Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  She said nothing else, turned, and left him with a sour look on his face.

  Fulke questioningly looked at her. She curled her lip slightly to show him that she had heeded his advice. A runner hurtled toward them. “Lord Commander, a message from General Deen. His Bear-Hounds chased the retreating Persians. The enemy are to spread out for any significant action. He wants you to know that they have also cornered the queen of the Abyssinians.”

  Captain Miles drove the transport. A dozen Templars were crammed inside. He drove at the highest speed along a dirt road. On either side were surrendered Persians sitting helpless and Templars watching while others rushed to the action.

  The Abyssinians were in a helpless position. They were cornered on all sides with Templar reinforcements arriving to ensure this. The sun was beginning to set. She covered her eyes as she left the transport and searched for Tobias Deen. He was standing at the front of his ranks with binoculars in one hand and a rifle that he was resting on his hip in the other. “Lord Commander, welcome, and congratulations on your victory. I would say that it was comprehensive. Although we could not locate the shah – perhaps too big a prize to hope for.” He lifted his head to the Abyssinians. “We have another lesser prize. Even though they were allies only hours ago, or perhaps not. I will let you unravel this.”

  “Congratulations to you, General. Your Bear-Hounds have been outstanding. This is impressive.” She nodded toward the cornered Abyssinians. “There is much more that has been reported.”

  “I am grateful for your thanks, Lord Commander. What do you want to do here?”

  “Let us send them a dispatch. They deserted the battlefield. They are to be treated as enemy combatants. I will accept their surrender.”

  It was dark by the time the meeting took place. Clavdia walked through the Abyssinian camp. Captain Miles and her guard kept their weapons ready. The Abyssinian Army sat uncomfortably yet passively. “They look confused,” Miles whispered to her. “I think they expected to fight. I would have liked to see them in action. They look like they can fight.” They stopped at a pointed tent. The banner of the House of Solomon was draped out the front. Torches were lit on either side of the entrance. Under each torch stood a huge guard dressed to look like they were protecting an ancient monarch. They held their spears at Miles, meaning that they wanted Clavdia to enter alone. He moved to push away the points. Clavdia held his arm. “Lord Commander, you should have security.”

  “It is all right. I can meet her alone.”

  The room shimmered with a soft light coming from a burner that smelled of incense. Sitting on a portable throne was the queen of Sheba with the same pouty look on her face. At her feet sat Tulock with an arm casually rested on a pointed knee. He was wearing his army uniform. Clavdia had not been asked to leave her weapons outside, which was a sign that they knew that this was not a negotiation. She brushed her hand against the holster at her belt.

  Tulock looked up at her and nodded moderately. “The queen welcomes you, Lord Commander of the Templars.”

  “Is she going to speak for herself?”

  “She congratulates you on the success of the battle.”

  Clavdia glared at the queen, whose eyes diverted to the burner. “We have been aware of your duplicity. But we could not explain why. This is your chance. You are surrounded by an army who has already blood-stained bayonets.”

  Tulock stood up. “This is difficult. The queen always thought you would win – she did, I can assure you. She did not, however, nor did any of her advisers, expect this victory.”

  “Ah, so she wanted both sides to batter each other to death so that her army would be able to sweep in and clean up. Where is the rest of the army now? Are they marching here?”

  “I don’t think so, Commander Templar. It would be foolhardy.”

  “Was that your plan?”

  “It was not my plan.” He glanced back toward the queen. “It was what she thought would happen.”

  “And the assassin?”

  “The assassin … what do you mean?”

  “We broke the assassin. We found out that he was employed by the queen.”

  “I … we do not know what you mean.”

  She unsheathed her dagger and in a swift movement had it pointed at Tulock’s throat. “Do not try my patience.”

  He looked nervously over his shoulder. The queen was looking at the floor. He put his hand to his chin. “That was not my idea. It was … you must understand … the queen is very superstitious. She will only arise from bed at a certain hour. She watches how the bird’s fly. She believed it was bad fortune to have a female commander in the battle. She feared you.”

  “Her fears are well founded then.” Clavdia lowered the dagger.

  Tulock looked at the queen. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I served you the best that I could.”

  “She does understand then.”

  “Every word, Commander Templar. And I have said too many. She will have my head the moment you leave.” The queen kept her thoughts masked. “This was not a revolution. It was a renegotiation. She thought you would fight a stalemate with the shah, and she would use the negotiations to reduce the taxes of the empire.”

  “I really don’t know if the dog is licking or biting,” Clavdia said. “Here is what I will say. She has underestimated the Templars. She is not the first. The queen will stand down her army – this one, and any other that has a formation anywhere in her kingdom. We do not intend to stay in the kingdom. We will be given safe passage. Our contract will be paid. It will be paid threefold plus our costs to be added, which will be advised. We have ridded the kingdom of the burden of Persian taxation, so although our price will be high, your kingdom will recoup it. Furthermore, we will be allowed to recruit from your army, and those that join our forces will be paid for three years in advance by your treasury.”

