The ship swept onward, and Malta grew larger on the horizon. Cardinal Savoy came up onto the deck to join Marco once he heard the crew discussing the approach to the harbor. The Cardinal was pale-faced, not a comfortable sailor, and he looked forward to stepping onto solid land once again at Malta.
The Cardinal’s comfort was delayed. As they approached the mouth of the harbor they discovered that it was congested. Numerous ships were either at the docks, or waiting for turns to reach the docks, as an occasional vessel left the harbor and emerged to go back out to sea.
“There is another small harbor on the other side of the island,” the captain informed Savoy, and the ship was soon on its way to the place that offered the fastest opportunity for the cardinal to set foot on land. The other harbor was so small that the passengers on the ship were placed in a longboat with all their belongings and rowed to a rickety pier, but for Cardinal Savoy the creaking wooden planks were as solid as the earth itself. He smiled in relief as they waved good bye to the longboat that returned to the chartered ship, and then Marco carried their bags up to the small inn that was the only lodging in the fishing village. He was aided by young boys, who scampered about in the excitement of strangers coming to their village.
“We’ll spend the night here, then plan to go to Valletta,” the Cardinal told Marco. They spent the evening at the inn, and early the next morning they unceremoniously began to walk across the width of the small island nation, following a road that was mostly a wide path across the rolling, wind-swept hills of the Malta countryside.
They walked for two hours, under skies that were mostly sunny, except when small, puffy clouds raced overhead, and as they approached late morning, the two travelers reached a hilltop that looked down upon the valley where Valletta lay situated on a peninsula encircled by its bustling harbor.
“There’s the cathedral,” Savoy observed as he pointed to the prominent domed building at the foot of the peninsula. “If we go there I’ll be able to hear all the news we need to know about the situation here.”
Others were walking into town as well, farmwives with eggs to sell, boys going in to work in the stables, country folk who needed to shop in the market. The two travelers reached the cathedral just as the noon bells rang in the tower. The prelate of the church was astonished to find a cardinal, especially one acting as an envoy for the Holy Father, arrive unannounced.
The news Savoy and Marco received was that there were already soldiers from Barcelon disembarking at Malta, though neither the Duke nor Lady Iasco had arrived. Savoy made arrangements for them to move into the cathedral, and Marco crossed the island again to fetch their baggage as Savoy stayed behind to converse with the local church leaders.
The following morning, now residing at the cathedral, Marco left early and went down to loiter at the docks, waiting impatiently for Lady Iasco to arrive. He watched as ship after ship disgorged soldiers and supplies. At midmorning he noted a bustling shifting of ships that were waiting in the harbor, and a large warship sailed to the front of the line, a ship that carried the flag of the Duke of Barcelon’s dynasty.
Marco shouldered his way down to the dock, and watched as the Duke disembarked, along with several noblemen Marco recognized from his court, including the young Baronet Gustaf, the Viscount Tarragona, and Duke Priorato. Marco started to move forward to greet the arrivals, glad to have companions he knew, and eager to hear if there was any news of Mirra. But a flock of white-clad women appeared at the top of the gang plank, and Marco recognized Lady Iasco and Lady Folence among a collection of followers of the cult of Ophiuchus.
And behind the women, Marco saw Mitment, her shadowy form restlessly roving about, looking out at the crowd, watching for trouble or danger. It was Mitment who spotted Marco first, and who waved and called to him.
The spirit stepped forward, around various members of both the cult members and the court members, as Marco also worked his way into the crowd.
“Marco! For the love of God, tell me you see me and hear me!” Mitment exclaimed as the pair of them came together in a tiny opening.
“Mitment, if I could hug you I would!” Marco answered. “How are you?”
“Who are you talking to?” a stevedore asked as he walked by.
“I’m dead Marco, you idiot! Other than that, I’m mostly bored. But I’m looking forward to seeing some action in war. And I’m actually glad to have someone I can talk to. Let’s work our way over to Lady Iasco – she’s anxious to see you. She’s got some plans for you, though I don’t know what they are,” Mitment told him.
“Has there been any word of Mirra? Is everything okay at the castle?” Marco asked as they started to walk forward.
“She left Barcelon after you left, apparently, and broke hearts at the court with her departure of course, according to the gossip among the courtiers who have been sailing with the Lady. There’s no specific word of her beyond that, except that her brother and his wife showed up in Barcelon and were sent to your castle to stay with her,” Mitment said, just as they reached the milling crowd of noblemen and cult members.
