City of Swords

by Alex Archer

  A pair of Italian gentlemen stood as close to the exhibit as they could, so Annja had to wait behind them, peering through the gap between them. “The sword of a king,” one said.

  Indeed, Annja thought.

  It was displayed tip down in a thick case, probably some type of plastic.

  Joyeuse was one of the most famous swords in the world. The traditional coronation sword of France, it had been reproduced by weapons makers everywhere and hung across fireplaces.

  “He already has the saber, you know. Charlemagne’s.” Annja kept her voice low. Roux was at her shoulder. “When I was in the hospital—”

  “Which time?”

  She scowled. “I researched missing swords. Charlemagne’s saber was stolen from the Imperial Treasury in Vienna, the same night—”

  “The Hun’s sword was taken.” Roux looked at her. “I can use the internet, too, you know.”

  He scanned the dozen people in the display area, none seeming to catch his attention. “This sword is very much a mystery.”

  “There’s some debate if it was actually Charlemagne’s,” Annja said. “Some say the proportions are wrong to have come from Charlemagne’s time, and they argue that after twelve hundred years, the original wouldn’t have survived. But the parts…” She trailed off as an announcement came over a hidden speaker, reporting that the museum would be closing soon. A half dozen of the people slowly made their way out.

  “Some of the parts are said to come from eight hundred or thereabout,” Annja continued. “Others say pieces are from the early thirteenth century. One antiquarian even thought there was Western craftsmanship involved. Another put it at mid-seventh century. I remember reading an article, back when I was studying sword making, that a sword of this proportion would be no earlier than the eleven hundreds.”

  “So, a mystery.” Roux studied the six remaining visitors. “But there is another explanation for the anachronisms, yes?” He asked as if he already knew the answer.

  “Yes. Alterations were made to it through the years.”

  “Very good.”

  Annja wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like it when Roux played the role of teacher. The plaque beneath the exhibit said the sword had been used to crown Philip the Bold in 1270. She stared at the hilt and listened to the Italian men read from a pamphlet.

  “‘The hilt was heavily sculpted of gold and had been made in two halves resembling a bulky Oakeshott’…whatever that is. ‘The grip, decorated with fleurs-de-lis and diamonds, was removed for Napoleon’s coronation in 1804. The gold cross bears twin winged dragons with lapis lazuli eyes.’”

  The blade glistened in the light of the display case. The scabbard behind it…Annja doubted there was anything left of the original except perhaps bits of gilded silver and the gems. The velvet and gold-embroidered fleurs-de-lis were added in 1824, according to the pamphlet she read over the shoulder of the Italians, for the coronation of Charles X.

  Roux was right calling it anachronistic—bits of this year, bits of that decade. But at the sword’s heart, its blade…the blade had been dated to medieval times, the ninth century or earlier. It could certainly have been wielded by Charlemagne. Legend said its pommel contained the tip of the Lance of Longinus, which was said to have Christ’s blood on it.

  “Forged from the same stuff as Ogier’s Curtana and Roland’s Durendal,” said a man standing in the doorway between this room and the next exhibit.

  “The museum is closing,” a voice over the speaker announced. “Proceed to the exit.”

  The man in the doorway was the gaunt German Annja remembered from the warehouse. Ulrich. She thought he’d been in the sword fight in the parking lot, too, but it had been so dark she couldn’t be certain.

  “It is good advice.” His voice was clipped. The pair of Italians walked past him, still talking about the sword. “You should be leaving the museum, too.” The other four tourists left. Annja and Roux were alone with him.

  Annja reached for her sword, feeling the weight of it in her hand. There were surveillance cameras in this room—she’d spotted them when she entered. Whether they worked was another matter; not all the ones in the Louvre did, though the general public didn’t know that.

  Roux started toward him, but Annja put a hand on his sleeve. “He’s mine,” she said.

  In that same instant, Ulrich reached into his pocket. He was wearing gloves, and he pulled out a mask and held it to his face.

