Paladin's War

by Peter Greene

  “Gun doors open!” cried Aggar.

  Jonathan ran to the stern and down the hatchway past what used to be Harrison’s cabin. He descended one more deck and then began his insurance plan. One by one, he labored to move several smaller kegs of powder from the magazine to the deck just outside of the captain’s cabin. He covered them with a tarp and lashed them down. Four more kegs he laboriously moved to the main deck, along the starboard rail, and then surrounded them with several now-empty water barrels. Effectively, he had created a fuse of sorts, a line of kegs on the main and second decks, directly above and alongside the magazine that held almost seventy kegs of gun powder.

  Hoping against all hope, he returned to his duties as powder monkey, and listened for the order to fire.

  The first part of Commander Harrison’s mission was successful. As Captain Walker had said, the port of Kirej was a bustling marketplace, and Harrison had arranged to purchase four kegs of gunpowder to be placed in the dinghy, and for a few gold pieces, he was able to have them protected by a dock hand, watched until his return.

  It was a short walk due north on nameless, twisting streets to the area known as Galata, where Harrison located the French Church of Benoit. After a brief wait, he secured an audience with the head of the order, Brother Janis. They sat in the priest’s office, a small room with a fireplace and only such furniture as was needed: a pair of chairs and a small, low desk. In the corner of the room was a set of candles, and it was here that Janis stood, preparing coffee beans. A pot of water began to gently hiss as it boiled on the fire.

  After a discussion of the status of the French monastery, and the fact that Harrison was obviously English, both parties agreed that their homelands were not at war. They could safely assist each other if it suited them.

  Harrison explained what he believed had happened in Zadar, and asked if the priest had noticed the appearance of a thirty-six-gun Turkish cruiser accompanied by two smaller sloops.

  “My intention, Brother Janis,” said Harrison, “is only to assist my dear friends. I care not of the ships but only the lives of my crew.”

  Brother Janis nodded and handed Harrison a cup of steaming, dark coffee. Harrison thanked him and took a large sip. It was very strong coffee.

  “I believe many have seen the ships you describe,” said Brother Janis as he began to prepare a cup of coffee for himself, “though I can tell you that it was not a Turkish vessel.”

  “How would you reach that conclusion?” asked Harrison.

  “There was no flag being flown,” said Brother Janis.

  “Many do not fly flags in battle, unfortunately,” said Harrison, eyeing the coffee with suspicion. Some cream was needed, perhaps?

  “Ah. But this was no Turk,” said the Brother. “I was a witness myself. The cruiser I saw was in action just off the coast, at the mouth of the Golden Horn. A large ship it was—thirty-six guns, most likely—and ahead were two smaller craft.”

  “Twins you might say?” asked Harrison, hopefully.

  “Yes!” said Janis. “Sleek they appeared to me, and both with…with…”

  He motioned with his hands to show a ship with a sail, then tilted his top hand backward a bit.

  “Raked sails?” asked Harrison.

  “Yes,” said Janis, “and one of these smaller craft had sails that appeared larger than its twin.”

  Harrison smiled. He now knew that the cruiser, the Echo, and the Paladin had been together.

  “They were attacking a small Turkish galiot. A merchant,” said Janis.

  This took Harrison by surprise.

  “Then the cruiser could not be a Turkish ship,” said Harrison, “though we saw it flying a red flag with the crescent moon and a white star when it appeared at Zadar.”

  “Commander,” said Janis with a smile, “indeed, the flag sounds like the Turkish banner; however, is it not common to see a ship display the flag of another state to hide its identity? Yes?”

  “Indeed,” said Harrison. “I have done so myself from time to time. So my next question: who would attack Turkish ships so close to shore? Is the Empire at war with anyone? Or is the Treaty of Amiens still valuable in these waters?”

  “I cannot speak for the government of the Ottoman Empire; however, I do know from my history lessons, and actually by living in this city for the past decade, that the Turks have been neutral in the recent wars. They and the Russians have never trusted each other. They have, throughout the years, been more than enthusiastic in their hostilities.”

