by J A Deriu
Orlov stood, wearing his full chief headman’s uniform.
“There is someone watching us, stalking out there,” Nico said, adding his voice to the confused calls of others. Some of the Volunteers stood with a jolt, and another gave a fearful shriek. In a hurry a lamp was lit.
Orlov raised his skinny arms. “Now, now. Calm down.” He moved along the border of the camp. His back against the darkness. “We are safe. There are no bandits.”
An arm thrust out of the darkness and in an instant was around his neck. The arm looked muscle bound, strong enough to snap Orlov’s head off. The old admiral maintained some composure and was able to talk. “What is this outrage?” he demanded before gasping for air. The arm released him and tossed him back into the camp as if he were a toy. Orlov landed on top of others, his legs sticking in the air. The full body of the assailant stepped into the gray light of the lamp. The Volunteers gasped and all jerked back. He was a big man. A squarish fur hat was on his head. His eyebrows were equally thick and in angry shapes. A dark leather coat with patches of fur was strapped tightly around him, held by belts along his waist and across his chest. Weapons hung from the belts – knives, pistols, too many to comprehend. He had a black mustache that pointed down to form a sharp triangled beard at his chin. His dark eyes moved across the scene slowly. And with the same careful pace, he pulled a fat sword from a metal sheath at his side. The Volunteers were frozen in horror, which compounded when two similar figures materialized at his side, one on each flank.
The monk, Grigory stood. “Oh hell, demons,” he said. “They are Mongols.”
There were more screams. Orlov was helped to stand by other Volunteers. He looked confused, certainly dreading that their firearms had been left with the Templars. The Mongol took a step forward. It felt more consuming than one step. He looked at Orlov and spoke. His voice was harsh, cruel, and pitiless. The words were unable to be understood. They were not English or Russian, or anything similar. Orlov’s mouth opened to respond, but only dribble came out.
“What is it you want?” the monk asked and straightened his normally crouched stance.
The Mongol focused on the monk and said the same words as before but with added vigor.
“I can’t understand,” the monk replied. He looked at one of the Qing drivers, who was shaking his head. It did not sound like the gentler language the Qing spoke.
The Mongols took steps into the camp. Their legs were covered in more furs and their feet with high sheepskin boots. The Volunteers edged away from the big bodies as if they were hot with flames. The Mongols with their probing eyes studied each face as they passed.
“Stay still,” the monk said to the Volunteers. “Our love of God will protect us.”
“They may mean not to harm us, do you think?” Timothy whispered to Nico.
“How do you know?”
“We would already be dead, wouldn’t we?”
The Mongol stopped near Orlov. He signaled to one of the other Mongols and was handed a scroll of paper. With his slow, deliberate movements he unwound the scroll and held it for Orlov to look at. Orlov stared at the picture, and then his eyes darted in Nico’s direction. His face became overwhelmed by a sickly look, and his breathing was as if he was about to vomit. Orlov fainted and fell to the ground. The Mongol held up the poster so all could see. It was a head portrait. Nico did not have a good view of the details.
The monk stepped forward and narrowed his eyes to look at the picture closely. He spoke with an exaggerated steadiness. “There is no person like that here. We do not know him. Begone from our camp.”
The Mongol ignored the monk and grabbed the nearest Volunteer by his shirt. He pulled him up with no effort and glared at his face. He shoved him aside and skipped the next, who was a girl. The second Mongol stood next to him with a lamp so that he had plenty of light. Nico saw that the monk’s eyes were angling at him, trying to tell him something. Nico’s stomach moved with pain. The lead Mongol shoved another Volunteer out of the way and continued his search.
“They are looking for someone, aren’t they?” Timothy said.
Another of the Volunteers was pulled to stand by the burly Mongol. The Volunteer’s face immediately turned pallid. He was studied and pushed aside with a grunt from the Mongol. The third of them began looking at faces and moved to Nico’s part of the tight camp. He dreaded to think why they were looking for one of the Volunteers.
