by Alex Archer
Pursued?
She wasn’t running, but traveling at a steady tempo, glancing over her shoulder every once in a while. She wore loose pants, cinched tight at the waist, and a shirt that was thin at the elbows and ragged from age and washings. Her hair was cut short. At a distance she could pass for a boy, but not up close. She got a good look at her face when she stopped by a stream for a drink, and found her features were delicate, her skin smooth, her cheeks red from the exertion.
How long had she been walking? Where had she come from?
Her eyes sparkled. Everything about her was young. She felt strong.
It was Joan. Annja was dreaming of Joan again. She’d thought she could escape the dreams, having left France behind.
A church came into view, and Annja recognized it. She’d visited it once before….
The Church of Saint Catherine de Fierbois.
Annja cooled her face with the stream water, stood and smoothed her clothes. She ran her fingers through her hair.
The church wasn’t far from Chinon, and she’d journeyed there after being validated by the dauphin, but before she—Joan—was to go to Orleans. She’d been listening to voices inside her head. They’d told her to go to this church.
The voices guided her inside. She paused to pray in the quiet, simple beauty of the sanctuary. Finished, she went behind the altar and seemingly easily unearthed a sword from beneath the dirt floor. It had five crosses etched on the pommel and guard, and was Annja’s now.
Joan hadn’t known where it came from; Annja had learned that later through study. Charles Martel, grandfather of Charlemagne, had left the sword there to commemorate his victory over the Saracens.
“I loved that sword because it was found in the Church of Saint Catherine, whom I loved,” Annja said. Joan’s words at her trial of condemnation.
The sword was coated with rust. It had not been buried deep, but the elements had eaten away at it. Still, the rust rubbed off easily.
A flash of fire blotted out the church. Through it Annja saw a man raise Joan’s sword. Through a wall of red, she saw other swords raised, among them Tizona.
She awoke, sweating, tangled in the sheets, the breeze from a window she hadn’t opened drifting in with the scents of the city.
“Good morning, Annja Creed.”
She sat bolt upright. Two men stood at the foot of her bed.
Chapter 19
Morning? It still looked dark. But just enough light came in through the open window to reveal the men to be twins.
She slammed her hand down on the light switch on the nightstand. The lamp flicked on and they blinked.
She took their measure in an instant: lithe, athletic, muscles tensed beneath their tight-fitting pants and short-sleeved shirts, their clothes the color of shadows. She reached for the phone.
“Don’t.”
She reached for the sword, felt it with her mind, but decided not to call it. That would be what they wanted, wouldn’t it?
“Dr. Lawton sent you.” She didn’t mean it as a question.
“You are a beautiful woman, Miss Creed,” the one on the right said in a velvety voice. He sounded like a well-educated man, from Paris. “If you want to keep being beautiful—”
“And keep breathing,” the other one said in a tone a tad higher and breathier, “you should surrender—”
“My sword.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She’d worn a pair of flannel shorts and a loose
T-shirt to bed. Sometimes she didn’t wear that much, and was glad she’d opted for something last night. “I thought Dr. Lawton wanted to buy it.”
“And I thought you had declined to sell it,” the one with the breathy voice said.
Confirmation. They worked for Lawton. Had they stolen Durendal from the monks in Avignon? The Wallace Sword from the monument near Stirling?
“I don’t have it with me.” Annja nodded to her suitcase, a soft-sided duffel on the luggage stand. “You’re welcome to search my bag, not that any decent-size sword would fit in it. I’ve got nothing in the closet but an expensive dress.”
They stood silent for a moment. She heard a door open and close down the hall, followed by the sound a rolling suitcase makes. She knew better than to call out; she might put the other hotel guest in danger.
She hadn’t noticed any weapons on the men; their hands were out to their sides, fingers spread in a nonthreatening gesture. But their very presence in her room was a threat, and that they’d come in through the window. She was on the eighteenth floor, and not near the fire escape. There was a soft chime as the elevator arrived. A glance to her door showed the chair she’d set in front of it was still there.
“We think you do have it with you,” the breathy one said.
“Get up.” His twin reached behind him and pulled a sword from a sheath at his back. It was a pitted katana.
“Honjo Masamune,” Annja said.
“Perceptive. Now, get up.”
Annja felt for her sword. It waited for her, but she sensed a pervasive anxiety. Her mind churned. She could call the weapon, fight them here. She had fought in close confines many times before. The noise would bring security, other guests.
One of the twins tossed her a pair of shoes—the only tennis shoes she’d brought with her. Thank God they hadn’t made her put on the new leather heels; she had blisters.
“Put them on. Hurry.” This one pointed to his waistband. The handle of a SIG Sauer protruded.
For the moment, she’d play along
Chapter 20
Glancing at the nightstand, she saw it was 5:00 a.m. Her wake-up call was coming in a half hour. Would someone check if it went unanswered?
“Where are we going?”
“To get your sword, Miss Creed,” the twin holding the katana said.
