Peter and the Sword of Mercy

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “The throne of Charlemagne,” she whispered.

  The Skeleton pulled back his hood a bit and studied the throne with his solitary yellow eye. “We will see if the curator told the truth,” he rasped.

  Scarlet nodded, suppressing a shudder as she remembered what the Skeleton had done to the curator to make him talk.

  “Which way?” said the Skeleton.

  “Follow me,” said Scarlet. She led the group to an unmarked door. “Here.”

  The Skeleton raised his scarred stump of a hand and, without knocking, opened the door. He went inside, the others following. They found themselves in a small windowless room, dimly lit by an oil lamp. The only furniture was a simple desk, behind which sat an elderly priest in a black robe. He looked up, his face reflecting mild annoyance at the intrusion but no fear or shock, even at the sight of the Skeleton’s disfigured face.

  “Good day,” the priest said calmly, in German.

  The Skeleton ignored the pleasantry. “Where is it?” he said, also in German.

  “What is it you seek?” said the priest.

  The Skeleton moved close, leaning over the desk so the priest could smell the foul breath escaping from the lipless hole of his mouth.

  “You know what we seek,” he said.

  “I do not,” said the priest.

  “We shall see,” rasped the Skeleton. He moved around the desk so that he was standing behind the priest. As he did, Scarlet moved in front of the desk.

  “Long ago,” she said, “Charlemagne, uniter of Europe, faced death in the Palatine Chapel. He was saved by a miracle.”

  “A myth,” said the priest. “A fairy tale.” Behind him, the Skeleton moved closer. The priest felt his presence but did not turn, keeping his eyes on Scarlet.

  “It is no myth,” she said. “There was a miracle, and a part of that miracle was never found. We have reason to believe it is still here. We seek to recover it, and to make it part of the whole again.”

  “I know the story,” said the priest. “But you must believe me. It is only a story.”

  The Skeleton put the claw that was his right hand on the priest’s neck. The priest flinched.

  “I don’t believe you,” rasped the Skeleton.

  “It will be much easier for you if you tell us,” Scarlet said softly.

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” said the priest.

  The Skeleton’s claw-hand moved, ever so slightly. The priest screamed as his body was racked with searing pain, starting at his neck but suddenly everywhere at once. It lasted for several eternal seconds. Then the Skeleton’s hand lifted, and the priest slumped forward, gasping. Slowly, he raised his head. When he spoke, his eyes were on Scarlet, but his words were directed to the Skeleton.

  “I will tell you nothing,” he gasped.

  The Skeleton’s hand went to the priest’s neck again. The priest closed his eyes. His lips began to move. He spoke in Latin, praying.

  The Skeleton began to move his hand. Then, suddenly, he lifted it.

  “We are wasting time,” he said. “Pain will not work on this one. He is strong.”

  “The strength is not mine,” the priest said softly. “It is the strength of my faith.”

  “Yes,” said the Skeleton, thoughtfully. “Your church is more important to you than your life.” He said to Scarlet, “We will take him to the chapel. See that the way is clear.”

  Scarlet left, returning a few minutes later. “It’s empty,” she said.

  “Bring him,” said the Skeleton, following Scarlet out the door. The two men took the priest’s arms and half carried him out the door. Scarlet let them into the cathedral’s central nave, and from there through a series of passages into the Palatine Chapel, its stained-glass windows lit by the fading evening sun. The only other illumination came from a bank of candles.

  The two men shoved the priest forward. He stumbled to his knees on the chapel floor. The Skeleton stood over him. “We know that you would sacrifice your life to protect the secret,” he said. “The question is, would you sacrifice your church?”

  The Skeleton walked over and plucked one of the candles. He returned to the priest, wax droplets spattering the stone floor. He looked up at the ceiling.

  “How well do you think those cross ties and braces would burn?” he asked. “And if they did, how long do you think the walls would last?”

  The priest only shook his head.

  “Coben,” rasped the Skeleton.

