Authors: Alex Archer
What was she going to do? Her purse, passport, airline ticket, change of clothes…all that was in the car with Ulrich and Crescendo. What the
hell
was she going to do?
The tears came hard and her shoulders shook. She heard voices, but they were from a good distance away, people calling to one another. Not the voices in her head; they’d gone silent. Listening to the distant voices gave her something to do, something to occupy herself so she wouldn’t think about prison. It was police or security guards talking.
“Dieb.”
Thief.
She admitted she was that…but for a righteous cause.
“Schatz.”
Treasure.
Did they even know what was taken yet? She doubted that. They probably wouldn’t figure out just what was gone until the museum staff came in to take a look.
“Frau.”
Woman.
Someone had gotten a look at her.
“Judendiche.”
Youth. Teenager.
They hadn’t gotten a good look.
Sarah needed to pee. She clamped her legs together and looked up, hoping for some divine intervention to this crisis.
“Get in.”
She yipped in surprise. Ulrich had brought the car back with its lights off, pulling in so quietly that she hadn’t heard it coming.
Get in. Get in. Get in.
Dr. Lawton said Joan of Arc had heard voices. Maybe Sarah could be like Joan. Dr. Lawton was like Charlemagne, Archard like Roland. She could be—
“Get in now,” Ulrich snapped.
Sarah slid into the backseat next to Crescendo.
“I found my sword,” she told them. “Ulrich, Crescendo, meet Tiew. It never left Attila’s side, and now it won’t leave mine.”
“Oh, yes, it will,” Ulrich said as he exited the alley and pointed the car away from the museum and the assembly of police cars. “Tiew will be carefully packed away in the belly of our chartered plane before midnight.” He said something else, but Sarah wasn’t listening. She was thinking about what outfit she would wear when Dr. Lawton presented her and Tiew to the other paladins. Maybe she’d go out and buy something new. Her take from the cash box of the Buddhist bookstore was burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe the voices in her head would help her pick something appropriate.
“My sword,” she said, patting the pommel.
Crescendo leaned close and rested his chin on her shoulder. “And now we’re going to get mine, sweet Sarah.”
Her eyes grew large.
“We’ve got another stop in Vienna,” he explained. “One of Charlemagne’s swords is on display at the Imperial Treasury. It’s not far, and with the police distracted at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, it should be easy.”
Ulrich looked into the rearview mirror, turned on the car’s lights and sped up. “And, Sarah, this time if you’re not out in an hour, we really will leave you behind.”
Chapter 24
The pain medication made her head fuzzy, and when it started to wear off and the nurse came in to offer her more, Annja declined.
“The police officer outside would like to talk to you,” the woman said. She was polite and smiled sweetly, a practiced expression that Annja thought was only half-genuine.
“I’m so tired, I think I’ll sleep for a while. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”
“Her.”
“Tell her, then.”
The nurse shut the door on her way out and Annja kept surfing.
Angurvadal was the first one she came to, a sword whose name meant “Stream of Anguish,” Frithiof’s weapon. But Frithiof the Bold was a mythical Norse character, and so Annja skipped on to the next.
Ar’ondight, the sword of Lancelot. Another skip.
Balisarda, sword of Rogero and supposedly crafted by a sorcerer…another piece of fiction.
Colada. Annja stopped at that one. It was another of El Cid’s swords. She bookmarked it. A real sword, it might be a legitimate target of Dr. Lawton’s. She’d get back to it, figure out where Colada was and if it could be obtained, legally or otherwise.
Corrougue, sword of Otuel, another possibility that she bookmarked. Otuel had been a Saracen ambassador to Charlemagne, and history claimed he was rude and imperious. He’d challenged Roland to a duel, fighting first on horseback. Both horses died in the fight, and the two men continued their brawl. At Charlemagne’s urging, all the spectators prayed for Roland to survive and for Otuel to convert to Christianity. Scholars record the incident as a miracle: a snow-white bird had appeared and perched on Otuel’s shoulder. The Saracen ended the fight that very moment, called Roland his brother and became a Christian.
