look of mute appeal in her tear-stained eyes, then his gaze traveled to his son, whose eyes burned with defiance—and fear.

  The masked man looked up as Jacob McGivens towered over him, the scarred man’s hand striking with the speed of a cobra, tearing the silken cloth from his face. The former preacher gasped and whispered, “You…”

  Armand tossed his head back, his laughter rifling the stillness that had settled upon them. “What a splendid jest—what a perfect going away gift. Really, de la Vega, you astound me. I couldn’t have asked for more!”

  Joaquin’s chest was heaving, his eyes huge pools of confusion, his world suddenly rocked to its very foundations by this shocking revelation.

  Shaking like a colt, he whispered, “Papi?”

  A cold hand of mourning closed on Alejandro’s heart. “It’s alright, niño…’’

  Joaquin stared back, reeling. His father was Zorro.

  His father had just saved his life…

  Armand leaned close to Alejandro. In a friendly, man-toman conspiratorial hush, laced with cruel bemusement, he said, “You’ve lost it all. Your wife, your son…and for what?” Armand took the mask and wiggled it before Alejandro’s eyes. “For this?”

  Fixing the count with a monstrous glare, Alejandro snarled through gritted teeth, “No matter where you go, Armand…whatever you do…the world isn’t big enough to hide from me.”

  In a mocking whisper, Armand hissed, “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t think it’s going to be an issue.”

  Armand nodded to Ferroq, who dragged the struggling Elena close. Armand’s hand delicately caressed Elena’s cheek—ignoring the way she recoiled—as he distractedly murmured, “Goodbye, de la Vega.”

  Ignoring Alejandro’s searing gaze, Armand nodded to McGivens. Chortling with delight, the scarred man drew his savage bowie knife. Standing behind Alejandro, McGivens pressed it against his victim’s throat—and held it there.

  “Papi!” screamed Joaquin.

  “Come along quietly now,” urged Armand evenly.

  “Armand…” begged Elena, her eyes pleading for mercy.

  Studying the boy’s face, Armand frowned and calculated just how much harder it would be to condition this brat to become his rightful heir one day if the image of his father’s death were indelibly stamped upon his memories.

  He nodded. “Resist me no further.”

  She cast her gaze downward in acquiescence and placed her feet upon the steps to board the train.

  The moment she was no longer in view, he mouthed to McGivens, “As soon as we’re gone…’’

  The gunman grinned and tipped his hat. With pleasure.

  Armand urged the soldier holding Joaquin to bring him forth. The guard withdrew and Armand placed one hand on Joaquin’s shoulder, the other on the sensuous curve of Elena’s lower back.

  Yes, far better that the condemned man see that his precious sweetheart and son will be well taken care of…

  Alejandro shouted after her, “Elena!”

  Elena spun, her eyes already brimming with grief for the love of her life and father of her child.

  Speaking slowly, clearly, his words ripped directly from his heart, Alejandro said, “Mi familia es mi vida!”

  Elena nodded, her eyes welling with tears. Armand roughly thrust her into the steadily humming train before her constricted throat might utter a sound. Joaquin flung himself from Armand, but Ferroq caught him before he could clear more than a few yards toward his father. The bald man hauled the kicking and screaming ten-year-old into the train, the whistle blasting as the train slowly jostled down the tracks. Through the window of the passenger car, Alejandro met his wife and son’s anguished gazes for the last time. His soul was rended by the longing and regret in Elena’s eyes. Joaquin was beside her, his fists crashing desperately against the window while tears streamed down his cheeks. Their faces were swept away into the night as the train chugged ahead, then picked up speed and sped away.

  A fist lashed across Alejandro’s chin, toppling the bound man to one side, forcing him to stare up into the scarred face of Jacob McGivens, to whose tender ministrations he had been delivered.

  The former preacher circled, his wooden teeth gleaming in the moonlight as he waved his blade high. “ ‘I send you out a sheep amongst the wolves…’”

  Worried that his one-man flock wasn’t paying attention, McGivens stabbed his knee into Alejandro’s chest, forcing the air from his victim’s lungs while pinning him to the ground. A murmur of approval rose from the tangle of guards who had arrived to see the train off while satisfied laughter burst from the fistful of robed men further down the tracks.

