Mouth agape, Joaquin bolted toward her, beaming in amazement. “Way to go, mom!”
Grabbing her son’s hand, Elena yanked him along the length of the car to a rickety far door which she forced open and dragged him through. He cast one last worried glance back to his father and the count, who rolled one way then the other upon the floor, their hands locked around each other’s throats, then he was gone, dragged into the roaring wind.
Moaning, Ferroq rose slowly. He stumbled toward Armand and the masked man, whipping out his crescent scissor blades—
Armand kneed Zorro in the gut to drive him off. Scrambling to his knees, Armand snarled, “Get the boy!”
Obedient as an automaton, Ferroq spun and raced after Elena and Joaquin.
Armand rose to face Zorro. The corners of Armand’s mouth curled as he stared into de la Vega’s glowing eyes. Beams of pure white sunlight struck the don’s face, transforming de la Vega into a vengeful wraith.
Overconfident fool, thought Armand. A light just like that shone in father’s smiling face instants before Ferroq ambushed him.
They drew their swords, the blades gleaming with death’s solemn promise.
“I’ve already asked God’s forgiveness for killing you,” said Zorro, his voice as cold and hard as tempered steel.
Armand grinned confidently. “When you see him, tell him you spoke too soon.”
They crashed together in a fury of sparking blades.
Chapter 17
Joaquin’s chest felt as if it were going to explode as he raced behind his mother from car to car, stopping suddenly when they reached the one loaded with crates of nitroglycerin. How did Zorro—no, scratch that—how did Papi stay so calm when people were trying to kill him? Joaquin’s hands were covered in sweat and he could barely think straight. He watched as mama hurled open the back door, dragging him into the howling wind once more and onto the divider platform linking one car to the next. The wind smacked him in the face like a cold fist. The frantic uneven clacking of the train assaulted his ears. The countryside hobbled and bounced by in a crazy blur. The train would surely jump its tracks if it didn’t slow down!
Elena gestured onward to the next car, shouting against the wind, “I want you to keep going!”
“What are you doing?” howled Joaquin.
“When the cars stop, get off the train and follow the tracks back to town!” Elena instructed her son carefully.
“I’m scared!” cried Joaquin as he clutched hold of the door. Despite his words, there was a tremor of excitement rising within him, a thrill that only came with looking death itself in the eye—and not flinching.
Her brave, brave boy…
Elena knelt so that she met her son’s eyes. You are so much like your father, she thought warmly.
Absently brushing a hair from his face, the love she felt for him crackling and alive in her every look, every gesture, she told him, “You’re the son of Zorro. You can do this.”
The muscles in his handsome face twitched as if he recognized the words she had spoken, but could not quite grab hold of their meaning. This was a dream come true for him…wasn’t it?
She kissed him fiercely. “Go!”
Elena urged him fully onto the platform, then reached for the cool steel linchpin connecting the cars. With a look that said they might never see each other again—except in their dreams, except in their hearts—she yanked it free.
The further car jerked back, bounded and shuddered as it rocked from one side to the other, Joaquin screeching as he grasped at a handhold and held on for dear life. Then the separated car settled, and Elena’s gaze locked with that of her son as he was swept away from her. She had extended her arm out as if she might close the terrible distance between them, when the train took a sharp turn. Suddenly she was the one holding on, desperate not to be thrown to the ground where her body might be shattered. When she looked up again, she could barely see her son’s car through the cloud of dust that had kicked up around it.
Ripping open the door to the barreling car he’d just boarded, Joaquin backed inside. Gulping great mouthfuls of air, he sank to his trembling knees and thought, Mama, Papi, no…please don’t leave me….
A familiar whinny accompanied by a warm gust of breath blew at his back. He spun, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise as Tornado’s enormous black head filled his vision. A second blustery snort sounded and a foul blast of air knocked Joaquin to his backside, his tension suddenly broken by laughter. Driving himself forward, he hugged the stallion’s head, stroking his mane.
“How’d you get in here?” chortled the disheveled ten-year-old.
A low moan rose from the back of the car. Joaquin drew back as he saw a pair of guards struggling to their feet behind the stallion. With a savage backward kick of both hooves, Tornado smacked the men against the back wall again, where they slowly dropped face first onto thin beds of hay.
Joaquin shifted his gaze from the unconscious men to the mess that had been made of the canvas that should have been covering the roof. Terrible destruction, bruised and broken bodies, hmmm. His eyes lit up like firecrackers as he put enough of the puzzle together to happily satisfy his curiosity. Papi’s been here!
A pair of angry blades careened and crashed in the ruin of the passenger car, Zorro and Armand attacking in a wild cyclone of bold and daring thrusts and ripostes, furious slashes and frantic sweeping arcs. They leaped over seats, drove one another against cabinets, and shattered windows. The last time Alejandro had faced a swordsman who wielded his weapon with such skill and confidence had been those first days when Don Diego fought circles around him, the older man’s sabre striking as if it were a storm of swords, not a single blade.
Zorro advanced, thrusting his blade toward what he thought was his enemy’s lone area of vulnerability—only to retreat as he realized that Armand was simply leading him into another trap.
