Secrets of the New World (Infini Calendar) (Volume 2)

by Scott Kinkade

  He quickly received an answer, and it became clear it wasn’t Jeanne in there.

  Someone tackled him from his left, and fell onto the forge. Although it wasn’t lit, it still hurt his side to be hurled into stone with that much force.

  Before his mind could register what was happening, more shadowy assailants were upon him. He kicked and thrashed, and although he was a very large man, there were simply too many enemies to contend with, and he could barely see them. It wasn’t long before they had him subdued.

  One of them said, in a thick accent he couldn’t place, “That is enough, Aadil.”

  “What is Aadil?” Pierre asked. He was both confused and angered at this vile treatment.

  A lantern was lit, illuminating his adversaries. They were men wearing full-length white robes and strange headpieces that looked like hats except they flowed down past the men’s shoulders. Two large men held Pierre down, while four more stood over him menacingly. Furthermore, each of them had a curved sword called a scimitar hanging from their waists.

  But that wasn’t the most striking thing about these mysterious brigands. The most striking thing was their complexion; they were almond-skinned, just like Pierre.

  The one holding the lantern was a vicious-looking man with sadistic eyes and a thick beard. “You are Aadil.”

  “That’s not my name.”

  He gave Pierre a twisted smile. “We shall see.” To one of the men standing over Pierre he said, “Do it.”

  The man bent down and ripped Pierre’s night shirt right off his torso. They each expressed satisfaction when they saw his birthmark: a crescent moon.

  One of them said, “It is he.”

  The one holding the lantern, whom Pierre took to be their leader, said, “Aadil al Hassan.”

  “I told you—that is not my name. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  The leader snickered. “You talk brave words, but in a foreign tongue. You don’t sound like a true Arab.”

  “So you are from the Arabian Kingdom?” Pierre asked. He didn’t think anything they said could justify attacking him in his own home, but he still wanted to know why they were doing it.

  “You might call me an envoy of King Aalee. My name is Abdul Jabbar. The King has a grievance against you, and he has sent me here to settle the dispute.”

  “I’ve never even heard of this man.”

  “But he has heard of you. Years ago, he staged a coup in the Arabian Kingdom, overthrowing the previous king.” He then added, “Your father.”

  Pierre was dumbstruck. “My…father?” He had never known his biological father or mother.

  Abdul Jabbar nodded. “If he had stayed in power, you would now be the king. You are—or were—Prince Aadil al Hassan.”

  “I…am a prince?”

  “Former prince.”

  Pierre couldn’t believe it. All his life, he had just been a normal man. Granted, he had been accepted into an elite unit of the French military, but he had never been considered anything close to royalty.

  He laughed, an action which surprised his captors. “I’ve read enough stories to know how this goes. This King of yours sent you here to make sure I never come back to challenge him for the throne. Am I right?”

  Abdul Jabbar frowned. “I do not believe you appreciate everything we had to go through to find you.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “We shall consider that your last request,” Abdul Jabbar said. “A while back, word reached King Aalee of the events of the French Revolution. One of the stories he heard was of an Arab who took part in numerous battles and played a key role in deciding the outcome of the Revolution. He said to me, ‘It is not likely this man is the prince who was supposed to have died ages ago, but I want to be absolutely sure. Go to France and investigate. If you find this man is indeed the prince, look for an opportunity to kill him’. So we went to France, but little did we know that would only be the beginning of our quest.

  “We approached your Emperor—”

  “He’s not my emperor.”

  “Duly noted,” Abdul Jabbar said dryly. He then began pacing back and forth, lantern still in hand. “We approached Napoleon Bonaparte and asked him if he knew the whereabouts of a French soldier named Pierre Girard who looked like us. Bonaparte informed us that you had abandoned him and possibly fled to America. We were very disappointed, until Bonaparte told us he was sending an envoy to America to negotiate a treaty and offered to let us accompany them. He introduced us to the person who would be leading the mission. This woman,” he said, putting a nasty emphasis on the last word, “was to have full authority aboard the French airship that was heading to America. Normally we would have beheaded a woman before suffering the indignity of following her orders, but this was our best chance to find you and so we choked back our pride and agreed to it. Earlier this evening, that woman told us she had discovered your location, and so here we are.