  “Russians, then?” asked Harrison. “But wouldn’t that be a breach of the conditions of the treaty? Surely the Ottoman Navy would request aid against the Russian Fleet.”

  Brother Janis sat next to Harrison and sipped his coffee, nodding that he understood the question. He smiled.

  “I never said that the ship was part of the Russian Black Sea Fleet. However, they were Russians.”

  “A privateer?” said Harrison.

  “I believe that is what you call them,” said Janis. “Legal pirates, carrying a letter of marque, possibly from the tsar himself. They have been operating in these waters quite heavily, preying on small craft. The new ships—the sloops—they are nimble. We watched them maneuver with the greatest of ease. They quickly captured their prey. The large ship appeared as Ottoman frigates approached the sloops. The cruiser—she sat back, as if watching.”

  “Protecting the sloops in case of the appearance of the Turkish Navy,” added Harrison. “How long ago, Brother Janis?”

  “Three days past. The whole town witnessed the battle from the pier at Egri. They ran north, through the strait, into the Black Sea. None could catch them.”

  Three days, thought Harrison. The Paladin and Echo must have made great time. He silently cursed the doggedness of the Kérata.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said as he rose from his chair. “The coffee was splendid. Strong, I must say. I do not think I will sleep for over a week; however, I am grateful for it, as I have much to do.”

  “Be careful, my son,” warned the priest as he walked Harrison through the office and into the courtyard outside. It was now late and the wind chill. Harrison wrapped himself in his cloak.

  “These Russian privateers are cruel, acting with impunity and abandon,” continued Janis. “If it were not for the treaty, I am sure the war would break out again.”

  “I can assure you, it will, eventually,” said Harrison. “I will be careful, Brother Janis.”

  “The commodore of this little band of ships is none other than,” Janis paused for effect, “Commodore Ian Kharitonov. Ian the Cruel.”

  “I see,” said Harrison. “Well, I am, supposedly called by some ‘Harrison the Unlucky.’ We will see if I can transfer some of that title to Commodore Kharitonov.”

  With the priest’s blessing, Harrison walked south to his ship.

  29

  The Hunted

  There were many paths in the Van Patten Wood one could take when hunting foxes. Many of the Wilders’ guests took the center choice: wide and well maintained, the one suited more for revelry than hunting, and also the one the refreshment cart had taken. Others, thinking they could actually catch the fox, followed after the dogs, who split into several columns, each team taking a different path.

  Lord Wilder, now in the saddle, stayed behind. He was nervous now. What could possibly have gone wrong? Where were Frey and Fairchild? Had Orvislat and Lady Wilder somehow found out? All morning he had been careful, through breakfast and in dressing for the day, making sure that he appeared as normal as possible, being certain his wife could not read the terrible anger he held inside. Obviously, the plan had gone bad. What to do? He decided to simply take a short trip into the woods, so if anyone was looking, it might seem as if he were in the hunt. Then he would immediately return to his home and hide.

  He trotted through the woods for a few minutes, and looking around the trees and brush, he saw he was alone. He turned the horse about and then headed to the stables. H
e dismounted the animal and led it into the barn.

  Once inside, he heard a sound, a definite creaking of a door. His pulse quickened. He dropped the reins and crouched down low, hiding behind the stall wall. It had to be Orvislat or one of his agents. Had he been seen last night? Was Orvislat watching his home? After a moment of breathlessness, he realized he must leave, must escape. Wilder slowly willed his legs to move toward the rear door just beyond the feed bin. However, all hope was dashed when he heard another sound. Looking up, he saw the rear door being closed, and a dark shape enter. He was surrounded.

