Shamar stopped there, confident that they were out of earshot of any Polish or Ukrainian troops, and resumed his careful questioning.
“So, why exactly are you doing this, Niccolo?” As he asked the question, Shamar waved vaguely in the direction of the command tent that they had now exited.
Convinced that he was talking to a friend and co-conspirator, Niccolo answered quickly. “King Sigismund is responsible for the siege of Smolensk and the invasion of Russia. New Phoenicia has demanded that he been removed, he is interfering with their plans for the Tsardom—but because he is Catholic, Father Carracci insists that the king must not be killed.” Niccolo smiled proudly. “The Academy chose me because I have the ideal talent to provide a solution that will keep both New Phoenicia and Father Carracci happy. Once I’m done, King Sigismund will be forced to abdicate but he won’t be killed.”
Ah hah, thought Shamar, conflicting agendas. And New Phoenicia is involved as well. That explains many things.
Shamar considered his options and then spoke again to Niccolo. “The situation has changed, Niccolo. I’ve just come from Naples.”
“From the Academy?” asked Niccolo.
“Yes,” said Shamar, grateful for the confirmation. “Father—?” Shamar couldn’t quite remember the name Niccolo had mentioned. Niccolo helpfully supplied the missing ingredient.
“Carracci.”
“Right. Father Carracci has sent a message, which I’ve been asked to deliver. The priest wants you to stop what you’re doing, for now. He wants you to come back to Naples with me. He has an even more important task for you.”
“Really?” Niccolo fairly glowed with self-importance. “Certainly, I’d be glad to get back home. It’s been so difficult here. They only speak Polish or Ukrainian and no-one speaks any languages that I know. But I’m nearly finished with the king. All I have to do is lock my words into a mind loop and—”
“No!” said Shamar, too quickly. “That—that—” He stuttered, trying to find a credible excuse. “That won’t be necessary. New Phoenicia has come up with a new plan.”
“Oh?” said another ill-dressed Ukrainian Cossack, suddenly enlarging into view and growing and growing until he was a veritable giant, eight feet tall. He had been hidden in miniature size within Niccolo’s pack, watching for any problems. “And exactly what is this new plan?”
The sudden appearance of this midget turned giant caught Shamar by surprise, but he struggled on gamely, attempting to explain himself. “It’s—well, honestly, I’m not at liberty to share that with you. If Father Carracci wants to tell you, that’s up to him. I’m afraid I’m not authorized to do so.”
“Is that right?” The giant sounded suspicious. “And you are—who, exactly?”
“I’m Shamar, of course,” said the Outcast Angel. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
“Well, you are familiar,” agreed the giant, “but I can’t quite place you. Where do I know you from?”
“From Naples,” insisted Shamar, desperately hoping that this super-powered newcomer came from the same place as Niccolo.
“Well yes of course from Naples,” said the giant, “but exactly where and when? Did you meet us at the Academy—?”
“Yes, yes, it must have been at the Academy,” said Shamar, desperate for more information about this mysterious Academy.
“When?” demanded the giant.
“Umm—last month?” suggested Shamar.
“We were long gone by then, weren’t we, Simon?” said Niccolo, rejoining the conversation. “It’s taken us nearly two months to get here from Naples.”
“If you were in Naples last month, then how did you get here so fast, Shamar? Fly?” The giant, now identified as Simon, had adopted a scornful tone. Shamar could feel that he was losing this discussion, a sinking feeling that was reinforced when two knives appeared in Simon’s hands.
“Whoa,” said Shamar, backing out of reach of the giant’s long arms. “There’s no need for those. We’re friends.”
“Well,” said Simon, stepping in front of Niccolo and staring at Shamar, “my heart tells me that, as well. But we have a task to complete here, and nothing that you’ve said so far has convinced me that we should abandon our duty. If you’re going to get in the way—” Simon waved the knives threateningly. “—then I’ll have to stop you.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
A Moment Later
Smolensk, Tsardom of Russia, 6.00 a.m. Wednesday May 19 1610
Shamar tried to defuse the situation. “Come on fellows. You know me. We’re on the same side.”
“Are we?” Simon was now on heightened alert, and Shamar’s persuasiveness was no longer exerting its usual influence. “Then why are you so eager to prevent us doing what we have been specifically instructed to do, yet you can provide no proof that the instruction comes from either the Academy or the Council of Four?”
Despite the increasingly hostile reception, Shamar was delighted. Council of Four? Whoever they are, Jesse will be delighted to learn about them.
Simon was still waiting for a response so Shamar attempted to concoct a convincing explanation. “As you said, it’s a long journey between here and Naples. The proof is on its way but it isn’t here yet.”
Simon scoffed. “Why not simply send a message by Janus twin? They can talk to Niccolo. Why send you in person?”
Shamar had absolutely no idea what Simon was talking about. The Outcast Angel tried to bluff. “The—Janus?—couldn’t get through, for some reason. I was not far from here so they asked me to come and tell you myself.”
If Simon looked doubtful, Niccolo was immediately certain. “I’ve just been talking to a twin. This man is lying. Deal with him, Simon, while I get back to the tent and finish off the king.”