Curtana, the Sword of Mercy, Edward the Confessor’s blunted sword. She saved this one, too. She remembered actually seeing this sword somewhere, probably a few years ago in a museum. Could it also be a target?
Annja heard the door handle turn, and she closed the laptop and feigned slumber. “Sorry, regulations,” the nurse said, waking her out of her pretend sleep to take her blood pressure. “It’s a little high. You should rest. Relax.”
After she left, Annja resumed her search.
Flamberge, or Floberge, another of Charlemagne’s swords, was pictured in its display case in a museum in Vienna. It was reported stolen less than a day ago. The sword had also been used by Rinaldo, one of Charlemagne’s twelve peers.
“Damn him. Just how many swords does the man need?”
She concentrated on “sifting,” ignoring Excalibur as fiction, along with Merveilleuse, Mimung, Nagelring, Quern-biter, Azoth and Schrit.
Durendal was linked to a website with a picture of precisely where it had hung, as well as another picture of the piece that had been imbedded in the cliff. There was another link to the story of its theft, in which Brother Maynard, whom she’d spoken with earlier, was quoted as saying, “A loss for all of France.”
She found Tizona in a link to a story about the auction and how much money the sword went for. Lured by other links off the page, Annja searched for upcoming auctions, but didn’t find anything about swords.
“Too bad he couldn’t collect comic books for a hobby. Or baseball cards or those little Hummel figurines.” She closed the link and moved to another that referenced a weaponsmith, Munifican, who supposedly forged Durendal along with Sauvagine and Courtain for a fellow named Ogier the Dane. One of Charlemagne’s peers. The swords each took three years to make…and were said to have a spark of the divine. Since Durendal was already stolen, she suspected the other two were on Lawton’s list. She added them to her own list.
So many named swords…
What was hers called?
The blacksmith Wieland had forged Flamberge for Charlemagne and Balmung for Siegfried.
Crocea Mors—Yellow Death—was Caesar’s sword.
Haute Claire, Very Bright, was fashioned by a Gailas for some fellow called Oliver. She made a note to look a little closer at that one. Gailas had also made Joyeuse for Charlemagne.
Joyeuse.
Annja stopped cold, something percolating in her brain. She highlighted the reference. If Durendal was taken, Joyeuse must also be on the list. Both were said to be God-touched swords. Joyeuse was one of history’s most famous weapons. In the Louvre. Likely safe there, with all the security. She’d seen it in passing years ago when she was looking at an Old Masters exhibit.
Next…
Philippan was the sword of Antony.
Caliburn was another name for Excalibur. She passed by this entry.
If Annja couldn’t dig in the dirt, her passion, she’d dig through the various websites hosted by museums and history buffs around the world. She skimmed over replica-weapons pages, which were good for finding more important links and for getting a look at copies of various swords. She had to admit the replica of Honjo Masamune looked in much better shape than the real one wielded by the twin who had almost killed her.
Lobera had belonged to King Saint Ferdinand III of Castile.
Napoleon’s sword had been sold at an auction years ago for six and a half million. Lawton perhaps? Did he have that much money? She couldn’t find a record of the sword having a name, though, and moved on.
Kusanagi, also called Grasscutter, was the Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven. “Huh, more fiction.”
Legbiter. That sounded fictitious, too, but after reading further, she put it on her list. It was a Gaddhjalt sword belonging to the Viking king Magnus Barelegs, killed in County Down in 1109.
Szczerbiec, the coronation blade of Polish kings.
A sword at West Point was said to be the personal weapon of Tomoyuki Yamashita, a general of the Japanese Imperial Army in World War II. Too recent.
Zulfiqar. She noted this one, too, an ancient sword of Ali, an Islamic leader related to Mohammed.
Grus, wielded by the Polish prince Boleslaw III Wrymouth.