  Lord Wilder now crawled to the rear of the stall and tried to hide under the straw. It was a futile attempt to conceal himself, but he could think of nothing else. As he moved the straw about, he felt a sharp pain in his hand. A pitch fork. At least now he had another option. If Orvislat, or whoever was in the barn, found him, he might be able to get one of them out of the way with the pitch fork and then escape the second one. At least, he thought, the odds would be slightly more balanced.

  Another sound: the opening of a stall door. Then the squeak of it closing and the next door being opened. Someone was looking, and it was only a matter of time before they reached him. Wilder readied himself.

  The door opened. A dark shape entered. It was Orvislat.

  “My friend,” he said. “What are you doing hiding in here?”

  “What are you doing following me?” asked Wilder.

  Orvislat smiled. “I simply saw you come in and wondered why you would be leaving the hunt.”

  “Then why not call my name?” asked Wilder. “Are you trying not to be seen?”

  “Are you?” asked Orvislat. “I think we both know each other’s game now, or you would not be holding that pitch fork under the straw. And your hand? Is it bleeding?”

  Orvislat took a step forward, but Wilder raised the tool from the ground, and struggled to his feet.

  “How bold,” said Orvislat as he reached into his jacket and withdrew a long knife. “But, my lord, I do not think you have as much experience using murder weapons as I. Shall we find out?”

  Orvislat lunged at Wilder, easily parrying the fork with his bare hand.

  Immediately, Orvislat had Wilder by the throat. They had a brief tussle; however, Orvislat was larger and obviously trained in the brutish art of physical subjugation. Wilder had all he could do to stay alive for a few more moments—a knife at his throat and no means of escape. He struggled, but his adversary was not shaken.

  I accept, he said to himself, that this death is my own fault. I was too dull to realize the ruse, too proud to check out the veracity of the claims. I could have gone to the king. I will now die for my stupidity.

  “Anything you want to say before you die, Lord Wilder?”

  “Yes, Orvislat. Simply this: I hope you go straight to hell, along with my wife!”

  Orvislat laughed. “So you know the boss, eh? Good! We will see you there, then!”

  Wilder now saw the other man, who must have been the one entering from the back door, approaching slowly.

  “And your friend here can go along as well!” said Wilder.

  “Friend?” said Orvislat, with a questioning look coming over his face.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,” said the man behind Orvislat. There was a quick movement, and a muffled cry from Orvislat, who immediately released his grip on Wilder and fell to the floor. The man from behind stepped into the light.

  “Gorman!” said Wilder.

  The marine knocked the long knife from Orvislat’s hand and quickly removed his own that he had placed deep into the back of the Russian’s knee. Grimacing in agony, Orvislat spun around and looked up from the ground into the face of his enemy. He made a fist and swung at Gorman’s lower torso, but the marine easily moved away from harm by spinning to his right side. By continuing this momentum, his booted left foot came all the way around and slammed into the rear of Orvislat’s head. Gorman followed with a series of kicks and punches. Orvislat, completely beaten and almost unconscious, could only collapse on the ground.

  “I must decide,” said Gorman after a few well-earned breaths, “if I kill him now, kill him later slowly, or just turn him over to the gallows. Your opinion, Lord Wilder?”

  “Well,” said Wilder, “they all sound just and fitting to me!”

  Barbara Thompson rode along the path at a brisk pace, the sun still shining somewhere above the treetops, and birds could be heard chattering above. However, the feeling of impending doom had surrounded her, and she couldn’t put a finger on exactly why she felt anxious. Was it the comment on her prissiness? No. That was not it, though it was offensive.

  As she rode on, her eyes searched for the elusive fox, and she soon realized that something was missing. There were no sounds of the dogs. Certainly, if the fox was near, as Alina had claimed, wouldn’t the hounds be close, as they must have picked up the scent by now? Yet, after what must have been an hour of riding, there was no barking, nor the sight of other riders. How could Alina have seen the fox, but the hounds were still clueless? She listened for a moment, and could only just barely hear the faint baying of the dogs, a far way off.