Steel blades flashed and sparked while steely gazes locked. Each firmly planting themselves, they drove their swords at one another, Zorro driving off double-slashes to the head, Armand turning away his enemy’s blade as it nipped at his wrists, his throat, his ankles—
Fire coursed through Armand’s belly. Wincing, he looked down to see that Zorro’s blade had torn open his shirt and slashed his chest, a bloody stinging “Z” peering out from his flesh.
“So the devil will know who sent you!” cried Zorro savagely.
Within Armand—something snapped. His face flushed, veins stood out on his temple and throat, and his eyes filled with madness, reflecting what little remained of his soul. He charged at the Californio, driving the man back with one combination of blows after another, many truncated, the fighting forms mixed about, the moves impossible to predict, even for him.
You would dare speak to me of the devil? thought Armand wildly. Who do you think you’re fighting!
With a brutal kick, he sent the masked man tumbling out onto the coupling linking the passenger car to the tender car, Zorro’s head cracking horribly against the linchpin.
A deafening roar boxed Zorro’s ears, his body absorbing the shuddering vibrations of the train, the ground racing by at frightening speed below his head. Above, light sizzled along steel. Zorro’s eyes widened as Armand’s sword rammed straight down at him, eager to impale the masked man’s skull. With a feral growl, Zorro whirled his blade about and parried, sparks crashing, but he could do nothing more as Armand contemptuously seized on the advantage and kicked his sword from his grasp, a clanking atop the tender car telling him where it had landed.
Clamping a boot on Zorro’s arm, Armand raised his sword for the kill, his eyes glinting with cruel delight. “Au revoir, de la Vega!”
Zorro wrestled a steel pin off the coupling—and smashed it across Armand’s foot. Howling, Armand plunged back into the passenger car as Zorro darted onto the tender car and snatched up his sword.
With a scream of rage, Armand raced after him.
Ferroq’s search had been fruitless. He had gone
from car to car, turning up no trace of that woman or her wolf-like offspring. He stood just outside the shuddering boxcar containing his master’s precious shipment. It was almost too dark to see anything. That bitch and her brat turned down the lanterns!
He entered the darkness cautiously, scissor-blades at the ready. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he listened intently for any sound of movement. Creeping ahead a few more feet, he halted abruptly, his senses suddenly tingling and alive. He heard the shuffle of a light shoe pivoting and turned—
A steel shovel smashed into his face, sending him crashing backwards onto the boxcar’s dusty floor. Forcing his ringing head to clear, Ferroq gazed up at the snarling face of the de la Vega woman as she swung the shovel again. His arm flew up, taking the worst of the blow. When it descended again, he was ready. He reached up and hooked the handle with his claw-like scissor-blade, yanked savagely, hurling her over his head, and sending her smack into the wall.
Ferroq and Elena scrambled up from the floor, circling each other warily. With a grin, Ferroq snapped the scissored-blades together like the maws of a ravenous beast.
“A matched set,” observed Elena, “how nice for you.”
“The boy?”
“Gone where you can’t touch him.”
Ferroq roared—and launched himself at her, his weapon slicing the air in lethal silver streaks. Elena tumbled down and away from Ferroq’s blades just as they sliced into one of the wooden crates, splitting it open to reveal the shuddering and clinking nitroglycerin-filled bottles. In his fury he whipped his scissor-like-knives about once more, a fistful of sparks snapping high as they razored through a chain on the platform designed to keep the bottles stable, severing it as he might Elena’s head from her neck.
The platform teetered and the explosive-filled crates glided toward the edge. At the last second, they pulled taut, held in place by a second set of chains.
All right, thought Joaquin, squinting as he stared out at the broiling sands of the featureless desert, so this is what they mean by the middle of nowhere. Sheesh, I wouldn’t want to be caught on either side of it!
The cattle car slowly ground to screeching stop. Joaquin worked the latch to the wide rear cargo doors easily enough, having first opened the doors to discard the sleeping guards a mile or so back. He climbed out carefully, leading Tornado. Together, they sadly watched the rest of the train shrink into the distance.
Joaquin’s handsome features fell as he kicked at the sand. “This sucks.”
Tornado whinnied his agreement.
Tossing up his hands in frustration, he paced about. “ ‘Follow the tracks to town’ she says… ‘You’re the son of Zorro,’ she says…’’
A low rumbling sounded from the stallion as he trotted forward, stopping Joaquin in his path. Tornado’s eyes held Joaquin’s as the mighty horse shook his mane, then proudly raised his head up high.
Joaquin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wait a minute… I’m the son of Zorro.”
Every story he had ever read about his hero suddenly came alive in his mind—and he knew they weren’t just stories. He’d seen Zorro—seen his Papi—risk his life time and again to protect those he cared about, to do what was right for the people.
Can I do any less?
Joaquin raced to Tornado—who had taken up pacing while he waited for the boy to put two and two together—and put his fingers to his mouth, whistling just as he’d heard his father whistle to summon the proud stallion many times before. Tornado’s head whirled and he chuffed, as if to say, I’m right here, for Heaven’s sake, you’re the one holding up the works!