“The Marquess of Sant Jeroni!” Baronet Gustaf recognized him first. “He shows up in the most unexpected places!” the nobleman said, recollecting his meeting with Marco in the mountain inn along the pilgrimage route, back in the spring time.
“Golden Hand!” one of Iasco’s followers immediately called aloud, and Marco observed a score of people swivel their heads to look in his direction.
“Golden Hand – your presence here warms my heart,” Lady Iasco spoke as she came forward. She held her hand out towards him.
“She wants you to bow and kiss her hand,” Mitment told him, and he did as the spirit instructed.
“We have much to discuss, my friend,” Iasco said. “I presume your mission was successful?” she asked as Duke Siplin arrived to join them.
“I believe it was,” Marco answered.
“If it was, then you’ve accomplished another miracle; getting Grand Prince Neapole to do anything honorable is an accomplishment not seen in our generation,” the Duke said to Marco. “It’s a pleasure to see, and it brings peace of mind to know that we’re going to war with you in our ranks.”
“Let us find a place where we can gather to hold our counsel as we await the arrival of all our forces,” Iasco suggested.
“Perhaps the cathedral?” Marco suggested. “My companion Cardinal Savoy is there.”
And so the gathering of the forces of Lady Iasco’s alliance began to come together in Malta, preparing for the bloody war that awaited them in their planned campaign in Athens.
Marco’s adventures conclude in the final volume of the Alchemy’s Apprentice series, “The Southern Trail”
There were two problems, Marco saw; the column of men had been ambushed once again from a force stationed on a side street, one that was aided by archers who stood atop an adjacent building and fired down in deadly fashion upon the Nappanee forces. The other problem was that the boulevard was growing narrower as it approached the center of the city, and men were being crammed together, unable to move freely.
Marco darted to the side of the street, and called his followers to join him, as he ran into the building that was the nest of the attacking archers. He and his men raced up the stairs and burst onto the roof top; the archers and their guards turned to looked at the new arrivals, and a pitched battle immediately ensued. Though they were outnumbered, Marco’s forces carried the victory, as Marco’s enchanted sword helped him take on an undue share of the bloody work.
“Put those bows to use!” he told his followers. “Start firing down into the side street!” he ordered.
The men willingly took up the cause, and caught the Docleatean attackers off guard as the arrows from above sudden began to claim victims dressed in black instead of purple. The men of the Nappanee army in the street, seeing their assailants distracted, rallied and forced the black-dressed soldiers to retreat.
Marco and the others on the roo
f grinned at one another. “Now, everyone downstairs and back with the army,” Marco directed. He followed the others to the stairwell, then stopped to look around. There were several columns of smoke rising to the east, but not so far away, he noted, as if the fighting in the other part of the city had moved closer. And the Acropolis now loomed virtually overhead, so close was their destination.
Marco followed the others down the stairs, and they resumed heading east towards their next engagement.
The head of the column fought a battle at the foot of the Acropolis before Marco even caught up with them. They were gathering in a square, one side of which contained the restaurant where Marco and Ophiuchus had danced. It had been his only dance with the spirit, and it had been her only dance ever, before she had surrendered the right to have a physical body anymore. He thought about the sacrifice the spirit had made to allow him to make the journey to revive Iasco. And in bringing the high priestess back to life, Marco had set in motion the chain of events that now placed him back in Athens, at the foot of the Acropolis, once again.
There was a sudden streak of fire, one that hit the restaurant and set it ablaze in an explosion of light and heat. Another sorcerer had come to do battle.
Marco looked for the location of the sorcerer, and spotted the man when another fireball went streaking across the sky to strike a second building, creating another conflagration on the opposite side of the square. The men around Marco wiped their brows, and Marco realized that the sorcerer was attempting to broil the Nappaneen force between the two powerful blazes. He wracked his brain, trying to find a solution, and he realized he had the tools he needed.
Marco wrapped his golden right hand around the finger of his left hand, the finger that spouted water through the enchantment of Diotima. He pointed both hands up in the air, and released as much power as he could, channeling it through the finger.