The Sword from Heaven, wielded by Joan of Arc, once belonging to Charlemagne, lost to history. “The Sword from Heaven.” Annja felt it with her mind. Was it true? Did the sword actually have a name?
The Sword from Heaven…
She let it roll around in her head for a moment.
The Wallace Sword, with an onion-shaped pommel of gilded iron, the original scabbard, hilt and belt supposedly made from the skin of Hugh Cressingham, an English commander. “Lovely,” she said. “And also gone, no doubt to Dr. Lawton.”
What made some of these swords divine, God-touched? That they were wielded by devout men for holy causes?
“In the forging, I think,” she mused. The finest swords were forged without flaws and impurities in the metal that would cause the blades to break. But even the finest blades had some minor imperfections that caused them to crack and fracture during battles. In centuries past there wasn’t a precise recipe, making the crafting a little mysterious…which was why some legendary blades were believed to be laced with mystical properties and purposes.
Poor tempering made a sword less flexible, weak and brittle. Using the precise amount of carbon, manganese and chromium smacked of alchemy and sorcery.
If it had taken three years to make Joyeuse and
Durendal, how long had it taken to make the Sword from Heaven?
She found a link for “Swordplay in France” and followed it to the headline Swordsman Slays Buddhists. The article wasn’t from centuries ago; it was from earlier this week.
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” Annja said as she read. Some Buddhists were shot, others were killed by what forensic examiners claim were sword slashes. One survivor, a toddler, said two black men did it.
Gaetan and Luc.
“What the hell? Why go after Buddhists in a bookstore?” Annja’s eyes grew wider. Did the bookstore have a famous, named sword? According to the article, the only thing missing was the cash box, reported taken. Maybe there had been some sacred sword hanging on the wall the police didn’t know about, Annja mused.
Then she found another article. That same night six Rouen businessmen had been killed in their homes, four of them shot in the head, two slashed with a sword. Police said the only thing the men had in common was that they were confirmed Scientologists.
Buddhists, Scientologists and swords.
Annja closed the laptop and set it on the floor beside the bed. She wanted out of here…now. Get back to France, find Dr. Lawton and figure out what the hell was going on. But she’d made a promise to Roux. She looked at the clock on the medical monitor. It read 10:59.
After midnight would be the next day.
She closed her eyes and settled back into the pillow. An hour’s nap.
* * *
T
HE
WARM
SUN
ON
HER
FACE
woke her. Roux was at the window, leaning against the sill, his face pressed to the glass.
“I thought you said you were coming by last night,” she said, stretching. “I waited up for you.”
“I came by,” he said. “But I stayed in the lobby.” His eyes were fixed on a point that seemed far beyond the street below. “Do you feel up to leaving?”
“I wanted to leave yesterday.”
He didn’t move from the window. “So have you decided where we are going?”
Annja slipped out of bed and disconnected her finger from the heart-rate monitor, flipping off the dial so the machine wouldn’t beep. She tested her leg. Sore but serviceable; a throbbing pulsed in her hip. She padded to the closet and got her suitcase. “Give me a few minutes to wash up.”
He didn’t reply, still staring at…something.
She went into the tiny bathroom and was delighted to find a shower. Holding her hand under the spray until the temperature was as hot as she could stand it, then gingerly stepping in. Roux was right; she healed remarkably fast. But her leg was going to ache for a while, and where she’d been cut on her side still stung. She’d try to take things easy.
When she was finished, she rooted through her suitcase for something comfortable and then put on her tennis shoes. Annja was pleased to note the care Roux had taken to fold her new dress.
“Have you decided?” he repeated when she emerged.
“Back to France. I don’t know. Let’s start with Paris. That’s where Dr. Lawton lives.”
“And what is your plan for Paris?”
“The Louvre is on the list.”
“I’ve been to that museum one too many times,” he grunted.
“You don’t need to come with me. I work better alone.”
He shrugged. “I could see it again.”