The stallion lowered himself so that the excited Joaquin could climb into his saddle, then he bolted ahead, Joaquin holding on and screaming with abandon as they chased the lone train car headed for town at full gallop.
Armand’s sword struck out from the wood tender, crackling orange flames alighting on its sharp surface. Perched on the locomotive’s rooftop, Zorro easily parried the powerful strike. He leaped—flipping over Armand’s head—and landed on the woodpile behind him.
A stray plank spun from where Zorro had landed, knocking Armand off the tender, crashing him down to the floor of the locomotive cab. The breath knocked out him, Armand gasped and trembled as he struggled to his feet—and Zorro greeted him with a swift kick to the head. Sparks spitting in front of his eyes, pain wracking his skull, Armand pinwheeled back, flopping to the floor. He landed with an ungracious thud next to the unconscious engineer. But this time the fall was to Armand’s advantage—because within reach of the engineer’s still form was a rifle. Dropping his sword, he scrambled to the weapon, snatched it up, and whirled toward the masked man.
Zorro was gone.
Coward, thought Armand, thrusting the rifle before him. He swung it at the first of the flatbed’s two windows, then the second, waiting patiently, recalling hunting trips he’d taken as a child with his father…
A black-masked face darted before the closest window and Armand fired, the recoil sending him staggering back.
He drew closer to the window and peered out.
Zorro was gone!
Ferroq slammed Elena against the wall, his horrible breath and demonic leer overwhelming her as he locked her bunched wrists over her head with one hand while slowly dragging the scissor-blades across her cheek, drawing a trace of light scarlet blood.
“My master wants you alive,” he hissed, his smile dripping with menace. “But accidents happen…”
Rearing back for the kill, Ferroq treated himself to a high shrill burst of laughter, sounding like a ten year-old girl. His moment of indulge gave Elena time enough to duck as his blade hand thrust with incredible force, slashing through one of the pneumatic pipes behind her.
Compressed steam exploded out of the pipes, scalding his face. Elena felt the steam rush against her upflung arms, burning the gauzy fabric of her gown as she whipped her arms down, free of the screaming Ferroq, who recoiled in rage and unyielding agony.
Elena darted into the swirling mist as steam filled the compartment.
Zorro hung from the guardrail off the side of the train by one arm, his boots dangling inches above the engine’s massive steel cylinders as they struck with a mad murderous frenzy, relentlessly pumping up and down. The rifle blast had ricocheted off a support strut near his face, the sudden shock of being fired upon combined with the spitting of shrapnel driving him into the open air. His gloved hand had caught the guardrail an instant before he could be dragged down under the hungry steel wheels of the train.
Straining to look high, Alejandro thought the climb back upward impossible—he might as well scale a frigid mountain completely naked.
Don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself!
He drove his son’s face before him, and suddenly felt the strength return to his aching limbs. Struggling, he hauled himself up inch by inch, but the pummeling wind smacked him around as if he were just a child’s toy—one it wished to play with for a time before tossing to its destruction.
Come on, at least give me a chance, will you?
The wind only howled with laughter, enjoying the jest as it calculated how best to pay the masked man back. Perhaps a quick death would do after all.
The wind whipped and clawed at the masked man.
Yes, perhaps it would…
At Clanton’s Pass, Colonel Beauregard kicked the sand, marring the polish of his boots, and really not caring any more. He was a man of the Order, yes, no sense denying that, but he had only joined up with the heathen clan to gain powerful allies and exploit their resources in his true crusade against the northern states. It said in the Bible, plain and simple, that it was the Divine Will that men own slaves, and those who questioned His law would suffer His righteous wrath, burning an eternity in hellfire. And besides, those uppity Northerners strutted around like they were better than everyone else with their stupid degrees and foreign imported culture and such.
Well, wouldn’t they be show
n a thing or two? And when the Great War was ended, the Confederacy would just decide then and there how much a taste of the spoils the Knights got after all…
Beauregard stalked to the waiting stagecoach and poured himself a strong drink from the sandblasted whiskey decanter. His lips curled up in anticipation, his tongue eagerly wriggling ahead anxious for his first sip of the sizzling amber liquor—when the train he’d been waiting for blasted into his line of sight—Zorro dangling off the side.
The glass of whiskey slipped from his gloved hand and fell onto the sand as Beauregard seized his sword from its scabbard and screamed to his men.
“Move your sorry asses!” he bellowed. “By God, we’ve got trouble!”
Elena darted away through the dense mist. Her back pressed up against a wall and her hand extended into an open crate, her fingers curling around one of the bottles filled with the deadly explosive Armand was manufacturing. Thrusting the wine bottle before her like a shield, she cast her gaze frantically about, scouring every inch of the car that she could see beyond the mist.
She needed a plan, she would sooner die than let this man have her—
Snarling, Ferroq exploded through the steam, his red face blistered and raw—like that of a demon. His eyes burned with his desire to lop off Elena’s pretty little head once he had her in his grasp, his scissor-like crescent blade whipping tauntingly before him.
Then he froze.
There was something in her hands. What…
Elena flung the bottle at him and roared, “Catch!”
The Legend of Zorro Page 28
