Sarah’s response was too quick. “No, of course not; what would he think?”
He’d think you can’t make up your mind because you don’t want to wear any dress in a wedding you don’t want to be a part of, Liv thought and then corrected and answered, “You’re right, dear, men don’t have a clue, and if it were up to them all a bride would have to do would be show up naked and bring food.”
Sarah snorted and then got choked she laughed so hard. When she finally caught her breath, she said, “Liv, are you sure you haven’t spent time in East Texas? Because there for a minute you sounded like my grandmother. She had a way of saying exactly the right thing in the wrong way at the right time. I remember she got to where she wouldn’t sit across from my grandfather at the table because sometimes when she would say something like you just did, he would laugh so hard food would just blow right out his mouth and cover her!”
Before Liv could reply a deep male voice called from outside the tent entrance. “Sarah? Are you there? May I come in?”
Sarah ran to the tent door and beamed. She pushed back the screen and stopped. Kusaila stood in front of her, a broad grin on his face. A magnificent silk robe lay delicately across his arms. It was emerald green with gold beaded trim. As he held it up for her to see, she ran her hands across it and noted how sheer and vaporous it was. Liv is definitely right about the naked part. She thought examining the amazing dress. It came with a gold band that fit around her head and then curved down and around her waist as a belt. It was beautiful. “I love it!” she squealed, then snatched it out of his hand and pulled the tent flap back, leaving him standing outside.
“Uh, Sarah?”
“Just wait, I’m going to try it on. Be patient.” As she quickly stripped out of the robe she had been wearing and into the one he had given her, she asked, “Kusaila, where did you get this? It’s gorgeous!”
“Well, I didn’t want to impose on you. I wanted to give you the option of choosing your own wedding dress, but when I heard you were having difficulty, I thought I would at least let you know of the traditions of my people.”
Sarah stuck her head out the tent door and cocked it like a puzzled puppy. Kusaila grinned. “It is the dress a queen wears at her wedding, my Sarah.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open as she stared at Kusaila. She shook her head and then ducked back inside the tent. A few minutes later she shouted to him, “You can come in now!”
Sarah looked good in green. Whether it was a burnt medieval dress or the wedding dress of a Berber queen, she glowed when she wore the color. The dress clung to her, a gossamer whisper covering everything but hiding little. The Berbers had no equivalent to the English word stunning, but the expression on Kusaila’s face was more than enough. Sarah took in his gaze and melted. Her heart leaped, subconsciously she raised her hand to touch the gem hanging around her neck. She jerked it back. The gem was ice-cold.
Chapter 22
Belle woke with a start. Dreams had troubled her sleep. She didn’t sleep much anyway, and when she did it was so lightly that part of her mind was always on the alert. Yet she was curiously rested. Sitting up, she scooted across the massive bed and reached for the clothes and German officer’s cape she had draped over a chair the night before. She reached into the cape pocket. The small cedar box was still there. Relieved, she pulled herself out of the bed and crossed the cold floor to the small writer’s desk next to the large glass window. She placed the little box on the desk and sat down to examine it. An inscription was engraved in Greek on one side and Latin on the other, στέμμα από αγκάθια, crown from thorns.
Belle had interacted with many relics in her life. Most of them were junk. Useless and broken vessels. A few had actual power. Their power came from the energy that those who believed in them held. That is why artifacts from different and even competing faiths could also hold energy. Whether dark or light depended on the faith of the believer. And then there were those extremely rare and powerful artifacts that stood apart as pure vessels of honor, holding energy that had infused them centuries ago. They were incarnations of that which had endowed them. She had seen scales from the garden serpent and dried almond leaves from the rod of Aaron, high priest of the Jews during the time of Moses, and one of the jewels of the ephod, the breastplate of the Jewish high priest. She had felt the ancient pulse of a cornerstone taken from the altar of child sacrifice used in Carthage.