“First, though, I need to go back to school. You don’t need to accompany me there, either.”
“One should never stop learning,” he said.
Chapter 25
The lecture hall was about two-thirds full, holding roughly two hundred people, most of them students. Annja and Roux sat in the middle toward the back. She guessed some of the older members of the audience were teachers. A few had briefcases at their feet.
The buzz of conversation surrounded her, all in French. A man, maybe twenty, chatted with his companion about an art major he’d had a horrible date with. “He was so cheap I had to pay for my own latte, and he was going to stiff the waiter for a tip. Never again.”
A girl showed off her engagement ring to the people she was sitting near. “We haven’t picked a date yet, but it has to be in winter because we’re going skiing on our honeymoon.”
Annja had done a little digging into Dr. Lawton’s credentials, discovering that he’d inherited money from more than one source, some of it “old money,” and that had put him in a position where he’d never have to work again. She was surprised he even bothered to teach. Maybe he was like her and just had a passion for his work. Unfortunately, he also had a passion for thievery and was likely connected to the murders of the Buddhists and Scientologists, and who knew what else.
“He hasn’t had a lecture like this for a while?” Roux asked the student sitting to his left. Annja, on his right, leaned slightly forward to get a look at the fellow Roux was talking to.
He was in his twenties, nerdy-looking with a sweater vest, thick glasses and short, slicked-down hair. He had a clipboard on his lap with a legal-size pad on it, and he played with a marker, twirling it in his fingers. Despite his scholarly appearance, he appeared to be fit and muscular—and old-fashioned. Most of the other students had iPads and netbooks.
“Usually only once a quarter, though last year he had one of these talks every few weeks. Don’t think he gets paid any extra for them. They’re not part of the regular curriculum.”
“Then why—?” Roux prompted.
The nerd shrugged. “I dunno. Some of his students—I’m one of his seniors—become very interested in a specific area and there isn’t class time to cover it. So he hosts a special lecture. Like this one—Charlemagne, the Second Coming.”
“So tonight is entirely on Charlemagne?” Roux smiled warmly. “A fascinating man.”
“The professor? Yes, definitely.” The nerd’s head bobbed.
Annja knew Roux had meant Charlemagne.
“The professor is probably the most fascinating man I’ve ever known. I’ve decided to write my master’s thesis on Charlemagne’s lasting influence on modern-day France. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Lawton, I’d be picking up a teacher’s certificate and be stuck at a high school in Nice, where my parents live. He opened my eyes.”
A dozen more students trickled in, finding places to the far right and left of the lecture hall. A custodian came in and changed the plastic liner of a large waste can at the back of the room, then went to a panel on the wall and dimmed the lights.
“Did you know that Dr. Lawton is a descendant of Charlemagne?” Roux’s new friend asked. “It’s not published in the university listing, but if you study with him long enough…”
Dr. Lawton, a descendant of Charlemagne? Annja hadn’t come across that in her internet research. That could well explain the professor’s fixation on the emperor…but on the swords? Charlemagne’s swords, maybe, but on the Wallace Sword, Durendal, Honjo Masamune? Unless… She swallowed hard. Unless he was trying to equip more than just himself. The twin brothers she’d fought on the rooftops were armed with swords, and they were used in the murders of the Buddhists.
The professor entered, attention riveted on him and the conversations died.
Annja had to admit he had presence—the way he made an entrance, the way he walked, his whole appearance. He wore a gray suit with a four-button jacket, well tailored but a decade or so out of fashion. His hair was pulled back, and the features of his face seemed so pronounced that she guessed he wore makeup.
When he spoke, his voice was as smooth as honey in the silence of the large auditorium. It carried easily to the back of the room. He had a stage voice to go with his presence.
Annja touched Roux’s knee.
He is charismatic,
she signed.
Frighteningly so.
Roux made a fist and moved it up and down.
Yes.
