Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  The barber nodded at Jack and then toward Gaspar. “Who took her?”

  “The Ottomans. The Provincial Army of the Governor.”

  Roberto shrugged and shook his head. “Which company?”

  Jack thought.

  “How would we know?” Gaspar said. “There are too many.”

  “There is an eagle,” Jack said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is an eagle on the sword I took from the soldier, an eagle carrying a dagger with its talons.”

  “Ah,” Roberto considered. “Then it is the governor’s own soldiers. That is their symbol. They are one of the few that do not have the trident.” He dropped his arms. “She will be in New Kons.” He nodded. “I can be certain. She will be with the governess. The third of the wives and the most powerful person in New Kons.”

  Gaspar touched Jack’s shoulder. “She is here, Jack. We will find her. The saints have been guiding us.”

  “You will still need their help,” Roberto said. “The governor’s palace is not a barber shop. You cannot go in. And the girl cannot come out.”

  They were silent, pondering the information.

  “Yet you have come back at this time,” Roberto said. He looked at Jack’s hair and started cutting again.

  “What do you mean?” Gaspar asked.

  “The Children of Liberty – they are everywhere and nowhere. The Templars have given them hope. There is fighting. I know it. I see flames at night, smoke from a distant suburb. I see Zaptie with wary and tired eyes, not their normal casualness. I have perhaps said it before, that the edifice is ready to cave. I know it was said years ago when the Gregorian calendar turned two thousand. Something serious was supposed to happen. Nothing did, but that was based more on superstition than anything else.”

  “We are many years passed from that date.”

  “A barber hears things, senses things. Especially a barber that has cut the hair off more heads than meals he has eaten. And I eat well.” He stopped cutting, inspected with a puckered brow, and started cutting again. “All that has held the province together is collapsing. There is no coin for the governor’s welfare, breeding discontent. Sons are being hidden from the conscription officers, parents boasting of falsified papers. The army is full of dunces, those with fathers not clever enough to falsify the papers. The cultural programs are ridiculed and not attended. The bureaucrats are more corrupt than at any time, which is quite a statement.” He looked out of the window to make sure that nobody was nearby. “Every imperial institution is faltering, which is not unusual, but all at the same time, for the saints in heaven, it means something.” He brushed cut hair from Jack’s shoulders. “So it may be the time to rescue this girl from the clutches of evil. I will pray for you and your quest, Landry. And you, Gaspar, what is your business?”

  “Landry, your hair looks splendid,” Gaspar said. He turned to Roberto. “In a moment, my friend.” He then turned back to Jack. “We have not eaten. Would you find a street vendor and bring back something?” He extended his hand and showed Jack a handful of coins. Jack felt his shortened hair and stood, taking the coins.

  He went outside, knowing that Gaspar wanted to talk alone to the barber. He looked through the window and saw Gaspar settle into the chair with a serious look on his face shown in the mirror. The Templar had been right. Gaspar had answered the same every time that Jack had asked about Joy. Each time he had said that she would be in New Kons. His face had not once showed doubt.

  Jack stood outside and sniffed the air as if expecting this would lead him in the right direction. Above the rooftops he saw the spire of a church, the Christian cross at its peak. He thought that this was strange to see in a heathen city. He was attracted to walk in the direction of the vision. It would be right to give gratitude for his fortune, if it was that, and to ask for blessed assistance for what would be ahead. He had not prayed as much as he should have and instead placed effort in thoughts of the braves and their tales written among the stars. He looked back at the barber shop, thinking to not venture too far away. The direction of the church was lost as he turned a corner and buildings moved into the way. He was jostled by those going hurriedly about their business, and no “Beg your pardon,” was offered. He was naturally suspicious of so many people and found himself clinging to the sides of the pavement. He recoiled when a bony hand pulled at his jacket and another was held open in front of him. He easily pulled away from the weakened person and watched as the cripple latched onto the jacket of another man.