  “Thus your last request is fulfilled. And now,” he grasped his scimitar and held it tantalizingly in front of him while he seemed to admire its sharpness, “It is time to finish our mission.”

  Something suddenly occurred to Pierre, something he had been too preoccupied with these thugs to realize until now. “Wait—where is the woman who lives here? Have you done anything to her?”

  Abdul Jabbar seemed disinterested in what Pierre was saying. “Sorry, but you are out of questions.”

  He stood over Pierre with the scimitar raised. Pierre couldn’t believe it was actually going to end this way. After all the danger he had faced at Jeanne’s side, was he really going to die alone? It was too cruel.

  Suddenly the door of the forge burst open. Abdul Jabbar swung around, scimitar ready to deal with whoever had interrupted his evil work.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” a familiar voice asked. Pierre couldn’t see very well because of the crudeness of Abdul Jabbar’s lamp, but he knew that voice. It was Jeanne.

  Abdul Jabbar stared at her. “You should not have come here, woman. This is a matter between men.”

  Jeanne took a few steps into the room. She wasn’t wearing her wig. “I don’t know who you are, but I know you now have a woman to deal with. I’m going to give you one chance to leave here before I get angry.”

  “No, Jeanne! Get out of here!” Pierre yelled. These men were armed and he had a feeling they were very familiar with their blades.

  “It is too late now,” Abdul Jabbar said. “I was thinking of sparing your life, woman. But you have insulted me, and I cannot abide such disrespect from the inferior sex.”

  Jeanne, though, didn’t look the least bit intimidated by this Arab. “Consider yourself extremely fortunate you were not my subordinate in the Ordre. I would have utterly destroyed you had you spoken to me like that.”

  “Oh?” Abdul Jabbar asked, his interest piqued. “You are the same as that woman aboard the airship?” His furrowed eyebrows gave way to a sadistic smile. “That will make killing you all the more satisfying.”

  Pierre’s pulse grew in speed and intensity as he watched Jeanne’s life become increasingly imperiled with every word she spoke. “Jeanne! For the love of God—what are you doing?”

  “Waiting,” she said.

  “For what?”

  Abdul Jabbar raised his scimitar to cut down the only woman Pierre had ever loved.

  Suddenly a blur flew down the stairs to Pierre’s left. It went behind the man who was between Pierre and the stairs holding him down. The man then howled in pain.

  “For that.”

  The man collapsed into Pierre’s lap, dead weight. Farahilde Johanna stood over him. “Sorry I’m late, dummkopfs. Had to sneak in through the upstairs window. So—who’s next?”

  They were all focused on her. Pierre took that opportunity to raise his now-free left arm and deliver a massive fist into the face of the other guy holding down his right side. The Arab let go as he fell back onto the floor.

  “Kill them!” Abdul Jabbar yelled.

>   Pierre jumped to his feet.

  The remaining Arabs drew their scimitars. Farahilde got between two of them who both swung their large blades at her. Pierre knew right away that was a fatal mistake; the weapons were too large to be safely wielded in close quarters. She rolled out of the way and the two men ended up cutting each other down. Dual sprays of blood burst forth, staining everything within range.

  Another Arab tried to swing his scimitar at Pierre. He was too large to duck the attack, so he simply grabbed the man’s arm in mid-swing. Pierre then sent his knee crashing into his midsection before knocking him out with another fist.

  “Pierre! Look out!” Jeanne yelled.

  Pierre stepped out of the way as Abdul Jabbar threw his lantern at him. The lantern crashed against the wall behind him, and the Arab leader proceeded to run out of the building.