Niccolo turned and began heading back to the command tent. Shamar tried to stop Niccolo, attempting to circle around Simon, but the giant stepped across and blocked Shamar’s path. “I don’t think so, Shamar. Niccolo, get inside.”
Shamar made an instant decision, one that he desperately hoped he would not have cause to regret. “Sorry, Niccolo, I can’t let you do that.”
Before either Alchemae could react to his words, Shamar summoned his wings with a thought and launched himself into the air, lifting himself well above Simon and then swooping down to seize Niccolo.
Though Niccolo struggled in his grasp, Shamar was able to lift the young man a dozen feet in the air. He was about to leave the area with his reluctant passenger when Shamar felt his ankle grabbed. He looked down in shock, to discover that Simon had pushed himself to grow even further. The giant now towered alongside the Outcast, had a firm hand around one leg and attempted to pull him out of the sky. In his other hand, Simon clutched one of his knives, waving it menacingly towards Shamar.
SIXTY-NINE
Instants Later
Smolensk, Tsardom of Russia, 6.05 a.m. Wednesday May 19 1610
Shamar tried to shake his leg free, to no avail—the giant would not be so easily dislodged. Worse, Niccolo, stunned at first by the appearance of the angel’s wings, had recovered and began a mental assault on Shamar.
Then the situation turned ugly—and Shamar finally understood why the ground in front of the command tent was so deserted. That area was within firing range of the walled city and a fusillade of shots rang out as Smolensk’s defenders finally saw targets that they could reach.
A flurry of musket balls screamed towards the trio. Shamar, pinned to the spot thanks to Simon, attempted to dodge and was mostly successful, apart from a couple of shots that inflicted minor damage to his right wing. Niccolo, largely protected within Shamar’s grasp, escaped unscathed.
Simon, an almost unmissable target at full stretch, was not so lucky—four musket balls slammed into his back. The giant shuddered and then fell heavily to the ground, releasing his grip as he did so.
Shamar, who had continued to strain mightily against Simon’s restraining grasp, shot up into the
air at great speed once the giant’s hold was released. Niccolo was shocked into silence, firstly by what had happened to Simon and secondly by the fact that someone who must be an angel was lifting him high into the air.
The pair, angel and Alchemae, were nearly a hundred feet above ground when Niccolo finally regained his composure enough to resume his mental attack. Shamar gave the young man a powerful whack on the side of the head. “Listen, you little addle-pate, before you get us both killed,” hissed Shamar. “My mind powers my wings. Knock me out, or distract me enough with your black-mouthing and we will both plummet to the ground—which, in case you haven’t noticed, is getting further and further away.”
One downward glance by Niccolo was enough to confirm his plight. He wisely halted his mental barrage and without further protest let Shamar carry him away.
# # #
Whilst it might have seemed that Niccolo had given up the fight, the reality was otherwise. Instead, he was furiously transmitting to the nearest Janus twin.
PART FOUR
SEVENTY
The Tower, Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Midnight Friday June 18 1610
Once again, the Contessa found herself at the top of the Academy’s Tower, waiting for Nekhbet.
The Darke Warrior soon arrived and wasted no time getting to the point of her visit. “It’s been a hundred and fifty days since we entrusted Chrymos to your care. The critical moment is approaching. How is she doing?”
“Festering nicely,” replied the Contessa. “She thinks she’s been rejected. We have her helping with the food and cleaning out the stables. She’s on a knife edge—nearly ready to run.”
“Then you should move to the next phase.”
The Contessa ventured a deadly smile. “Another couple of days and we’ll set the trap. I’m waiting for one more piece of the puzzle to fall into place.”
“You know what you have to do?” asked Nekhbet.
The Contessa nodded. “Someone she trusts will help her to escape. But before she can get away, she will come face to face with her past.”
“And that—”
“—will trigger the Lost War,” said the Contessa, “just as you intended.”
SEVENTY-ONE
Two Days Later
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, early morning Monday, June 21 1610
The kitchen simply buzzed that morning. Apparently, the Contessa had been in a very pleasant mood the previous night and had even praised the cook for her panettone. The reason for the Contessa’s unexpectedly good humor was quickly evident—the Academy’s mistress had just received an invitation to Naples’ opening night of the opera Euridice, to be performed by a touring French cast. “The opera starts this weekend,” burbled the cook, “and they say it has plenty of handsome young French monsieurs on display.”
Chrymos didn’t share the cook’s enthusiasm for the opera, but still was happy because as a beneficial side effect, Cook was willing to give Chrymos extra work in return for an early and peaceful breakfast. The Master’s food had already been prepared and sent upstairs, so instead Chrymos was tasked with delivering a cart of leftover food to the Academy’s mortality room, where charitable medical care was provided to a few of the lazzaroni of Naples.
Like the kitchen, the mortality room was on the lowest level of the Della Porta mansion, which ensured that the Academy’s students and teaching staff would not be exposed to any of the diseases that might be raging outside the Academy’s privileged walls.