  He looked back, worried. This was an unpredictable world, reminding him of the woods that he dreaded but with the feeling of being much worse. He walked into sunshine coming at a slant between two buildings. Across the street he could see the huge marble blocks of the church and columns towering skyward. In front of it, food stalls were busy. He gaped up at the huge wooden doors and stained-glass windows. It would grate in his thoughts if he traveled the distance he had and did not pray in such a place. Gaspar’s hair had grown long, and he would be some time with Roberto the barber.

  He joined a rush of people and crossed the street. The motor vehicles barked at them, and skill was required to duck away from their steel fenders. He stepped onto the sidewalk, and a pamphlet was thrust at his chest. He involuntarily took it. The man that gave it to him was disheveled and crazy eyed. He rushed away before the man could talk. He mapped out what he was to do. The food carts were outside the church so that he could go inside, pray for a time, finish, and purchase the food on his return to the barber-shop.

  He stood still at what he saw inside. He did not think this was possible, but he had seen enough in his last days to tell him that it was. All that reading of books he had done had not meant anything. It had not prepared him for what really existed. He had to arch his neck far back to see the vaulted ceilings. In front of him was a vast covered space. Jack felt the heaviness of the surrounding holiness as he moved tentatively past the pews and was drawn to the altar, and then to the statues and pictures that adorned every corner. A monk scuttled past him with a flame to light a candle. An old woman sat in pew with eyes closed and hands joined in pleading. He stopped with the fear of a stranger and moved toward a side where he could not be seen as easily. He wanted to find an out-of-sight place to pray.

  He moved through a covered, secluded section of the great building. Worshippers walked past him but paid him no attention, consumed in their own thoughts. A monk hurried past, knocking him and not turning to show regret. Chapels branched out with incense and candle smoke coming through their arched doors. A sign written in many languages asked for silence. The chapel seemed right for his intentions. It was dark inside, the only light from candles, most of the room covered by shadows. At the front, a wooden crucifix dominated. A silver Christ was nailed to it. His sculptured face captured the agony and gravity of the earth shaking moment.

  Jack kneeled on the hard wood at the edge of the room with no one near him. He covered his face with his hands and tried to pray. Thoughts of his mother came to him. It was certain that she had died defending his village. He had not thought of how this had happened. He had enough experience of violence since the village that he would be able to see it if he tried. She had no fear – that was certain – and it would not have been cowering. He could not envision what had happened to his sisters. They had traveled over war-wrecked territory. He prayed for all of them. He pushed his hands tighter against his face. He prayed for Joy. She had become his burden. As the braves of forest tales had taken on quests, she was his. It was not his decision or his choice. There was an unspeakable evil in the world, and he could not let it win. The enormity of the enemy was before him. He was alive in the belly of the beast. His last thoughts had merged with those of Gaspar.

  He had prayed for too long. There was too much to pray for. He pulled his hands from his face. The cross was a silver blur, and mixed with the candlelight, it looked
aflame, as it had that night when Gaspar had shown him the Templar cross that he wore underneath his shirt. He thought about the moment, pondering whether it meant something. A vision. The tales of the braves always included visions.

  He hurried, as he still had to buy the food and not keep Gaspar waiting. He dodged a group of monks who ran past him with worried faces. The church had emptied of people. He could not recall which way he had come in. There were too many turns, and it was too vast a space. He fretted that the emptiness was for a reason, and he would be in foul trouble if he was where he should not be. He ran for the nearest doors. He abruptly stopped when he realized that he had not crossed himself with the wet fingers of holy water. He stepped back and plunged his fingers into the marble bowl. He dabbed himself with extra vigor, understanding that he was in a special place.

  Outside it was calamitous. He had not come out where he had entered. Huge buildings loomed over and dwarfed the church. The monks were outside, closing the doors. He had only slid through as they pressed the doors shut. Facing them were angry faces and gesticulating fists. A stone hit the wall above his head, and fragments sprayed behind him. He was sure it was not aimed at him. How could it be? Who was he in this giant beast? The crowd was thick and spilled onto the road, indifferent to the motor vehicles that were unable to move. The mob was chanting something that Jack did not understand. The monks formed an uneven line as if defending. The angry crowd held a line opposite them and was content to yell. There were others in the middle, workers hurrying to avoid the trouble, and curious-faced onlookers.