  “Why didn’t you stop him, fräulein?” Farahilde asked Jeanne who was just standing there.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Jeanne said. “There’s only one place he can run to, and it’s vital he be caught there.”

  Pierre ran over and embraced her. “You had me so worried, Jeanne.”

  “You’re a lot softer than I remember,” Farahilde teased.

  “We’ve been able to live a peaceful life here, up until now,” he said. That was all the explanation he felt like giving.

  Suddenly Farahilde said, “Oh, look who finally showed himself.”

  Confused, Pierre turned around to see the young man from earlier—Frederick was his name, if he remembered correctly—coming down the stairs, sword drawn.

  “I asked you to wait for me,” Frederick complained.

  Farahilde shrugged as he joined her at the bottom of the stairs. “Not my fault you had so much trouble getting through the upstairs window.”

  “I’ve never done that before.” He said it like a complaint, but Pierre thought he detected a note of excitement in the young man’s voice. He bowed his head to Pierre. “I am sorry about this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Pierre said.

  Farahilde kicked one of the downed Arabs. “Who are these guys? They’re definitely not French.” Her gaze darted between the bodies and Pierre. “They look like you. Did Deschanel send them?”

  “If you’re talking about that woman pretending to be Jeanne—well, she pointed them in the right direction.”

  “You can tell us all about it,” Jeanne said, and motioned for them to be leaving. “On the way to the President’s Palace.”

  Chapter XIII: You’re not Getting Away

  President’s Palace, Washington, December 13, 1792 (Infini Calendar), 1:12 a.m.

  George Washington sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, anxiously awaiting word from the troops he had sent to the Austrian ship to search for Farahilde Johanna and Mary Rose.

  He was tired, yet too worried to sleep. The fugitives must be caught, and he wouldn’t rest until the Gnostagar stones were returned to him. He had worked too hard to realize his dreams, and he would not be stopped by petty thieves. By making contact with the technologically superior Gnostagar, he would finally prove himself to his demanding mother. Although Mary Washington was no longer alive, he would have the final say. He would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a great man.

  An aide burst into the room. “Mr. President…!”

  “You had better have a satisfactory explanation for barging in without warning,” Washington said.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” The young man struggled to catch his breath. “It’s trouble. Out back.”

  “Slow down, boy.” The aide took a moment to inhale and exhale. “Now, what, precisely, is the matter?”

  “A strange man charged across the grounds of the Palace. We tried to stop him, but he had a strange curved blade and he cut down several guards. He had a peculiar appearance. We think he may be from the Arabian Kingdom.”

  Washington was beside himself. “Good God! Where is this fiend now?”

  “He climbed aboard the French airship. The vessel has been quiet since then.”

  “Have all available troops surround that ship,” Washington ordered.

  What was the meaning of this latest development? Were Farahilde Johanna and Mary Rose involved somehow? Washington didn’t think it was mere coincidence.

  ***

  Farahilde and Frederick waited downstairs in Pierre’s smithy. The other two were getting ready upstairs.

  Soon Jeanne and Pierre came down stairs.

  “Brings back memories,” Farahilde said.

  Both Jeanne and Pierre were wearing their Ordre armor and weapons. Jeanne had her rapier, and Pierre his broadsword. Except for the absence of Jeanne’s eye patch and long braided hair, it was just like old times. “Let’s go,” she said.

  They marched out the door and onward to the President’s Palace.

  ***

  “What on earth have you done?” Deschanel demanded to know from Abdul Jabbar as she sat in her chair.

  He stood across from her on the bridge of the Minuit Solaire II. “What I came here to do: I killed.”

  She wasn’t about to accept that explanation. “We allowed you to come here so you could kill a few traitors to our homeland. Instead you butcher Americans and now we may have a war on our hands. This is outrageous!”

  “Watch how you speak to me, woman,” he spat. “If I didn’t need this airship to get home, I would slit your throat in an instant.”