Although it was known as the mortality “room,” the medical facility was in fact a whole series of chambers. The main treatment area included a half-dozen beds and was the place where new patients were assessed. The floor also boasted a large number of ancillary rooms that could each house as many as a dozen patients.
Chrymos was supposed to simply knock on the main door to the mortality room and then leave the food cart for the medical staff. But Chrymos knew how frantic the mortality room could become, so she preferred to bring the cart inside and on occasion would even feed some of the patients herself.
This time, however, as Chrymos pushed the cart inside the mortality room, she caught the slightest hint of a smell that she knew only too well from her days on the streets—putrefying flesh, an odor that Chrymos instantly associated with the deadly plagues that regularly killed their way through Europe.
Is the Black Death sweeping through Naples again? Is the city at risk? And what about my children? Chrymos still thought of Olivia, Madalena, and Sirus as ‘hers,’ despite not having seen them for months. How can they avoid the plague?
Chrymos was cautious, but she wasn’t afraid. She quickly looked around for fresh flowers. The floral fragrances, according to common wisdom, should protect her from the miasma, the cloud of poisonous gas by which the plague was spread. Such safeguards had protected her in Florence while she tended to several of the other street urchins who had fallen sick during one of the plague’s regular incursions. Surely, they will do the same here?
There were no fresh flowers in sight, although there was the usual collection of herbs to minister to the sick and wounded, including cayenne, comfrey, horsetail, and juniper. Before Chrymos could go looking elsewhere for suitable floral protection, one of the Academy’s doctors entered the room. Chrymos’ instincts were confirmed—the doctor wore a plague mask and full protective clothing. Chrymos couldn’t help staring—she had never seen a plague doctor up close.
The doctor wore the mask strapped to his head, covered by a sturdy cloth hood. The plague mask had a long curved beak shaped like that of a bird, with glass eyes so that the doctor could examine his patients without being exposed directly to the disease. The beak itself was stuffed with many herbs and blossoms, all designed to filter out the deadly miasma.
A heavy overcoat, which swaddled the doctor from his shoulders to his feet, afforded further protection from the plague. Gauntleted gloves hid the doctor’s hands and he carried a wooden cane with which, Chrymos realized, he could probably examine patients without touching them.
Chrymos called out. “What I can do to help, doctor?”
Caught by surprise as he was about to enter one of the inner rooms, the doctor stopped, looked over at Chrymos, shook his head. His voice, when it came, was muffled through the mask. “No, no, we’re fine. Besides, you’re not exactly dressed for dealing with these patients.”
Instantly becoming aware of her own slight attire, which offered scant protection from the deadly disease, Chrymos backed away through the mortality room door, leaving the doctor to look after his patients. I’ll come back for the cart later.
Chrymos scurried back to the kitchen and sought comfort in the millet bread and gruel that was her reward for her morning’s labors. Her mind, though, was still in the mortality room, wondering what she could do to help—and desperately wishing that she could somehow warn the three children.
SEVENTY-TWO
Later that evening
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, night, Monday, June 21 1610
As usual, Chrymos was locked in her basement pit for the evening. For once, though, she had a different concern to occupy her mind and minimize any panic attacks. If the plague had returned then now, more than ever, she wanted to escape so that she could find her three former wards.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sliding sound of the ceiling hatch that guarded her basement prison. Is Luca finally back? I wouldn’t even mind his puerile attempts to scare me, after all these weeks of silence night after night.
Instead of her enemy, Chrymos was delighted to see a friend’s face, illuminated by a lantern he carried. Her visitor was Henricus. He lay prone on the floor above, peering down through the hatchway and he had a big smile on his face.
“H
i, Chrymos! I just arrived back, heard you were under house arrest, and wanted to say hello.”
“Hi to you too, Henricus. Good to see you as well—though I expect I’ll probably see you at breakfast tomorrow.”
Henricus shook his head. “No, you probably won’t. And, if you do, you almost certainly won’t like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“At dawn, I’m scheduled to receive a fresh dose of Exousía potion. I came to say goodbye tonight because, frankly, I won’t be the same tomorrow. We’re now being given an altered potion—and it changes our personalities.
“There is a new ingredient, a crimson liquid. I don’t quite know how to describe the effects except to say it toughens people up, makes them more aggressive, more willing to act violently. I suppose it’s necessary if we are to have any hope of winning the Lost War. But it makes the recipients very unpleasant and nasty. I’ve already lost several of my friends to this new mixture and I expect to lose all of them once I take the new potion—including you.”
“That explains at least some of the changes I’ve seen around here,” said Chrymos, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you think they tried it out on Simon when he was given his potion? He was so different afterwards.”
“Yes, he was one of the first,” said Henricus, “and the change was extremely noticeable. Of course, with some Alchemae, it wouldn’t have been necessary—they were mean enough as it was.”
“Yeah,” said Chrymos, thinking of Luca in particular. “Thanks for the warning, Henricus, you’ve been a good friend. Even if I seem to lose you, I’ll understand—it’s not actually you, it’s the potion speaking.”
Henricus looked very unhappy.
Poor Henricus, you’re dreading tomorrow, aren’t you? Chrymos tried to help by changing the subject. “Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you around for ages.”
Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series Page 20