But she had never held an artifact from the Christ. Her kind knew who He was. The ancient of ancients predating her own lineage. She was taught to avoid people and vessels that held His essence, and had done so and not given it any more thought. She had been told those who bore His image were few and their power flawed. But that was before Harry Ferguson. And that was before she had come into contact with the object she now held. She had no doubt it was the power of this artifact that had stilled time and allowed her to intimidate Cadmus. It might have also been what allowed her to rest in the middle of this lion cage in which she now resided. What troubled her was why it had not destroyed her. And why she was continually drawn to it.
The wood of the box was dark with age and extremely hard. Whether it was hard because of the wood it had been carved from or because of its age she had no clue. She noted again that the craftsmanship of the engraving was not particularly good. Some letters were larger than others and the Greek was actually incorrect: στέμμα από αγκάθια “crown from thorns” should have been κορώνα από αγκάθια “crown of thorns.” The error indicated to her that whoever had carved the box had not been a native Greek.
As she continued her observation, she saw a small seam that didn’t seal completely ran the length of the wood. She pulled out her dagger and, with surgical precision, pried the little box open. She pulled the sections apart and revealed a small cloth. Gently unfolding it, she saw a long thorn with a blood-brown tip. She avoided it like it was a viper and turned her attention to the cloth. Scarcely legible faded letters were painstakingly written on it, also in Greek, but… she noticed, in a different hand. This Greek was perfect. She translated it as she read. What Satan intended for evil God has turned against him. The blood turns back the accuser and binds him. If a servant of the evil one is pierced by this thorn, they will be cast into utter darkness.
A shadow slipped across the sky and darkened the morning sun. Belle hardly noticed until the sudden drop in temperature caused her teeth to chatter. It lasted only a few seconds. The sky cleared, and the room began to warm. She stared at the letters on the faded cloth and, her fingers trembling so bad she could barely use them, folded the cloth and started to place it in the box.
Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door, and before she could turn to answer it the door swung open and Laden Long, the dark reverend and leader of the Strongman project, stormed in.
He looked at her half-dressed form and leered. She couldn’t help but compare his expression to Harry’s. One looked at her as though she was a piece of raw meat, the other like she was a magnificent portrait of the feminine. She refused to cover herself, knowing that any attempt to would be seen as weakness.
“Fraulein Rodum, I am glad to see you returned to us in one piece. I have heard reports from Cadmus and met with the captives. And from the latest reports of those left to watch the dragon rider, it appears that he is on his way here. Now all that remains is for you to turn over the artifact and the trap will be set.” He reached out, expecting her to give him the thorn.
Instead she walked over to the privacy screen in the corner of the room and began to change her clothes. She held the thorn box in one hand as she slowly and now seductively took her time changing clothes behind the translucent screen. Belle knew the sun was behind her and her shadow and all her womanly curves were silhouetted on that screen for Laden Long to see. She timed her response perfectly; he was about to demand she hand over the thorn box when she walked out dressed with the thorn box firmly in her grasp. She unhurriedly moved to place it in the revere
nd’s hand. “If I were you, I would be very, very careful with that. It seems to have a mind of its own. And I am not at all sure it cares for our kind. I read the inscription on the cloth that holds the thorn. The slightest touch and we are cast into the fire. No waiting… no purgatory. Just immediate and everlasting torment. So be extremely careful.” Her hand trembled as she placed the box in the man’s sweaty palm.
He sneered at her as he grasped the small dark box. “Do not worry, Fraulein Rodum, it will be well taken care of.” And with that he turned and walked out of the room.
Belle collapsed into the easy chair that sat next to the bed and stuck her hand into the cape pocket. She stroked the cloth wrapped around the thorn she had deftly taken from the box.
Chapter 23
Harry noticed that he had the entire dining compartment to himself. He grunted. “Huh… well, I must be giving off scary vibes or something.”