  One of the two large men, the more wiry of the two, stepped forward quickly. The Skeleton handed him the candle. Coben took it and disappeared through an arch, his footfalls echoing.

  “Please,” said the priest, softly. “This chapel has stood for more than a thousand years.”

  ‘“To everything there is a season,’” the Skeleton said. “Perhaps the chapel has outlived its purpose.”

  Coben reappeared at the second level of the chapel. He had shed his robe. Placing the burning candle between his teeth, he jumped for the chapel’s central chandelier, a magnificent ring of gleaming, golden metal fifteen feet across. He caught it, barely, and managed to hang on as the chandelier swung on its chain. Somehow he also managed to keep the candle burning.

  The priest gasped as the man, with amazing agility for his size, began climbing the chain.

  “Please,” the priest said. “It is a house of God.”

  “It is a means to an end,” rasped the Skeleton.

  The priest watched, horrified, as Coben reached the timbers supporting the chains. He looked down, holding the candle near the wood, waiting for orders.

  “You can’t,” the priest whispered.

  “I will,” said the Skeleton, “unless you tell me where the tip is.”

  He gestured to Coben, who moved the candle so that the flame licked the wood.

  “No!” shouted the priest. With a groan, he bowed his head and whispered, “I’ll tell you.”

  The Skeleton, gesturing at Coben to pull the candle away, leaned close to the kneeling priest. The priest looked up. “The bishop’s miter,” he whispered, crossing himself.

  “Riddles?” the Skeleton said. “You dare to speak in riddles?” He looked up at Coben. “Burn it!”

  “No!” said the priest. “It is not a riddle.” Struggling to his feet, he pointed toward the stained glass. “The bishop’s miter,” he repeated.

  “What is he talking about?” rasped the Skeleton.

  Scarlet walked quickly toward the window indicated by the priest. The sun’s light was almost gone, but she could still clearly see the scene depicted in the window—a bishop wearing his vestments, including a miter, the tall pointed hat.

  “Look at the miter,” she said, as the Skeleton came alongside her. “It’s opaque. It’s not glass.”

  “Not glass,” the Skeleton rasped. “It looks like …”

  “Metal,” said Scarlet. “It’s metal.”

  And it was shaped like the tip of a sword.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE CAB

  MOLLY STOOD ON HER FRONT PORCH, umbrella in hand, frowning at the driving rain. She had planned to walk to her father’s house in Kensington Park Gardens, but that was now out of the question: her umbrella would be useless in the gusting wind. There was a District Line station not far from her father’s house, but after her disturbing experience, she had no intention of taking the Underground.

  That left her with one choice: a hackney carriage. Molly sighed. It wouldn’t be easy to find a cab in this weather, when everyone else wanted one, too. She stepped to the edge of the porch and, squinting against the rain, peered down the street. To her surprise, she saw a carriage coming her way. She started to raise her arm, but the driver, his face obscured by a heavy scarf, was already guiding his horse to the curb in front of her.

  Molly quickly descended the porch steps and gave the address to the driver, who nodded wordlessly. She climbed into the carriage. The driver twitched the reins, and as the soggy, steaming horse began tru
dging forward, Molly turned to look back through the cab’s rear window at her house. She caught sight of a face pressed against a third-floor window, and realized it was Wendy, watching from her bedroom. Molly waved, but couldn’t tell if Wendy saw her. As the house receded behind her, Molly turned away, her mind on the task ahead.

  Wendy thought she saw her mother wave, but she wasn’t sure. Just in case, she waved back. Her hand then returned to fondling the locket her mother had given her that morning. It was a simple golden orb that her mother had worn as long as Wendy could remember.

  “But why?” Wendy had asked, when her mother had put it around her neck. It felt oddly warm against her skin.

  “I just want you to have it,” said her mother. “In case you ever need it.”

  “How do you mean, need it?” said Wendy.

  “Just keep it with you,” said her mother.