Babyman overheard Timothy’s talking and moved close to Nico. The Volunteers as a group were tense and agitated, but not one dared to flinch at the fearsome intruders. Orlov was still on the ground being looked over by a fretting girl.
The Mongol observed Babyman, who edged in front of Nico. But the eagle eyes of the Mongol fixed on Nico. In the moment that the Mongol moved determinedly in the direction of Nico, the lead Mongol turned, and the picture he was holding could be seen.
“It’s a picture of you, Nico, isn’t it?” Timothy said.
The Mongol shouted, and all three of them pushed through the camp toward Nico. Babyman stepped in front of the nearest. His large body stiffened, and his fists balled for a fight. The Mongol’s eyes flicked to Babyman momentarily, and he thrust out his thick arm to push him out of the way. Babyman clenched his jaw so tightly that it must have ached. The Mongol, without taking his eyes from Nico, efficiently batted away the hands of Babyman and had his fingers clutching at the throat of the boy-man, who helplessly looked on. The shock lessened, and Babyman tried to free himself by chopping at the arm of the Mongol. His heavy blows, no matter his weight, were useless. The Mongol tensed his arm and then flexed it, tossing Babyman away. The boy-man stumbled with his arms swinging before he collided with a stone wall. The Mongol kept moving toward Nico like a predator.
“We are peaceful sons and daughters of the Lord.” The monk clutched the cross hanging around his neck with one hand and held the other theatrically at the Mongol for him to stop, as if he were a character from the Bible. The Mongol did not miss his step and with a sweep of his arm knocked the monk to the ground. The cross ripped and arced across the camp.
The lead Mongol joined the path toward Nico, bringing the lamp holder with him. Nico saw the differences between them. The first was older, his face harder, as if made of stone. The other face was as equally sour, but younger, and almost as if it were suppressing laughter.
Nico was caught in the light of the lamp. Every one of the Volunteers around him was frozen with fear. The Mongol had thick curls of black hair falling from under his fur cap.
Nico was cornered before he could take two breaths. The lead Mongol studied the picture and then glared at Nico. He yapped to the other Mongol in their rough language. They moved with unnatural speed and movements. Nico’s arm was yanked and twisted so that he felt it was on the edge of being broken. The thick arm of the Mongol thrust around his neck, and he was lifted off his feet. The standing Volunteers backed away. Timothy had picked up a pan and held it up as if it were a weapon. The Mongol flashed out his sword and held it pointed like a lance in the direction of the tough-looking Volunteer. The pan clanged to the floor. Nico opened his mouth to call out, but no noise came.
The arm felt like an iron shackle. In a moment he was away from the camp. The lamp was extinguished. He was moved quickly into the blackness and no longer heard the panting of the Volunteers. The Mongols took long, purposeful steps. Nico’s foot scraped the ground, and then he was lifted with more force, the arm of the Mongol around his chest. He was pulled farther into the darkness. The Mongols moved as if they could see perfectly. The ground was uneven, but the Mongol did not miss a step. Nico heard the neighing of horses. The Mongol put him down and then grabbed him at the collar, pulling tightly so that Nico was grasping for air. He heard an owl calling from a tree and the movement of leaves. He was shoved against the side of the horse. His face rubbed against its smooth coat. He was lifted to mount the horse and could find no
will to resist against what felt like an overwhelming power. His leg was dragged across, and the horse’s mane whipped against his face. The Mongol was behind him on the horse, having mounted with minimal effort.
Nico forced himself to say something. “Let me go.” The words came out weakly.
The Mongol grunted in reply and then produced what could have been a cruel laughter. He mumbled something to the other two, who were on their horses. Nico felt the raw night air against his face, and in the stark moonlight, he could work out a rock-and-tree-filled terrain.
Although he was not tied, Nico could not move with the rocklike chest muscles of the Mongol against his back and his menacing arms on either side. The rapid movement mixed with the overpowering fear caused him to be sick, and he vomited out the dinner stew. It piddled against the leather of the Mongol without consequence. He closed his eyes and could only think of Isabella. He was sick again with the feeling that he was being pulled farther away from her.