  Tulock brushed his hand over his bald head so that it was wet with sweat. “Templar Commander, how can all of this be? How can it be done?”

  “We will secure the commitment of the kingdom to ensure all of these specifications are met by taking the queen as our hostage.”

  The queen gasped as though she were choking for a moment. It was the first noise Clavdia had heard from her.

  “Ah, Templar Commander!” Tulock exclaimed. “That cannot be. The queen cannot be a hostage. She is the House of Solomon. This is as ancient as King Solomon … how will she govern?”

  “She can govern by correspondence. I am sure you will work it out. And think for yourself – if she is hostage, your head will be safe.” Clavdia turned to the queen. “Is there anything you would like to say, Your Majesty?”

  Her black eyes stared past Clavdia and then lowered to look at the ground.

  “No? Then I advise strongly to stand down your forces. We will not be patient.” She turned and left the tent, realizing that she still held her dagger in her hand.

  She stood watching from a knoll the Abyssinians leave their camp. The warm night air refreshed her face. The sky was clear so that the stars could be seen as if they were able to be touched. Tobias Deen walked up the track to join her. “They are talking of your deeds. Julius Caesar himself fought in the ranks.” He smiled.

  “Hmm, and what happened to him?”

  “Beware of senators.” He looked across the scene. “It is over then. They have capitulated.”

  “This battle is over, yes.” She fought a yawn. She had been awake for over a day. “I am ready to hear what you have to say.”

  “I trust that the Bear-Hounds have proved themselves.”

  “You have kept your word, and now we are to have the discussion that was promised.”

  “Do you remember when we first met?”

  She nodded.

  “We stood face to face. I told you that there would be no mercy. You accepted. I am certain that we both knew that your chan
ces were nothing. Yet it turned the other way, and you showed the mercy. It was in that moment when I rose from my knees that I understood what I had to do. I have unfinished business with the sultan. It is why I now ask to stand down from my command. I will undertake a journey that will take me to the sultan.”

  “Your resignation is accepted. How many do you intend to take with you on your journey?”

  “None. I will go alone. There is a man, Davos Walgren. I trust him. He will command the Bear-Hounds. They will remain in your battle group. They will be a part of your campaign, any campaign.”

  She steadied her breathing. “I thank you for your time. I do remember when we first met. My first thoughts were strange. The way you stood, the confidence of a young general –

  I remember thinking that this is a man I want in my ranks. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin Mary, the prayer was answered. You have granted us a great victory. I will pray for you and the task you have set for yourself. I fear I know what it is, but I will not ask. I say farewell then.” She held out her arms. “Let’s say farewell like Romans.” They embraced and pressed their bodies against each other.

  She boarded a transport to return to the main camp. The roof was open, and she could hear the noises of the nocturnal wildlife. She held her head. The soldiers were animatedly recounting the battle. She nodded but was not listening. She longed to be alone and staggered through the camp. Pedro was slumped out the front of her tent. She tried to pass without waking him. She tiredly clipped his boot, and he sprung to attention. “Ah, Lord Commander. What time is it? You have returned.”

  “It is late or early. Stay as you were.”

  “Ah, Lord Commander, before you go in …”

  “What is it?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps just go in.”

  She pulled back the tent opening. It was dark, but she could see it glowing. It stood in the center of the room. She stopped and became rigid.

  “I did not know where else to keep it,” Pedro said.

  Her mind was too tired to absorb the complexity of its detail.

  “It’s the Persian ark. We captured it in the battle.”

  “You haven’t opened it, have you?” she urgently asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I preferred the laundry,” Ernest said, looking out the window.

  “What is happening out there?” Pierre asked.

  “There is smoke. I don’t know. It does not look good.”

  Pierre sighed. This was always the case. He was almost past the need for concern. He sat on the floor. His back was against the piss-stained wall, his elbows against his knees, and his hands cupped his face. They had been shunted into a room after arriving at the port in the darkness of night. His hands were black. He could not remember the last time that he washed. He felt a thick stubble across his face.

  It did not matter that he dreaded the face of the man called Taymoor. Pierre could not help a desire to see the ugly man. At least it would give him some anchor. Otherwise, he feared that they could be sold again, beaten, picked on, roughed up. The Ottoman agent provided some security in that they were prisoners of the sultan, and that meant they needed to be alive.

  After being pulled from the estate of Alex, and the unfortunate misery to do with Therma, he was reunited with the little man, and they were bundled away, taken to a fortified building and beaten by sadistic thugs for no reason. He did not understand the language, so he could not answer a single question. The thugs used old-fashioned brass knuckles, taking it in turns as one pinned the arms behind and the other one eagerly set punches into his chest and sides. Then it was Ernest’s turn. All the time Taymoor watched with a smirk on his face and a cigarette hanging from his lips. It was Pierre’s conclusion that the thugs were doing it for entertainment only.