  Wendy held it now, feeling its warmth, as she watched the cab carry her mother away. A few houses down, the cab passed a policeman, who appeared to be watching it intently. He nodded at the driver, who nodded back. Wendy wondered, as the cab disappeared into the rain, if the two men knew each other.

  CHAPTER 11

  DARKNESS

  WENDY LOOKED OUT HER WINDOW many times that gloomy day, each time hoping to see her mother returning, each time disappointed.

  Over and over Wendy told herself that nothing was wrong, that her mother had simply been delayed. But her worry deepened with each passing hour.

  What if something happened to her?

  As night fell, Wendy finally saw someone approaching the house—but it was her father. As he trudged up the front steps, Wendy turned away from the window, her knees weakening with dread.

  What shall I tell him?

  She listened, cowering in her room, as he entered the house and went from room to room downstairs, calling his wife’s name. He came up the stairs, still calling, his tone increasingly irritated. Finally, getting no response, he knocked on Wendy’s door.

  “Come in,” she said. The door opened. Wendy was sitting on her bed.

  “Where is your mother?” said George Darling.

  “I don’t know,” said Wendy.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “She went…out,” said Wendy.

  “At this hour?”

  “No. This morning.”

  “This morning?” George’s tone had changed from irritation to concern. “Did she say where she was going?”

  Wendy looked down, saying nothing. Her father strode across the room and stood over her.

  “Where did your mother go?” he said sharply.

  Wendy put her face in her hands. She didn’t want to betray her mother’s confidence. But she was scared. Her father was leaning over her now.

  “Where did she go?”

  Wendy looked up, her face red and tear-streaked. “She went to see Grandfather Aster.”

  George straightened, his expression shocked, then guarded. “I see,” he said.

  He doesn’t know that I know about the Starcatchers, thought Wendy.

  “How did she go there?” said George.

  “She took a taxicab,” said Wendy.

  Her father turned, headed for the door. “Look after your brothers,” he called over his shoulder. Moments later, Wendy heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs.

  Two heads appeared in the doorway, one below the other.

  “Where’s Father going?” said John.

  “Where’s Mum?” said Michael.

  “What’s for supper?” said John.

  “I don’t know,” said Wendy.

  Hours later, after she had fed her brothers and—finally—put them to bed, Wendy crept down to the staircase landing and listened to her father talking with two Scotland Yard detectives. They were polite but had nothing positive to report. They had checked with the staff at the Aster house; Mrs. Darling had never arrived there. They had interviewed many hackney drivers, looking for one fitting the description provided by Wendy, but they had found nothing. None of the neighbors or nearby shopkeepers recalled having seen Mrs. Darling on the street. Of course, the detectives noted, people didn’t spend much time outside in this weather.

  The detectives asked George, several times, why his wife had gone to see her father. Each time he replied that he didn’t know. Wendy didn’t believe him, and it was obvious that the detectives didn’t either. Their questions were making her father testy.

  “What difference does it make why she went to see her father?” he said. “The point is, she’s missing. You should be out looking for her now.”

  “We are, Mr. Darling,” said a detective. “We have men looking right now. But the more information we have, the better we can …”

  “I’ve given you all the information I have,” snapped George.

  A brief, uncomfortable silence followed. Then one of the detectives said, “We’ll be going now, Mr. Darling. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

  “I would appreciate it,” said George, coldly.

  The detectives walked to the front door. From her place on the dark landing, Wendy saw them go past; they were accompanied by a bobby. With a shock, Wendy realized it was the same one she’d seen that morning, nodding at the hackney driver who had stopped for her mother. She had forgotten him until now.

  Wendy was about to call out, but she caught herself. If the bobby had seen the taxi, wouldn’t he have said something to the detectives? Yet apparently he had not.

  Why not?

  Wendy waited silently as the bobby and the detectives left, and her father closed the door. Then she descended the stairs.