Chapter Four
Pierre watched the Templars out of the corner of his eye. He was bemused as to how they never seemed to have emotion. Simpletons, he concluded. Their faces were dull. Considering the predicament, he found this hard to fathom. They stank as if they had pissed their pants and did not care. He elbowed Ernest’s head to quieten the annoyance of his snoring. It did not work. How the little man could sleep in these conditions was also puzzling.
How he could sleep so carefree while in the danger they found themselves in was absurd. He elbowed the head harder. The seas were rough. The bodies lying around him, although still themselves, moved with the boat, as if he were looking through the eyes of a drunkard.
They had sailed from the Qing Kingdom brim with bravado. At first, after the unexpected victory of the Templars, their fate was uncertain. The Templars had a mad hatred of the Fugger Corporation. He anticipated, at a minimum, a bashing from these religious thugs. It did not eventuate. The Templars were delirious after their victory. Then, they were visited by the Lord Commander again – the woman who had the bearing of a figment of the imagination.
It was incongruous for her to be flanked by the three Templars that he guessed were the runts of the litter. The Templars were not returning. That was obvious. They had other plans, which they held closely. The three Templars they were now cooped up with were not wanted for those plans, probably because they looked like dunces. They were the token escort so that the Templars could say they kept their end of the bargain, whatever that was. But there was a bargain. The Lord Commander had said this. “The Grand Master has intervened for you two.” She gave little away with her steely face. “You have some value back in the Metropolis, and it has been bargained. I imagine it was a good deal, knowing the Grand Master.” The Templars standing behind her did not share her elegance of thought, told by the scowls on their faces. “Thus, we have no ill will for you, in spite of your Fugger taint. We will send you on your way. Our paths have crossed twice. They won’t again.” They left with the first convoy from the fortress. The bodies were still being cleaned off the battlefield.
As the oxcart had clattered along the burnt path, Pierre could see the gaunt figure of Alwyn Lam, possibly the former Grand Secretariat to the Qing Dynasty Emperor, wandering among the debris. His head was down and his hands were clasped behind his back. He lifted his head as the cart neared him. “Didn’t go to plan, did it?” Pierre called to him.
He recognized them and moved quickly to be within whispering distance, his hand touched the wood of the cart. “Ha.” He panted. “You are alive. I’m glad.” He looked nervously to each side. “But get out of here.”
“And you – why are you strolling as if you had no more misfortune than a bad day at work?”
Lam hurried to keep up with the cart. “There is a lot to think about. I can’t complain. The empire is intact. It was nothing more than a bad day at work.”
“Hmm.” Pierre was contemplative. “I always thought your plan was dumb.”
Lam looked insulted, but then his wry smile returned. “You are strangely likable. I won’t see you again. If I did, I would not complain.” He took his hand from the rail and stopped, watching the cart move away. “If you see the emperor, tell him to return quickly. His throne will not be patient.”
Pierre raised a hand and grimaced a smile. He said quietly to Ernest. “I never want to see him again.”
They had traveled night and day, changing to stumpy horses at a pit stop. Finally, a motor vehicle took them to Port Shanghai. The Templars were dumb, and confusion prevailed in regard to their ship for the return to the Metropolis. There was a captain, with an Irish name, that they were supposed to meet. Pierre made his own inquiries to find out whether there were any Fugger ships in the port. He was told they had left before the great battle of the northern fortress. They spent a night with the three Templars in the last room of a dockside hotel that stunk like rotting seaweed and unemptied chamber pots. Pierre ignored the three clods. Ernest, as was his habit, spoke to anyone, and they talked about their prior lives as porters in a town somewhere on the cliffs of the coast to the west of the Metropolis. Each of them had been in trouble as boys, from bad homes with fathers that liked to use whips. They had no purpose other than running from the police. Their lives were destined for one of the huge prison farms along the border, until one day, a clean-shaven and tidy-looking young man wearing a Templar shirt called on them.
The next morning, the captain turned up sober, unlike most seamen. He said he was looking for heads to make his trip home worthwhile. When quizzed on why more Templars were not returning, he answered as if he knew, “They aren’t going home to New Europa. They got something else planned.”