  Barbara also had a feeling that Lady Wilder desired to get away from her and be alone with Delain. Why would that be? What if, she thought, Delain and her impossibly ridiculous tale of the Wilders being some manner of criminals were true? Was it pure fantasy to think that maybe Delain was correct, and the situation had turned ugly? Nonsense, Barbara thought.

  There came a rustling in the nearby brush ahead. Something low to the ground was moving toward her. The small bushes and trees were swaying from side to side. Could it be the fox? No. It was too large for that. Barbara had been in these woods and knew that there was nothing in them that posed a threat. An otter maybe? Or maybe a man, crouching low? Possibly, but a very agile one, and one that growled and panted like a beast. It was almost upon her. She was about to spin the horse about and run, when she caught a glimpse: a pink tongue. Then: button eyes. The thing sprang from the bush.

  “Daisy! Daffy!” she said, relieved.

  The Airedales were certainly glad to see her, hopping and jumping like acrobats, tails wagging furiously. After a few moments, the dogs simply sat still and waited, as if to say “Now what do we do?”

  “Odd,” said Barbara. “Do you girls smell the fox? The fox? Where is it?”

  No response. Just panting and tails wagging. The chestnut mare huffed.

  Barbara considered this.

  In another part of the wood, Delain rode swiftly ahead of Lady Wilder. The woods were thicker now, and the branches on either side of the path seemed to reach out, scratching the horse and tearing at Delain’s clothes. It seemed that Lady Wilder was either intent on catching a fox in the deep forest…or losing Delain.

  She spun about in her saddle to check behind. There was Alina, and behind was the black horseman, again approaching and closing the distance quickly. A chill ran down her spine. Turning forward, Delain saw that the path narrowed, and ahead several yards was a clearing with an old brick building to the side. It had to be the mill.

  “Miss Dowdeswell!” called Lady Wilder, “The fox! It ran behind the mill! I will go left! You go to the right!”

  They picked up the pace, almost as if racing to the mill.

  I know what her game is, thought Delain. I will not let her give me the slip by placing the mill between us!

  Once they reached the clearing, Lady Wilder reached out to Delain, who was now alongside, and grabbed the girl’s collar.

  Delain looked at her and in an instant knew that Lady Wilder, now smiling smugly, had not meant to lose Delain in order to escape; she meant to get her alone.

  Delain attempted to swat her hand away, but Lady Wilder retained a firm grip. The girl tried to slow the filly, hoping that after some yanking and straining, she could free herself. Instead, the change in speed pulled Delain from her saddle, and she fell to the ground. Rolling with the force of the fall
, Delain bumped along the path, and stunned, came to rest on the edge of the trail against a row of thorn bushes.

  Lady Wilder halted and dismounted, took a quick look about, and then made her way to the girl.

  “Oh goodness!” she said with exaggerated concern. “Did you fall and bump your head? Poor dear!”

  Delain was dizzy. She could barely focus on her surroundings. There was a loud ringing in her ears and a mad spinning of her vision, as if the world were on a merry-go-round. It was impossible to focus. She strained to stay conscious.

  Her view was of the path and of a figure walking toward her. She had to do something. At first, in her delirium, only air escaped her lips, then some slurring and puffing. After a moment or two, she was able to put a few words together.

  “Won’t…get…away,” said Delain. “Our…network is…onto you.”

  “Oh? Really? You mean Frey and Fairchild?” she laughed aloud. “They are dead. My friends found them out early this morning.”

  The pain in Delain’s body now grew to a sharp pounding. She could feel her ribs aching and her legs burning. At least, she thought, her vision was clearing and the merry-go-round began to slow.

  “No matter,” said Delain. “Your husband…told us everything.”

  “My husband? I am a widow as of a few moments ago, I can assure you. You are not the only one with a network, Miss Dowdeswell.”

  “How many bodies…do you now have…lying about? Three? And I am…the fourth?” Delain managed a laugh of sorts. “You will be…caught!”