  They were shoved into a cell, something that had become familiar. “At least we are together again,” Ernest had said wryly. There was no chance for sleep. The screams from the building precluded this. They were disturbed by the same outfit before they had settled. Roughed up again, shackled, and moved with vigor. The travel ended on a ship and another cell. They could not stretch their legs, and the cell had the temperature of ice, but they slept. It was a brief sleep, for the boat moved unsympathetically with the sea. Taymoor was on the ship. He showed his ugly face after some time and examined them with devious eyes and no words.

  “Where are they taking us?” Ernest asked.

  “Alex said Konstantinople,” Pierre answered.

  “Konstantinople!” Ernest exclaimed with his last energy. “That is the other side of the world. Why would they take us there?”

  “Alex said it was to do with the battle. They think we had something to do with the battle, the Templar war.”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know. These people are crazy. And, oh, he said something about the sultan’s torturer.”

  They were at sea for days. They were fed food that was only edible because they were starving. Once again, they were forced to blame each other for the stink of their surrounds. There was no clue to the time that was passing other than that Taymoor checked on them at what felt like regular intervals. His look was one of concern, but not for their well-being – for his own. Pierre later explained. “This beady-eyed flunky is taking us to Konstantinople because they think we are important, so he is worried for us now. He would not want to turn up with two lifeless lumps.”

  They arrived at a port. It was not the destination but a stop. Taymoor came for them. They were pulled out of the cell and shoved off the boat, and into a motor vehicle. It was night time where they had arrived. It was an ancient place of mud-brick buildings that lurched over the dusty roads. They could not see anything more from their crushed position in the motor vehicle. They arrived at a building that had the look of a medieval castle. The iron doors groaned as they swung open. The sleepy guards had nervous eyes as Taymoor barked them into action.

  They were alone again in the piss-covered cell, where Ernest looked out the window.

  “This is a stopover,” Ernest said. “Where are we?”

  Pierre said nothing.

  “There is Fugger Corporation in Konstantinople,” the little man said. “I have heard this. Vandergrift always said that he had done business there. There will be an office. Once we are there, we can contact them. They will help us. Fugger Corporation will not forget us.”

  “Yes, right, like they did in the last place we were, whatever that was.”

  “Ah, don’t be so down. We have been in worse. Remember those wolves and when we were attacked by Janissaries. Ha, that does not look normal.” He looked out the window. It was covered by iron bars and glass. He pulled himself up to see by gripping onto the bars.

  “Why bother? As you said this is a stopover.”

  “Because it does look strange that there are ships in the harbor that are on fire.”

  “Hmm, that could be a problem if one of those ships was meant for us.” Pierre stood and looked out of the window. The scene was like a New Year celebration. Shots of light curved into the night sky.

  “Who are those people? They look angry,” Ernest said.

  “What people?”

  “Down there. Look.”

  Pierre followed where Ernest was looking. They were high up in the fortifications and looked down over the bay and town. The ships looked like floating bonfires in the inky water. He dropped his eyes, and he could see the town falling away to the docks. Long, narrow streets snaked up to the perch of the fort. Ernest was looking at a street crowded with a mob. Their outlines could be made out from the fiery torches they brandished overhead. They were moving toward the fort. Their agitation was evident by the thrusting fists and jerking movements of the torches.

  The cell door was unlocked. A group of guards looked in at them. Their uniforms were mainly dark-purple coats that hung down to their bo
ots. They held long pikes that were lowered as they entered with the ax heads aimed menacingly at Pierre and Ernest. Taymoor stepped in front of the group, his eyes moving nervously. “You must move,” he said.

  Ernest and Pierre looked at each other. The Ottoman could speak English. He said some more gruff words to them in his own language, and the guards waved the pikes. They were pushed out into the corridor and along passageways. They passed other cells, some with bars so that they could see inside. Hands reached to them from wretched people through the rusted bars. Desperate pleas were shouted at them from the prisoners. Pierre glimpsed the skinny limbs and dark green of their clothes. His shirt was grabbed. Taymoor slapped away the hand. The Ottoman stopped for a moment. He barked an order at the guards. They hesitated. He looked at the prisoners, gripped the bars, and barked the order again. The guard reached for a ring of keys at his belt and began opening a cell. Taymoor shoved Pierre to keep moving. They went down curling, badly lit steps with dirty, ancient stone walls on each side, grimy to touch, and the stink of a sewer.

  They changed directions many times, with Taymoor shouting at the jailers each time. The guards looked confused, as if they did not know their own jail, and threw their hands upward. They emerged into an open area. It was surrounded by high walls. They stood and looked at smoke and leaping flames that could be seen coming from over the walls. Taymoor cursed and slapped one of the guards. They stood startled for long moments while Taymoor continued to rant. They heard screams and bloodcurdling chants coming from the other side of one of the walls. Taymoor looked at it disdainfully. A door hidden in the wall opened, and a guard stepped out and beckoned them to follow. Taymoor grunted and pushed Ernest through the doorway. Pierre followed. They were on steps again. This time they dropped sharply. A guard at the front who held a lamp was their only light.

  They moved in a tight group. Ernest was against Pierre’s back. A foul smell surrounded them. “Say something,” Ernest said through a closed mouth and hard face. “What is all this action?”