  Annja felt the color drain from her cheeks. She tugged on Roux’s arm. “You’ve got to alert security, help get people out of here.”

  “Annja—”

  “Don’t argue. Hurry!”

  Ulrich stepped to the side as Roux rushed past him, fast for an old man. He hadn’t argued with her, though she’d expected it. Maybe by now he knew what was futile.

  “The liquid nerve gas,” Annja said. “He has some here, doesn’t he?” Her heart hammered in her chest. She’d figured he’d be using it in Rouen. But he had enough—eighteen canisters—to use some of it here.

  She could see Ulrich smile through the mask, which Annja realized also served as a respirator. His clothes were tight fitting, his shirt a turtleneck with long sleeves, and with the mask, every inch of his skin appeared to be covered. He reached behind his back and drew El Cid’s Tizona.

  Annja blinked, her eyes watering. They’d gotten the nerve gas into the air ducts. A rotten way to neutralize the museum’s security. “Damn Lawton.”

  “Perhaps.” The word was muffled. Ulrich came forward slowly, arms out and the tip of the sword scraping one of the exhibits. “Perhaps Charles will be damned to hell. But you’ll be dying first, Miss Creed.”

  He said something else, but the pounding of her heart drowned him out. Her eyes were watering fiercely, and she found her lungs tightening, the gas seeping inside her. Had Roux gotten out? Warned security? Did he get straggling tourists out, as well?

  Nerve gas was among the vicious chemical mixes considered weapons of mass destruction, outlawed by countries throughout the world.

  Annja went on the offensive, lunging and batting away his parry. He could fence, though he wasn’t as good as Luc. But he didn’t need to be. All he had to do was keep her here long enough. Annja slashed at his leg, slicing through his pants and drawing blood. He was still safe, she realized; this gas probably had to be inhaled to do harm. And it was doing significant harm to her. Already hobbled with a broken arm, she was going down fast. Her vision was failing, no doubt her pupils contracting… She was salivating profusely, lines of drool spilling over her lower lip and stretching to the polished floor. Annja started shaking.

  Minutes left, she thought, her chest tight, as if caught in a vise, and every breath painful. Roux was going to lose his second charge, after all. And her sword? It wouldn’t be going to Lawton.

  She drove the blade forward, catching her opponent’s arm. She felt the blade connect with his bone, he was so skinny, and through the mask, she saw surprise. He hadn’t hoped to best her with his fencing, but he’d thought she’d fall to the gas. And she was falling, but she was going to make sure he fell with her.

  He made a feeble attempt to strike her, Tizona glancing off her cast, cutting only the sling that held it close to her body. Hot pain pulsed from the broken arm, but the sensation gave her the impetus she needed. Falling, she shoved the blade up at an odd angle, sliding the steel between his ribs and finding his lungs. Ulrich’s mask filled with blood and he dropped. Annja scrambled over him, releasing her sword and reaching for his mask, shaking uncontrollably and somehow finding the strength to tug it off him. Nausea struck her and she vomited. When it passed, she continued to shake, but was able to press the mask to her face and breathe. She sprawled there, awkwardly strapping the mask around her head with her good arm. Deep. Breathe deep, she told herself. Over and over and over.

  Annja could hardly see out the mask for the blood, but she couldn’t risk taking it off to clean it. She stayed still another minute, two, the shaki
ng stopping for the most part, but her fingers quivering as if they’d been electrified.

  She needed a hospital, a decontamination center… Anyone caught in the museum needed one. Had Roux alerted people? He had to have, she told herself as she struggled to her feet. Unsteady, she leaned against the wall, trying to see through the blood-splattered mask. Decontamination center, drugs…

  She’d been shot, hit by a car, thrown through windows. This was a first for her—being exposed to nerve gas—and not something she ever wanted to experience again. She glanced toward Charlemagne’s sword, in its case. It was safe. Lawton wouldn’t be— She was driven to the floor by a vicious kick to her back.