“It’s probably when you started crying uncontrollably and slipped back and started yelling in your native Latvian. You may speak Texan like you were born there, but when it comes to matters of the heart, we always revert back to our native tongue.”
Harry protested, “I did not do that, Speaker.”
“Yeah, ya kinda did, Harry. Sorry, but it’s true.”
“Speaker, one of my gifts that you gave me is an eidetic memory. When I want to recall something, I can. Every jot and tittle, and I promise you I have no memory of squalling and cussing in Latvian.”
The speaker had reappeared as Washington and sat across from Harry in the dining car. His eyes narrowed, he scratched his avatar chin, and then a look of understanding and disgust colored his face.
“Harry, check your pockets. I think something may be missing.”
Harry clutched at the inside pocket of his jacket. Nothing! His eyes closed as despair settled into place. He slowly shook his head. “And I thought she just wanted to dance.”
“Some witches can give off a pheromone that changes their victims’ awareness. It makes them more susceptible and less wary. It also gives their victims a temporary sense of euphoria.”
“I think I may be experiencing a little of that… but I don’t remember.” Harry laughed.
The sword added, “That same drug acts as a memory inhibitor. Based on the amount used, you can lose an hour or a lifetime. I think you just lost an hour.”
An exhausted smile tried to find a place on Harry’s face and failed. “If it wasn’t for the fact that the thorn is the only weapon we have that will work against the beast the Germans are trying to conjure, and if it weren’t for the fact my two friends and team members are either dead or being tortured… And if it wasn’t for the fact that the love of my life has decided it is her moral obligation to marry another man, and last but not least, if it wasn’t for the fact that the mother of my only child just stole the only weapon that will stop this demon… why, today would have been a good day!” With that said, he bowed his head and fell forward onto the table.
The Washington avatar smiled sadly and reached over to stroke Harry’s head. “Rest, Harry… rest. Today was nothing compared to what tomorrow will be.
****
Harry rubbed his eyes. He had slept hard and been jolted awake when the train screeched to a stop in the Paris terminal. When the French police finally allowed the passengers off the train, he found the station security office and called the Hunter group in London and reported to John Timothy the series of events that had led him to where he now stood. He was tired and anxious. But it wasn’t obvious. His armor had kicked into its rejuvenation process and tiny nanites were racing through his system, restoring cells and strengthening vital organs. The weariness that weighed heavy on him was not due to lack of energy or a need to restore muscle tissue. It was a heart weariness from too many worries carried too long with no resolution in sight. His armor could do a lot of things, but healing a broken heart was not one of them.
After talking on the phone with John Timothy, who had assured him that the cavalry was coming and that he would not have to face this battle alone, Harry pretended to feel better. He really didn’t think John Timothy believed him, but for both of their sakes they pretended. In Paris he bought a one-way ticket to Goslar. The station clerk who sold him the ticket said it was a beautiful town and he would have a good time there.
Harry looked at the clerk and smiled. But didn’t say a thing. Nine hours later Harry stepped off the train in Goslar station. It was a little before dawn and the streetlamps cast a dim glow on the wet cobblestones. It had just started to snow and Harry had not brought an overcoat. His armor protected him from dragons’ heat but for some strange reason was not very effective in cold. It was very cold and getting colder. The new snow blanketing the world fell on dirty snow and ice; in all it was a dreary, freezing start to the day.
As he looked for anything that would help him find his way to Goslar Cathedral, he heard the sound of tires crushing ice and turned to see a cab driving toward him. Before he could signal it to stop, it had already begun to brake. The driver pulled in front of Harry.
A shudder ran through Harry’s body. He didn’t think he could get any colder but he was wrong. A huge man hunched over the steering wheel. Long red hair, straggled and unkempt, draped his massive head. Cold blue eyes glared at him. The man wore a long beard that appeared to have never known the stroke of a comb. As the cab stopped, both of them were caught in the moment. Harry felt he knew the man and that somewhere in the long memory that he supposedly had immediate access to there was a file. It puzzled him that he couldn’t reach it.