A vast river of water seemed to erupt upward, spouting like a powerful geyser. It flew high into the sky, and dissolved into a falling downpour of rain that fell relentlessly. It was heavy, painful rain, water that carried its weight back down to the ground, causing the combatants on both sides of the fight to cover their heads and cower in place.
Steam rose immediately from the two fires, dark white and gray clouds that billowed outward as the fires were doused by Marco’s efforts. Seeing the fire dissipate, Marco ended his exertions, and released his grip on his finger, letting the fountain’s water cease to shoot upward. He was tired from the effort, and tired from the previous efforts, yet he knew there was another sorcerer he had to face.
He needed to strike quickly, he decided. Before the sorcerer had time to think, while the man was still reacting to the falling rain – Marco would exert his energy and hope that he succeeded.
“Tell the men to start climbing up onto the Acropolis,” Marco shouted at the closest officer he saw. Then he turned and took a deep breath, pulled his thoughts together, and then pushed more energy out of his hand, to create another dome of power, and he placed it atop the other sorcerer, entrapping the man and a handful of nearby soldiers.
The crowd of Nappanee soldiers in the square was scrambling for cover; some were already beginning the hike up the path to the top of the Acropolis, while others were diving into doorways and buildings to find protection from the battle that was brewing between the two sorcerers. Men disappeared and reappeared eerily among the drifting mists and wisps of smoke that floated away from the two smoldering buildings.
There was open space between Marco and the other sorcerer, and Marco could see the man’s face clearly. It was the sorcerer Marco had seen when he and Ophiuchus had fled into the Ploutoneion Cave. The man had floated in the air, and thrown balls of dense explosive energy, he had detonated a shield Marco had erected in defense back then, and he had been portrayed as a demon in hell in a painting Marco had seen; suddenly Marco had little hope that his dome over the sorcerer would be as effective as the first one had been.
He inhaled deeply, just as the sorcerer created a brilliant flash of light, one that flew out in a wave and dissolved the dome evenly across every square inch of its surface.
“Remember me?” the sorcerer said. “I am Iamblichus. I believe we’ve met before, but this time you don’t have a divine spirit with you to save your tail from getting stepped on, do you?”
The sorcerer had supreme confidence, and he walked casually towards Marco.
Marco instinctively raised his sword to protect himself, holding the weapon in his right hand.
“That isn’t going to do you any good in this battle, little boy,” the sorcerer sneered, and he shot a string of black and red fireballs at Marco.
“Help me, spirits,” Marco prayed softly.
“We’re with you, Marco,” a pair of voices whispered, as his sword gyrated energetically. The metal blade seemed to glow as it moved faster than Marco’s eyes could follow, and it batted away every one of the fireballs, causing them to fly in all directions and explode throughout the square.
“Well,” Iamblichus said softly. “Maybe you are more than you appear. You can’t be any less.”
The sorcerer suddenly flew up into the air, then fired a steady beam of energy at Marco. Marco held the sword up to deflect the powerful energy, yet he felt it driving him downward, making his knees buckle. Iamblichus began to circle around Marco maintaining his height as he changed his angle of attack, and Marco awkwardly moved around to protect himself.
Iamblichus passed behind an ornate fountain that stood in the center of the square, and as he did, Marco rolled away from his spot, then somehow cloaked himself in invisibility, and rolled further, right up to the base of the fountain.
“Where are you hiding, little boy?” the predatory sorcerer called as he slowed his floating pattern and dropped slightly lower, staring around the square. He waved his hand, and a protective shield formed beneath him. Then he waved his hand again, and a vast, circular wall of energy appeared, a pen that trapped Marco, the whole fountain, and a good part of the square within its confines, while Iamblichus began to fire random energy balls around within the square, hoping to kill or injure his adversary.
Marco, in the meantime, climbed up onto the fountain, scrambling upon the dark bronze castings, seeking to reach the top of the fountain. He reached the top, and waited as Iamblichus slowly cruised through the air. “I’m going to hit you sooner or later,” the sorcerer warned. “Let me see you and I’ll make sure it’s a quick, painless end.”
There were sounds in another part of the city, a set of booming explosions.
“Come along child, I have other duties I need to perform, and this is slowing me down. This hunt is wearisome,” Iamblichus complained as he floated close to the fountain, and fired off another series of explosions.
“Then let’s put an end to it,” Marco said through gritted teeth, as he jumped off the fountain, his sword held high over his head.
Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) Page 32