  She heard a muffled voice, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Annja rolled and rolled, putting distance between herself and her new assailant, catching a glimpse of him through gaps in the blood and still not able to make him out. Darkly dressed, every inch of him covered, with a mask similar to the one she was wearing… The sword, though, she recognized: Honjo Masamune.

  Annja sprang to her feet, meeting him sideways so her broken arm was away from him. The sword was in her hand. She hadn’t recalled drawing it, but it was there nonetheless, and she knocked away his blow. Luc wasn’t using two swords today, perhaps pressing his luck getting the one in through security, or because he’d needed to bring other things with him, such as his respirator. Whatever the reason, Annja was thankful she had only one weapon to worry about.

  He was quick, and he darted around her, his eyes flitting past her to Joyeuse’s case. His leaps and thrusts were perfectly executed, but Annja parried each one. They were designed to wear her down. She was already worn down, as far as she could be and still manage to stay on her feet. Where he stepped lively, she shuffled. Where his posture was perfect, her shoulders were rounded and her back hunched. It was all she could do to keep from throwing up again. A tremor struck her and she gripped her sword tighter, brought it up and knocked Honjo Masamune away once more.

  He was saying something, but muffled as it was by his mask and hers, she couldn’t understand. She heard only a pounding in her ears and the rasp of her own breath. If he wanted to wear her down, let him try. She had every confidence that Roux made it out. The police would be here soon, with whatever medical force they could bring with them. She would outlast Luc. She would see him locked away in a Paris prison.

  More muffled words, probably curses at her for killing his twin. He wasn’t merely trying to capture her now, as per his orders in the faculty parking lot at the university. He was trying to kill her. His strokes were stronger and more vicious, and she had to work harder to keep his blade at bay. Annja kept looking for an opening, but he wasn’t giving her one. And with her vision impaired because of the mask, matters were grim. She was guessing, and she was moving back, tangling herself in a velvet rope that circled an exhibit, then working herself free. Spinning, she saw him bring Honjo Masamune down on the rope, slicing it like a laser beam would.

  Something squawked over the speaker, and she heard sirens. Multiple sirens. Maybe someone outside was using some device to talk through the museum speaker system.

  Luc heard it, too, and he moved even faster. There was nothing flashy in his moves; that stuff was for exhibits. A good swordsman worked quickly, with simple actions designed to kill, not entertain. And a good swordsman—or swordswoman—didn’t let a match go on any longer than necessary.

  It was just long enough. Annja couldn’t see clearly, and she was still racked with tremors, but she’d been able to detect a rhythm in Luc’s footwork. He was predictable, after all. Another few minutes to make sure she was right…

  He landed a blow against her sword arm. She’d turned, but not fast enough, and Tizona sliced through the sweatshirt. One more pain to master…

  He drew back and she fell to her knees, jamming her sword up with as much force as she could find. The blade sank into his stomach and she pushed until it was in up to the hilt. He fell on her, struggling for a moment before she was able to crawl out from under him. She released the pommel of her sword and it vanished, leaving him flat on the marble, with blood pooling around his jerking fingers.

  She started to leave, then stopped, turned and peered at Joyeuse through her blood-splattered mask. It was safe. Annja returned to Luc’s body and picked up Honjo Masamune, holding it under her arm. She managed to grab Tizona, too. These swords would have to be returned to their rightful owners as well, she thought, as she stumbled out of the room.

  She didn’t see a soul in the halls. Annja prayed everyone had managed to make it out, though she suspected some museum staff members must have fallen to the gas. Lawton would have considered them collateral damage.

  She should make her way to the bowels of the complex and figure out where the nerve gas was released and how many canisters were used. See if she could find a way to shut it down…if there was any of it left to shut down.

  She should…but she lurched toward the exit instead, self-preservation kicking in. She made it out of the pyramid to the sidewalk, taking in the police cars and ambulances, the crowd of people kept back by hastily erected barriers, the news crews that were arriving, before two men in hazmat gear took her by the arms. Which was awkward, considering one of her arms was in a cast…and she was carrying two swords.