  For no reason, the crowd suddenly surged forward. One of the monks was punched. He held his face. The crowd surged back like a retreating wave. The monks and others that had joined them braced. The crowd came forward again, and the two lots grappled. Jack looked for a way through. He was shoved against bodies. One of the elderly worshippers he had seen inside the church was feebly holding his hands in front, confused, but was not spared the pushing. Jack saw a gap between a monk and a member of the mob. He crouched and bent under a swinging fist. He could not be sure who it belonged to. A body slapped against the hard pavement. He stepped over it and onto the road. A motor vehicle blasted its horn at him, but it was not moving.

  He peeled away from the melee and kept a look on each side. Bodies were moving in all directions. It was a confusion of activity, like none that he had encountered. The uniformed police, which Gaspar had called Zaptie, stood watching with their batons held at their sides. A head swiveled to follow Jack. It was that of a young man. His hair was long with curls falling over his face. Jack sensed danger in his predator eyes. There were others with him. The sidewalk emptied of the crowd.

  Jack turned to see the young man and his henchmen following him and quickening their steps to get in front of him. He changed direction. There was a brute blocking his way with arms crossed and a fat head. The man used his shoulder to direct Jack into a side street that stank of rubbish. Jack thought it was an opportunity to run and be rid of these dangers. He saw only the bricks of a wall in front of him. He turned to run another way. His way out was blocked by the youth with curly hair and his companions. He was forced to stand still and wait for their intentions like animals in the wild. It could have been that the intentions were not of cruelty, as the youth had a good-humored face. He studied Jack carefully and said something in a girlish voice. Jack did not understand the language.

  The stance of the young man was relaxed. He had his thumbs hooked to his belt, and his fellows watched him and not Jack. He chuckled when Jack did not answer. Jack smiled and hoped that he would be let to pass. He edged toward the light. The young man held up a finger. He placed it in front of Jack’s face and then lowered it to point to the wet mark on his shirt. The wet from the holy water. He followed with aggressive words. Jack counted. It was the youth and three others. It was to be a fight, he was certain of it, and he balled his fists. He kept his body at ease, though, to wait for the right moment.

  The youth continued to smile and laugh as if nothing was to happen, and then he suddenly lunged for Jack. He saw the move and used both fists – one to fend off the lunge and the other to swing against the gang. It took a head, but the youth had grabbed at his undefended chest and pushed him back so that he was stumbling and the others could aim punches at him. He felt the blows against his chin and shoulder. He was dragged to the ground. He kicked out hard and heard a bone crack. He could only see their heads blocking the light and fists blazing at him. The youth had fallen with him and was clawing at his neck like a feral. Jack shoved an elbow at him, but it left his face open, and one of the others landed a slap across his cheek.

  The black eyes of the youth were now all that he could see, and spit from his desperate breathing wet Jack. His clawlike hands had made it to Jack’s neck. Another slap ripped across his face. He could feel the trickle of blood. One of his wrists was grabbed and held tight with fingers that dug into him like needles. He could only swing one arm. Sweat had filled his eyes, and everything was a blur. Pain struck at him from many different angles.

  He heard a thwack, and one of the holds on him was abruptly released. Another whack, and then the yell of one of his assailants. His arm was freed, and he smacked it into the youth before pulling it back and clearing his eyes. The unmistakable face of Gaspar stood above him, his fists standing out like hammers. “I found you, boy,” he said and then delivered another punch to the closest of the three. Jack was loose, and the youth was hunched next to him with a bloodied nose. He looked helpless. All dare had gone from his eyes. Jack straightened his arm and clobbered it against his face. Gaspar pulled him up by his shirt. “Come on, boy, let’s get out of here.”