  Emil got between them. He stared down the vulgar Arab. “You had better watch what you say to our Commander. If you don’t, I will kill you and not Allah or anyone else can save you.”

  “You dare speak ill of Allah?” Abdul Jabbar said. He was positively seething.

  “Let’s get ridda this guy,” Jean-Louis said. He was standing to her left.

  “I agree,” Emil said. “We should throw him off the ship and be rid of these Arabs once and for all. We can feign ignorance about this whole affair.”

  Deschanel sighed. “We can’t. He knows too much. If he reveals our involvement in tonight’s fire, it will be war for certain.”

  But then Emil then said, “He can’t talk if we kill him.”

  Abdul Jabbar still had his scimitar, and he held it aloft to remind them of that. “You won’t live to regret trying it,” he warned.

  Emil clutched the broadsword at his side. His armor would likely protect him against an attack from Abdul Jabbar’s blade, but Emil’s head was another story. The knights didn’t wear helmets, so they would still have to be careful here.

  She gave the order. “Do it.”

  ***

  Farahilde, Jeanne, Frederick and Pierre ran up the grounds of the left side of the President’s Palace towards the rear of the building where the Minuit Solaire II was (hopefully) still docked.

  “Leave Deschanel to me,” Jeanne said.

  “Like hell! I let you have Robespierre,” Farahilde argued.

  “You were the one who killed him,” Jeanne countered.

  Farahilde sighed. “Fine. At least let me kick her a few times when you’re done.”

  “I think we’ve had this conversation before,” Jeanne said.

  Farahilde grinned. “It’s a good conversation to have.”

  Pierre then said, “Don’t you think it’s strange we haven’t encountered any of the President’s security detail yet?”

  “Perhaps they’re laying another trap?” Frederick suggested.

  “What would be the point?” Jeanne said. “No one would expect us to come charging back here like lunatics.”

  “It’s called the element of surprise, fräulein.”

  When they came to where the Minuit Solaire II was docked, they found a good two dozen guards surrounding it—as well as several spotlights. Farahilde thought Washington had come to his senses and realized she and Jeanne had been telling the truth.

  However, as soon as the assembled troops noticed them, they trained all their rifles on them.

  They threw their hands
up. “Take it easy!” Farahilde said.

  The men made way for George Washington, who had been watching the airship up close but now confronted his uninvited guests. He saw Jeanne and was understandably confused. “Mary…Rose?”

  “No. My real name is Jeanne de Fleur.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but he simply said, “What on earth possessed you to return here?” he asked them.

  “We came to clear our names, sir,” Jeanne said calmly.

  “How do you intend to do that?” Washington asked, skeptical.

  Jeanne pointed at the airship. “I have little doubt you will find the stolen Gnostagar stones aboard that ship. If someone could just search it…”

  Washington shook his head. “At this moment I am at a loss as to what to believe. A supposed Arab just killed several of my men and climbed aboard that airship. Perhaps he is involved with the French delegation. I would very much like to find out, but as you are aware, that vessel is considered foreign soil. We cannot intrude upon it.”

  “But we can,” Jeanne said, indicating herself and her friends.

  “You?” Washington said.

  “Yeah. Us,” Farahilde answered.

  He didn’t look convinced. “How can I be certain this is not a deception?”

  “What have you got to lose?” Farahilde said.

  “You might fly away rather than return the stones.”

  “Sir,” Jeanne said, “I have a feeling that airship is going to be leaving soon, one way or another.”

  He thought about it for a moment, and then said, “They are not likely to simply welcome you aboard.”

  Jeanne gripped the handle of her rapier. “We can handle it.”

  He looked at them for another few moments. Finally he said, “Very well. However, officially we tried to stop you.”

  Jeanne nodded. “Understood.”

  “Let them through,” Washington said. The men moved aside, and the four interlopers went up to the airship.