  Chapter 37

  They stripped her and put her in a makeshift shower that had been set up in a white tent on the street. About three dozen other museum visitors had been given the same treatment and whisked off to one of Paris’s hospitals. Annja didn’t have the strength or the voice to put up more than a feeble protest when they loaded her on a stretcher and sent her on her way.

  She had a second shower at the hospital, lathered with a sweet-smelling, oily solution, then was dressed in a faded green, drafty gown and assigned a bed in the maternity ward. It was the only empty private room available, and she’d heard someone demand that she get special attention.

  A nurse told her they’d thrown away her clothes and shoes. Annja made a mental note to find the policewomen and reimburse them for the loss. A doctor explained that the antidotes they shot her full of were designed to do the opposite of what the nerve gas did. She was no longer salivating, her eyes had dilated and the tremors had stopped. She felt hungry—famished.

  There was no sign of long-lasting or permanent damage, the doctor said, though after questioning he revealed that eighteen of the museum staff had died and that more than a dozen of those treated were left with irreversible nerve and brain damage.

  Damn Lawton to hell, she fumed. There was little consolation that he’d waited until the museum was closed to unleash the gas. If he’d released it even a few minutes earlier, hundreds could have died.

  “The police want to talk to you when you are feeling better,” the doctor said.

  “In a while,” Annja replied. She closed her eyes and waited for Roux. She knew he’d come to visit…and to complain one more time about how tired he was of visiting her in the hospital.

  “Three canisters,” Roux told her, “in the ventilation system. They covered all the wings of the museum and the lower levels, too.” He explained that the body count was higher than originally thought. They’d found more museum staff members in the underground areas…along with one of Lawton’s paladins. His respirator hadn’t worked.

  “Which one?”

  Roux shrugged. “He was a short, stocky man.”

  The one who’d wielded the Wallace Sword.

  “He didn’t have a sword with him,” Roux said.

  She suspected he hadn’t brought it into the museum, certainly could not have sneaked that by a security guard.

  “I recovered Tizona and Honjo Masamune.” She wouldn’t even begin to wonder how the other two got their swords past security.

  “Now recover yourself, Annja. I truly am done with visiting you in hospitals. Depressing places.” He turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “I wasn’t going to tell you this—not until they released
you. But…” She waited. In the silence she heard a cart rolling down the hallway outside, the soft squeak of a nurse’s shoes and someone saying, “We have a boy.” Roux shut his eyes for a moment. “Joyeuse. In the commotion of clearing out the building…someone got away with it.”

  Damn him all to hell. “So, he won.”

  “I wouldn’t say so, Annja. You cut his forces. He doesn’t have the people left to carry out his plan. I’d say that is some measure of victory.”

  “A small victory,” she admitted. “Maybe we’ve stopped Lawton’s unholy war. Maybe he’ll just get more swords and paladins.”

  “And the police recovered a dozen canisters of nerve gas.”

  “So three more are missing?”

  Roux shrugged. “Perhaps. But maybe that’s all there was.” He pulled the two prescription bottles out of his pocket. “I doubt very much that he has the time to pursue his…unholy war. Now sleep.”

  She started to argue.

  “Promise me you’ll spend the night.”

  Annja made a face. Nerve gas was serious, not like cuts and broken arms. She felt as if a dozen trucks had run over her, and her stomach was a cauldron being constantly stirred. “At least the night,” she said. I’m not stupid, she almost added.

  “At least.”

  “I have very good insurance, Roux.”

  He gave her a faint smile and closed the door behind him.

  She groaned, her head foggy. She’d forgotten to ask him to get her laptop, cell phone, something so she could do some digging. The archaeologist in her could never stop digging…even if it was electronic. He’d be back to check on her, she told herself. When he came, she’d have him get her…

  A nurse hovered over her, with pills in a paper cup. Annja swallowed them without protest. “More antidote?”

  The woman shook her head, and Annja repeated her question in French.

  “To help you sleep,” the nurse replied.

  That was the one thing Annja didn’t want to do; she had too many things to think about.