  “Wendy,” said her father. “Why aren’t you …”

  “I know why Mother went to see Grandfather,” she said. “And so do you.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “,” she said. “I know about them. And about what Mr. Smith found out. Mother told me all of it.”

  Her father was standing right in front of her now, his face red with fury.

  “That is nonsense” he said. “Your mother should never have told you that.”

  “But what if it’s why she’s gone missing?” said Wendy.

  “It’s got nothing to do with it!” he shouted.

  Wendy flinched, but did not back away. “How can you be sure?” she said.

  He didn’t answer, and Wendy saw in his eyes that he wasn’t sure. He took a breath and let it out, calming himself.

  “Wendy,” he said, “this is a very sensitive matter. If I tell the police some story about some secret group chasing a magical powder, or an inhuman creature inhabiting the body of a royal adviser, I’d be locked up as a lunatic, or a traitor, or both. You must understand that, Wendy. You must say nothing about this.”

  “But Mother …”

  “I am as worried about your mother as you are,” he said. “And I will do everything in my power to find her. And right now I believe our wisest course is to let the police do what they are trained to do. They’re very good, Wendy. They will find your mother.”

  “Maybe they already have,” Wendy said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bobby who was just here,” said Wendy. “I saw him this morning.” Her father listened intently as she described what she’d seen through her window.

  “Are you certain it was the same bobby?” her father asked.

  “Yes,” said Wendy.

  “Perhaps he didn’t see your mother get into the taxi,” said George, sounding to Wendy as though he were trying to convince himself. He went to a window and looked out. There was nothing to see except the utter blackness of a foggy London night. He stared into it for a few moments, then turned to Wendy.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “you and your brothers will go visit your uncle Neville in Cambridgeshire.”

  “But I don’t want to! Not if Mother …”

  “Wendy, listen to me.” Her father’s tone left no room f
or argument. “If you want to help, you will go to Cambridgeshire, and you will look after your brothers. I can’t be worrying about your safety when I’m trying to find your mother.”

  “But—”

  “No. You’re going, and you’ll stay with Uncle Neville until it’s safe for you to return.”

  “How long will that be?”

  Her father looked out the window again, at the darkness.

  “I wish I knew,” he said.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE GLOW

  IT WAS LONG PAST MIDNIGHT, but Cheeky O’neal was wide awake, listening. Fighting Prawn, keeping a close watch on his unwanted guests, had posted two warriors outside the hut where O’neal and his men slept. The warriors had been talking for hours, but in the past few minutes their murmuring voices had stopped.

  Silently, O’Neal rose from his sleeping mat. Around him, snoring loudly, lay DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson. Picking his way carefully past them, O’Neal went to the doorway and looked out. As he’d hoped, both sentries were slumped against the hut’s log supports, dozing.

  O’Neal left the hut, his huge bare feet silent on the dirt. He quickly crossed the village compound and entered the jungle, finding the path he had scouted earlier. He knew exactly where he wanted to go; he’d been carefully studying the island’s geography, and particularly its water supply.

  The jungle echoed with the hoots, twitters, screeches, and screams of unseen creatures. In places it was pitch-black, but most of the time just enough moonlight filtered through the thick tree canopy to enable O’Neal to follow the path. In a few hundred yards it led him to the mountainside, where it began to climb steeply. Every few steps O’Neal grunted in pain as his bare feet found sharp lava. To his left he heard water rushing, and after another fifty yards the path turned that way.

  He came to the stream and turned right, following it up the mountainside, which was steeper now, sometimes forcing him to use his hands to climb. Finally he saw, in the moonlight ahead, what he was looking for: a cave mouth, nearly as tall as he was, the source of the stream. He stepped into the rushing water and waded to the cave, then inside. The water seemed to sparkle at his feet, like phosphorescence in the ocean, only different. In a few feet he was in pitch blackness, his feet feeling their way forward in the strong, cold current, his hands reaching out for rock walls he could not see. Deeper and deeper he went, his feet now, strangely, no longer sore.