“They are not returning? Why? They have their victory,” Pierre had asked.
“The Templars are not famous for their straight thinking,” the captain had replied.
There was no choice but to sail with the captain, who boasted of his dominance of the waves. Pierre had watched from the deck as the stench of the land faded and then spent the rest of the journey belowdecks. He was content to eat the dried meat, which he had found a taste for, and fight the others for use of the pathetic latrine.
The sudden change of speed was the first indication of trouble. An empty cup toppled from a shelf, followed by a Templar’s Bible. Pierre climbed above deck with the others to see what was the cause of the broken cup. “Oh crap, look at that,” he heard from Ernest.
Before he could lift his head, there was the thunder of an explosion and the splash of seawater over his head. He looked up to see a cloudless sky and some of the crew, at the stern of the boat, looking out to sea and then back to the captain’s bridge with nervous looks on their faces. Pierre held a railing for support. He lifted a hand over his eyes so that he could see through the steam of the funnel at what the sailors were looking at. It was a black ship cutting the sea in an aggressive manner. “Damn pirates,” one of the crewmen said to him and then spat. “She’s too fast.”
“Is she us or them?” Pierre asked.
The crewman looked at him, his weather-beaten face frowned. He did not need to answer. There was another explosion. “You’d want to get cover. They are trying to slow us down.” The old sailor understood Pierre’s face. “You can remain calm. The captain is the king of the oceans. They might be faster, but he is smarter. He’s been a lifetime on these seas, and no pirate has ever stopped him from doing his job. His father was the same and his father’s father.”
Pierre did not lessen his hold on the railing. He noticed Ernest and the three Templars grin and nervously chuckle. Another thunderous noise cracked the sky. They braced for a nearby explosion across the waves. Instead, the captain’s bridge erupted in a geyser of flames and shattered timbers. They were all pushed to the ground, a mess of arms and legs.
“Saint Hilarius,” one of the Templars said, “that’s not for the good.”
Pierre looked up
at the ruins. The ship slowed, and they watched helplessly as the black pirate ship loomed closer. The rest happened quickly. All he remembered was the stinging spray of the salt across his face, the half-burned bodies staggering about the deck, the grappling hooks like that of a sea monster’s tentacle, looping across the sky and thudding into the timbers. The black-clad pirates landed on the deck, cocksure of themselves, and waving about their weapons as if showing off. There was nothing to do for Pierre and the others but to lift their hands into the air and wait for the wretched faces of the pirates to ruthlessly examine the pitiful gang.
A pirate placed his cutlass between his teeth and lashed Pierre’s hands together with a painful knot at his wrists. The men had the looks of being capable of incredible violence. Ernest was pushed into him, and they were bunched with the Templars to cross a gangplank with an agitated sea underneath. Words were not said, only rough grunts. From behind they could hear the sounds of fighting as the pirates took the ship from Captain O’Rourke’s crew. The sounds of guns firing and young men screaming lessened as they were forced to bow their heads and enter the darkened hull of the pirate ship.
They had been locked in the cell since – a stained-wall room with the only light from a dirty porthole. They could hear the cheers of the pirates once the ship was looted and sunk. They were left for hours, as if forgotten, too scared to talk, worried that it would bring attention. A pirate came. He squatted to look at them. He had a face of majestic bronze. He looked to be wearing a military uniform, brightened by jewelry, especially a large yellow diamond he wore on his finger, which he waved in front of them. His eyes observed them with purpose, as if he were a grocer inspecting his stall of apples. He frowned at the Templars, was indifferent to Ernest, and looked at Pierre for a long moment.
“We would appreciate passage to our destination,” Pierre finally said to break the awkward silence.
The pirate gave no indication that he understood. His thick eyebrows buckled as he studied Pierre harder. He had a tattoo in purple ink, which came from under his collar and marked along his neck to his face. It was a pattern of sinister claws. He spat on the floor, grunted, and left in a swift movement. Pierre spent a long time looking at the ugly grot on the floor.