Annja was more interested in watching the professor’s effect on his audience than listening to what he had to say. People continued to drift in. Only the professor’s lined face struck a chord with her. From the auction in Spain.
“Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, is perhaps the most important historical figure…certainly in France, but also throughout all of Europe. King of the Franks, he inherited the crown with his brother, becoming sole king some years later at his brother’s death. He inherited more than a title, however. With it came the moral obligation to protect the rights of the Holy See. He warred against the pagan Saxons in Germany, insurgents and the Moors of Spain. In 800 the pope crowned him emperor of the Western Empire. Charles brought order during one of history’s most tumultuous times. He left behind an indelible and unforgettable history, much like the mark Christ made on the world.”
Annja shifted in her seat and looked at Roux. He was intently studying the professor.
“Simply put, Charlemagne was Christ come to earth again.” Now Dr. Lawton had definitely said something to pique Annja’s curiosity. Like the best television evangelist, he still held everyone captive, but his demeanor had suddenly changed. He thumped the podium like a fire-and-brimstone preacher might thump a Bible.
“Christ had his twelve apostles. Charlemagne had his twelve peers.” The professor stepped away from the podium and paced the stage, all eyes following him. “Their goals were the same. Christ sought to save humanity through his death. Charlemagne sought to save humanity through the dissemination of Christianity.” Lawton spread his arms wide, feet together, his body a cross. “The goals are the same for the man who is the Third Coming, who is among you even now.”
Annja shivered.
The twelve apostles of Christ.
The twelve peers of Charlemagne.
The twelve paladins of Charles Lawton?
The professor switched back and forth from fire and brimstone to scholar. An extraordinary actor. She shivered again. It wasn’t an act, was it? Dr. Lawton bought into everything he preached…taught.
“Charlemagne, the Second Coming, gathered twelve men and equipped them with God-touched weapons. Roland’s Durendal, Oliver’s Haute Claire and Otuel’s Corrougue, among others.”
Annja’s eyes widened. In the hospital she’d skimmed over an item about the sword Corrougue missing from an exhibit.
“Charlemagne made religious reforms and was given the titles of Augustus and emperor,” Lawton went on. “Christ was King of the Jews. Charlemagne was the father of the Holy Roman Empire. Christ was the son of the ultimate father. Charlemagne and Christ, and the one who is the Third Coming, stand out from all others as personifications of selflessness, nobility, and as conquerors of pagans and heretics. They set out to build a City of God.” Several students chanted the next line with him: “One God, one emperor, one pope, one City of God.”
“Drive out the nonbelievers!” the nerd next to Roux shouted, startling her companion. “Only Christians should live in the City of God.”
“Only Christians!” a woman in front of them called.
Annja balled her fists, her fingernails pressing into her palms. She’d attended voodoo ceremonies in New Orleans, where participants shouted with a fervor like this. It was unsettling, to say the least.
“Christians unite!” This came from somewhere down front.
“Build the City of God!” another said.
Dr. Lawton returned to his podium, and the room became dead quiet again. “Charlemagne the scholar read extensively and treasured the works of Augustine of Hippo, who espoused the creation of such a city and championed any war considered just. The church was Saint Augustine’s City of God, but Charlemagne knew the church wasn’t enough, that one city on the map wasn’t enough. Charlemagne sought to make all of France…and beyond…his City of God. Unfortunately, he died before he could realize his goal. He succeeded in driving Muslims out of the Christian world, but not all of them.” The professor rocked back on his heels and gazed from one attendee to the next. “Perhaps in the Third Coming Charlemagne’s plan will be realized.”
There was wild applause, and some people in the audience stood.
Annja slipped out of the auditorium during the excessive adoration, Roux following. Behind them, she heard the applause die down and the professor continue his lecture.
“I’ve heard enough.” She had goose bumps on her arms, and the hair on the back of her neck had risen.
“Quite,” he said. “More than enough as far as I’m concerned.”
In the hall, watching them like a sentry, stood Archard Gihon.