“Get in,” the giant rumbled.
Harry obliged. As he moved into the back of the cab, he shot a thought toward the sword. Who is this guy, Sword?
“You knew him in another time, Harry. He was a friend till he betrayed you and Sarah.”
Damn, there seems to be an uncanny lot of that in my life. We need to make some changes when we are done here.
As Harry settled in the back of the cab and rubbed his hands, blowing on them, he looked up and saw the giant staring at him in the rearview mirror.
“Sir, do I know you?”
The giant’s eyes closed for just a second. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Staring down the road, he finally growled, “You did.”
Harry, realizing the battle had already begun, continued pressing in. “Were we friends?”
A clipped reply ground from the giant’s lips, “Until we weren’t.”
Harry didn’t know why he was pushing but knew he should. “Why?”
There was a long pause and Harry wondered if the man had heard him or was even going to reply. “You believed I betrayed you and the dragon riders.”
It was Harry’s turn to pause. He thought of several responses, rejected each in turn, and finally said, “I am not going to ask if you did. Because betrayal is not a permanent condition. It is a human condition and assumes a relationship that is available to betray. But I am going to ask you this, are you still at it?”
The giant slammed on the brakes and the cab slid across the icy streets, finally skidding to a halt in the middle of some snow-covered trashcans.
As the car swerved, the huge man turned toward Harry, reaching for him with his massive paws. Harry pulled a gun and pressed it against the giant’s forehead. For a second the world stopped. Then Harry said, “Tell me what happened.” A frosty breath escaped the giant, who never took his eyes off Harry. He had broken the seat as he leaped across it trying to grab him. Carefully he pulled back, and Harry slipped across the back to sit on the passenger’s side.
“I was a dragon rider. My mount was a magnificent beast, a pure-blood dragon, no mixture of fickle humanity in his veins. We were the best of friends. His name was Boian. He was my dragon partner.
“In a battle with some griffins, of all things, I was knocked unconscious and he was captured. When I awoke a note was pinned to my arm with a stake through my broken hand. It said if I wanted to see my friend again, I w
ould have to betray the dragon riders. As a token of their intent they cut off one of his horns and left it at my feet.” The large man went quiet. Staring into his past, he opened his mouth and his lips moved, but memories sealed them. Finally, he shoved out the words.
“I was torn. I knew I could not betray the dragon riders, but if I went to them, to you actually, you would have to remove me and stop me from trying to get my friend back. So I sent word to the captors agreeing to their demands. I did not tell you. I intended on deceiving the kidnappers; somehow you found out and had me arrested.” Hard eyes stared at Harry. Harry waited for a twitch that would signal the giant’s move.
“But it was too late. The attack had begun and the enemy had used the information I supplied to slaughter the dragon riders. In the confusion your dragon was severely wounded, you were distraught. I saw you holding her with one hand and with the other clutching her wound, trying to stop the bleeding. I escaped. I tried to find Boian. I found his body. They had mutilated him. Cutting him to pieces and giving away his scales and claws and the jewels he wore, as rewards to those who butchered him.”
Harry sat back in his seat and stared at the giant. He had an artifact in his hand, a gift from Sarah he had kept for hundreds of years. It forced a person to speak the truth. Whether the individual wanted to be exposed or not.
“My name is Peter Fawkes, by the way. And the irony of this is you do not even remember something that I can never forget!” Fawkes pounded the steering wheel, breaking it with his powerful hands.
Harry’s eyes softened and he quietly said, “I know you are very angry, and from what you have shared you have reason to be… but I am still confused.”
The giant glared at him. “What could you possibly be confused about?”
“I am not sure who you are angry with. Is it the North Star? He ordered us into battle knowing we would suffer great loss. Or me for using the information I had without considering your motivation? Or somebody else?”
The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set Page 60