  Alejandro desperately drew a few shallow breaths. Glad to give all of you your money’s worth…

  McGivens grinned. “Shame about your friend, the padre. He died with God’s name on his lips…and a bullet in his heart.” He raised his Bowie knife. “You’re about to join him.”

  Gritting his teeth, Alejandro rocketed a knee into McGivens’s crotch, tossing the surprised—and pained—gunman from him. “You first!”

  Alejandro sprung off the floor. A blade swept out from the hand of a startled guard. With a wry smile, Alejandro thrust his bound hands up to meet the weapon—laughing as the blade bit through the ropes binding him. Whirling, he aimed a powerful kick at the man’s ribs, reveling in the jarring impact that stole up his opponent’s leg and in the crackle he heard as the man staggered back, his blade soaring high. Plucking the weapon from mid-air, Zorro drove the tip at the ground and flicked his mask up, catching it with his free hand. Quickly tying on the black silk, he whirled to face an angry brace of guards.

  “Now,” invited Zorro as he raised the tip of his blade once more, “shall we try that again?”

  Chapter 16

  Half a dozen guards attacked as one, like a murderous beast lunging toward Zorro with flashing razor-sharp claws. A flurry of angry faces glared at the masked man from behind. Zorro burst into their ranks, a whirling dervish swiping at them with sizzling hot steel, leaving ragged crimson gashes on otherwise pristine uniforms, spilling blood from shallow wounds onto perfectly polished buckles and boots.

  Grinning, exhilarated by the fight, Zorro thought, Is this the best they have to offer? I’ve had better fights with Tornado!

  While the battle raged, McGivens slowly dragged himself off the ground, struggling to overcome the blinding pain racing through him with his every motion. His trembling hand sought Salvation, found it, and aimed the gun at the caped fighter.

  “Don’t worry, you miserable godless heathen,” whispered the scarred man as he carefully took aim, forcing his quivering hand into rigidity. “A couple of shots to make you manageable, then you better buckle up, ’cause I’m gonna bring back the Spanish Inquisition!”

  A rough sound
at his back made the gunman spin, his finger closing on the trigger—

  He froze, his heart skipping a beat, his blood turned to ice. The sound had been a man clearing his throat. No, not a man. A demon in a holy man’s habit.

  I killed you.

  With a shout of rage, Fray Felipe leaped at McGivens, driving the haunted man to the ground, sending his loathsome gun flying. His fists descending in a hailstorm of fury, the padre’s lips pulled back in a horrifying, gruesome grin as he pounded the scarred man until his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Hauling the former preacher to his feet, Felipe hurled McGivens against a wall.

  “You call yourself a man of God?” snarled Felipe. “You’ll soon be able to talk to Him about that!”

  A high sharp whistle caused the padre to back away, his fist still coiled to strike. As McGivens bounded back from the wall, a blade snapped forward to meet him—slicing a stinging “Z” into his cheek!

  “That was for Guillermo Cortez,” spat Zorro through gritted teeth.

  Shuddering in confusion, McGivens dabbed a finger to his stinging, flayed cheek and stared at it in shock. “Blood of the lamb…”

  Zorro and the padre exchanged arched eyebrows. Aren’t you supposed to be singing with the angels?

  Have you ever heard me sing? Believe me, it is better I suffer here on earth…

  The cadre of guards were recovering from the thrashing Zorro had given them and racing ahead once more. Trading places like experienced dance partners, Zorro and Felipe took on one another’s enemies, the masked man grappling with the insane former preacher, Felipe wading into the guards. At their backs, the assembled Knights of Aragon fled in a mad, frightened tangle.

  Zorro sheathed his sword and brought his fists to bear against the murderer. His thoughts were not of justice as he battered McGivens’s face. Instead, he found himself reveling in McGivens’s agony as he savagely, ruthlessly folded him over, drove him to the ground, then hauled him up and whaled on him some more.