  The three henchmen were a mess. Two of them looked to be knocked out, and the third was dazed and holding his head. Gaspar dragged him along, and they were out of the alleyway before Jack could look back. The Templar said nothing and showed no exhaustion for his effort. He straightened Jack’s clothes, and they returned to a normal walking pace. “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I went to see the church.”

  “There is an anti-Christian riot,” Gaspar said. “The hard times are being blamed on the followers of Christ. New Kons is a dangerous place. Do not worry, Jack. It was not your mistake.”

  “Landry. My name is Landry.” He thought of himself as Landry. If he was to become a Templar, that would be his name.

  Chapter Nine

  The horse and rider moved as if they were the one animal, and together they moved as though they were part of the wind. Nico was no more burden than one of the packs tied to the saddle. He was wedged in front of the Mongol with the mane of the horse whipping against his face. The Mongol used his free hand to move Nico if he blocked his view. They drank and ate as they rode. The food was a stick of dried meat shoved into his hand. It tasted foul, and Nico retched after biting into it. He was passed a bottle. It was alcohol, and he took long drafts, regardless of the queer taste, until it was pulled from his fingers. It blurred his vision, left him sickly, and dulled the travel.

  The terrain was harsh, barren, and with the crazy undulations of a carnival ride. A hard rain and rough wind lashed them at times, not bothering the Mongol, who turned his shoulder against the weather. To avoid the stifling fear, Nico’s mind swung like a pendulum from a desperate desire for the Mongol alcohol to Isabella and straining to picture her beauty in his mind. He looked up when the fear overcame him and dreaded where they were heading. They rode through sheer-walled chasms and past fear-haunted ruins with round broken doors. Winds had bent the trees to the ground. Stones were split by tree roots and worn away by storms and rain. Then they would venture across open land where the Mongols raced the horses with yelps of delight. They only stopped at streams or puddles for the horses to drink. The Mongols spoke little to each other. A grunt from the Mongol behind Nico and cruel laughter from the other two. They were tender to their horses, placing their hands on the necks as if sensing when they wer
e right to run again.

  The color was a dead gray. He did not know if it was day or night. The Mongol pushed forward as they galloped up a hill, pressing Nico against the front of the horse. They stopped abruptly at the top of the hill. The air was full of the steam from the panting of the horses. The Mongols dismounted with no effort. They scanned the scene. One of them began picking up broken branches from dead trees. There were the ruins of a stone building around them. The horses wandered looking for weeds growing from the rocks. Nico dropped himself off the horse and stood feeling aches from every part of his body. The Mongols moved as if he were not there. Around them was wasteland as far as Nico could see into the gloomy light. The Mongols arranged stones and stacked branches for a fire. The leader, Nico’s riding partner, growled at the other two, who cowered like dogs from a stern master. His beard was cropped close, except for the deadly point at his chin. His eyes were those of a predator. They unloaded the horses. If Nico were to run, they would have had him before he made a sweat. Instead, he craved their drink.

  Nico pulled his jacket tighter. There was an ice-chilled wind reaching across the hill. The Mongols soon had the fire bursting with flames. Nico moved closer. The smoke moved with the wind and hurt his eyes. The Mongols sat and chewed on the dried meat. The leader tossed some to Nico without words, and it landed at his feet. Nico signaled for the drink. The Mongol smirked and threw the drinking bag. Nico sat on a stone so that he could feel the warmth of the fire. It had darkened quickly. The Mongols in their black uniforms were absorbed into the darkness when they leaned back, and then their faces were lit by the fire when they leaned forward again. He took a long drink from the drinking bag and bit on one of the meat sticks. The Mongol watched him with unreadable eyes. There was no clue as to why they had taken him or what they intended.

  They sat with little movement for a long time. The clouds were low. Nico thought about where they were. The landscape was like none he had seen. He had no feeling of the direction. The Mongols fed their horses from bags, stroking the animals with care. They threw wood onto the fire so that the flames lit up their circle, and then they prepared their beds.