“I’m not dressed to go anywhere.” The one with the breathier voice seemed the more anxious of the two, the muscles of his arms quivering ever so slightly. The other one had steadier eyes, and she guessed he was in charge. Associates of Lawton? Hired thugs like the Romany gang members? “Don’t you think I’ll raise some eyebrows in the lobby?”
“Move. We are not going out that way.” He pointed his sword toward the window. At the same time his brother fitted a silencer on his gun. “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll end this now.”
The gun was aimed at her. For a moment Annja felt the pommel of her sword against her palm, but she pushed it away.
She padded to the window and looked out. “Eighteenth floor,” she said. The roadway below was shiny, the glow from streetlights reflecting off the pavement; it must have rained a little while ago. The sky was only now starting to lighten. “Do you expect me to jump?”
“There is a ledge.” This came from the one with the gun, who had moved up behind her. “Step out onto it. Be careful.”
“You can’t be serious. You want me on the ledge?” It wasn’t her best performance. “We’re eighteen stories off the ground.”
“It should be no difficult matter for you. Step out onto it,” he repeated. “Walk to the fire escape on the corner, and we will follow you.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but then decided against it. The ledge was certainly wide enough. It was how they’d reached her room. Someone on the street, or in one of the few passing cars, might see her and call the police. But did she really want that? She slipped out the window and walked east, the ledge a balance beam. She moved quickly, thinking she’d put some distance between them, get up to the roof, where there was more room to fight, or at least where she’d have more options. Annja was certain they wouldn’t kill her. If she was dead, Lawton wouldn’t be able to get her sword.
Not that he was going to get it with her living, either.
“I thought your boss was willing to buy my sword. He made an opening bid last night.”
She wrapped her fingers around the iron of the fire escape and started climbing, not giving them a chance to tell her what direction she was supposed
to go.
“You refused. Have you changed your mind?” She wasn’t sure which one had spoken.
“No. I haven’t changed my mind.” She glanced down. Both men were close behind her. The one with the sword had sheathed it to have his hands free to climb, and she saw that he had a second sheath and a smaller blade below it. From her vantage point, she also saw a sheath on the other twin’s back. Both were swordsmen.
What the hell was this all about? Buying and stealing ancient swords?
“So if I’m not willing to sell,” she mused, “you’re going to try to steal it from me?” Like these two had stolen the Wallace Sword and Durendal. Maybe.
“Climb.”
She was doing just that, and not too long after reached the top. “Now where to?” She stood a yard in from the edge of the roof. Her hotel was the tallest building on the block, at twenty-two stories, and it gave her a remarkable view of the city. The sky was lighter up here, the air cooler and cleaner. A half-dozen pigeons eyed her from their perch on the service exit to the roof.
“Your sword. We have come to—”
“Yes, I know. You’ve brought me up here because you want my sword. You have me at more than one disadvantage,” she said. “I’m practically in my underwear. I’ve no idea where we’re going—”
“To get your sword,” they said practically in unison.
“And I have no idea who you are.”
The one with the gun grinned. “Gaetan,” he said. “I’m Gaetan.” The other shot him a withering look, but he only shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that she knows my name.”
Because you intend to kill me after you have my weapon.
The velvet-voiced man didn’t introduce himself, but he drew the sword again. The hiss of the blade coming free from its scabbard sounded like a cat’s purr. A heartbeat later, he pulled out the other, a saber—relatively new, from the looks of it.
“Honjo Masamune,” Annja observed of the katana. “A fine weapon.” So the professor wasn’t putting it up on a shelf to gather dust, she thought. “Dr. Lawton gave it to you.”
“To use,” Gaetan said. “Only for my brother to use. But not so fine a blade as yours. Now, your sword, please.”
She walked backward.
“That’s far enough,” Gaetan said. Annja judged that she was roughly in the middle of the roof, where it would be harder for anyone below to see her. In truth, she didn’t want the police to come; she wanted to handle this on her own. The cops would only make it more difficult for Annja to get to the bottom of the mystery about Joan’s sword.
She held her arms out. “You think I’m going to take you to some locker at the airport where I have it stashed? What sword?”
“Joan of Arc’s,” said the man with the two blades. “Produce it now.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You know exactly,” Gaetan declared. “You can produce it out of thin air.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “Just tell me. How do you know about my sword?”
Sirens cut through the stillness, several of them heading west. Fire trucks off to fight a blaze. Cars started honking.
“Tell me how you know,” she said. “Give me that much.”
“A fair request,” No-Name said.
That was double confirmation that they intended to kill her. She’d seen enough movies to know that if the villain started to talk, there was lethal intent. So Lawton wasn’t as civilized as he’d appeared at the auction.
“In researching swords online, Miss Creed, your name came up. There were no pictures, but what there was was intriguing,” Gaetan said.
Certainly enough people in the years since she’d first held Joan’s sword had seen her wield it, but—
“When you came to France, publicity of your filming preceded you,” Gaetan continued. “It saved us a trip to your country. Convenient that you came to us.”
“In Paris it wasn’t difficult to have you followed,” the other said. “And provoked.”
Annja gritted her teeth. The gang she’d fought outside the train station—each man there had seen her with the sword. If she hadn’t picked that fight, this might not be happening. But then she might not have learned about the theft of Durendal or the Wallace Sword, either, and certainly she’d know nothing about Dr. Lawton or Archard Gihon.
“And what makes you think my sword belonged to Joan of Arc?”
“A portrait,” Gaetan said.
Annja had read extensively about Joan. “Only one portrait was painted of her and the famous sword, and history records it as being burned.”
“History is not always right,” Gaetan countered. “I have seen it.”
“That’s enough. We’ve told her more than necessary. Wasted minutes. The sword. Now.”
“I hand it over and you let me walk away?” Annja had been judging how far they could reach, guessing at their speed, wondering how much training they had. Some of the Romany toughs had exhibited a measure of skill, but most were just thugs. These two wielded swords of their own. A different kind of challenge.
“Of course,” Gaetan said.
“You’ve told me your name and I’ve seen your faces.”
He pushed the SIG Sauer into the waistband of his pants. “The sword and you walk. Easy. My word and my honor.”
Annja concentrated, and in the same breath her fingers wrapped around the pommel. She held it with both hands, up and ready, but made no move on them.
“Set it down,” Gaetan instructed.
Annja almost did…as she had under the bridge in Avignon. “Joan of Arc had two others, you know. Swords.” She could trick these men, let them think they were going to simply take the sword and then have it disappear on them.
“Not as important as your sword, those other two Joan used.” Gaetan took a step closer. “And they were easily obtained, purchased. I’ve seen them, too.”
“That’s enough.” His twin shot him a look.
“Fine. Now, do not make this too difficult, Miss Creed,” Gaetan said. “Surrender the sword—”
“Surrender it now,” the other cut in, “or I will lop off your hand to get it.”
Annja crouched. “Come and get it, then.”
She’d known from the moment she saw them in her hotel room that it would come to this and that she would win. The thing left undecided was whether she would have to kill them. Annja detested killing. The sword she wielded had not been entrusted to Joan of Arc for that purpose. At least, Joan had not used it that way. The Frenchwoman had led an army and fought bloody battles, certainly slaying men along the way, but she’d used her other two swords for the grisly work. This special sword, the one the voices in her head had told her to claim at Saint Catherine’s Church, Joan had considered a divine relic. Historical records stated that she’d used it to chase whores out of her army’s camp, turning it sideways and swatting them with it. In the fourth session of her trial, she was quoted as saying the blade was “excellent for giving hard clouts and buffets.”
Annja, however, had used it to kill…but only when she believed there was no other choice. Each death weighed heavily, and in the back of her mind, she could see the face of each person she’d cut down.
The man with two blades came at her first, and in the same instant Gaetan pulled a sword from his back, a saber. They separated, coming at her from each side, flanking her. A part of her felt the welcome rush of adrenaline, and her heart started beating faster. Roux had called her an adrenaline junkie once, and though she’d scoffed, she had to admit it was a valid assessment. She spun to parry Gaetan’s lunge. He was using the flat of his blade, not trying for a lethal strike.
The other twin? He intended to hurt her. Annja jumped back and pulled her arms in tight. He’d led with the katana, and the air whistled as he brought it down where her arms had been. She felt the breeze from the blade, the swing had been that close.
He had just tried to cut off her hands.
Chapter 21
Annja shift
ed her weight to the balls of her feet and reassessed her situation. The pair exhibited considerable skill, having the moves of fencers.
When they came at her again, she twirled away, nearly slipping when her foot touched a slick spot on the roof. The recent rain had puddled, and she skipped over a patch of water outlined by pigeon droppings. Annja crossed her feet, right in front of left, pivoting as she crouched, coming up and kicking out, catching Gaetan on the jaw. She heard a crack and saw him spit out blood and a tooth.
In pain and anger, he swung faster, turning the blade. He was no longer trying to hit her with the flat of it. But his temper made him sloppy and his rhythm was off. She dropped under the swinging weapons of both men, spinning toward the roof access door. Annja kicked out again, missing her target and again nearly losing her balance on the slick surface. But she regained her composure quickly and darted closer to Gaetan, who appeared only slightly less adept than his brother. Ducking again, she brought her elbow up when she straightened this time, jabbing him in the stomach.
Gaetan stumbled backward, and she followed, keeping a wary eye on the other one, bringing her sword up to knock away the saber and barely managing to avoid the swipe of the katana. Actually, not entirely avoiding it, she realized, noting a line of red forming on her arm and registering the sting. He stabbed both weapons at her, nearly connecting again.
She decided to pursue Gaetan first, get him out of the way, so raised her leg at a high angle and kicked at his head. The move succeeded in catching him off guard. She turned into him and jabbed him in the stomach again, at the same time avoiding the katana by a hairbreadth.
So far she hadn’t resorted to a lethal move against either of them. Killing them wouldn’t help get her answers. Neither man spoke, concentrating on flanking her. She raised her sword toward Gaetan, avoiding another blow from his twin.
They both wore chest protectors, a piece of fencing gear made of thermoplastic or Kevlar, the latter from the looks of it. In her T-shirt and flannel sleep shorts, she had no such advantage.