The guard laid out by Joaquin earlier had recovered. Alejandro whirled and found two more guards cutting off his retreat, their swords angling menacingly in his direction.
Thinking fast, Alejandro hooked an arm around Joaquin’s neck, pretending to hold him hostage. “Ah-ah!” snarled Alejandro, his eyes as crazed and fierce as he could make them. “Stay back or I’ll break the kid’s neck!”
“Help me!” yelped the quaking Joaquin, catching on instantly. “I’m too young to die! I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!”
The jailer stared at the pair with a raised eyebrow and a sour expression, taking a moment to digest this tidbit of information. He shrugged and gestured for his men to take care of this little problem for him. “Kill ’em.”
The men charged, but Alejandro was ready for them. In a blur, his fist whipped out to knuckle-stab the first guard’s windpipe. The man gurgled and dropped to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor as a second guard lurched forward in a clumsy attack. Alejandro ducked and crouched, easily avoiding both the man’s sword and his other fist which was bearing a heavy silver bludgeon. Centering all his weight on one leg, he kicked with the other, sweeping the second guard’s feet out from under him. Diving ahead to avoid his opponent’s falling form, Alejandro heard a whoosh of air as the jailer’s sword whisked past him, lantern light streaking across its well-polished length. As a retort to this clumsy strike, Alejandro doubled over the jailer with a merciless punch to the solar plexus. The sword sprang from his open hand and Alejandro caught it as the jailer fell.
All three men were down, moaning. Kicking their weapons out of their reach, Alejandro whirled on his son. Joaquin stared at him in awestruck silence. The last time his son looked at him that way he had been wearing the mask of Zorro.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Joaquin asked incredulously.
Alejandro’s gaze narrowed philosophically. “Prison changes a man, son.” He gestured ahead. “Let’s go!”
Elena stole through the night, stealthily maneuvering her way across the grounds outside Armand’s hacienda. Pushing through the grapevines, she peered down the road and witnessed a long line of carriages drawing toward the vineyard. A brace of guards stood as still as statues before the entrance. Servants exited the carriages first, their lanterns held high as they opened the doors for their masters, a group of extremely expensively dressed men who gave off the aura of possessing great wealth and power.
Elena cautiously emerged from the shadows as the men filed into the vineyards. The men clasped hands, some exchanging greetings like old friends who had not seen one another in years, others expressing polite tolerance as if long-standing grudges still lurked, but were being overlooked due to their current, extraordinary circumstances. The servants exchanged defensive glares, as if marking one another for a time they would meet without the auspices of their host.
Who were these strange night visitors? Elena had to know. She looked around, anxious to find some way into the vineyards and the sprawling winery.
Alejandro booted open the door to the old chapel. He rushed in with Joaquin, even as Fray Felipe, alerted by the noise, catapulted from his study to greet them.
“What are we doing here?” asked Joaquin, raising his chin suspiciously.
Alejandro exchanged concerned looks with Felipe, then bent on one knee before Joaquin and looked his son in the eye. “Listen, niño, I have to go alone—”
Joaquin’s face creased with fury. “What? I got you out of jail! What if he wants to fight?”
“I’m not going there to fight,” Alejandro said evenly. “I’m going to reason with him.”
“You can’t reason with him!”
Alejandro spoke quietly. “Look, Joaquin…the world’s a little more complicated than you think.”
“No it isn’t!” Joaquin protested. “There’s right and there’s wrong!”
A dead weight settled within Alejandro. He shook his head and announced, “I don’t have time to argue with you, son. I’m sorry.”
Alejandro nodded to Felipe, who ushered the boy away.
“Come, niño,” said Felipe.
Joaquin spun savagely and leveled an accusing finger at his father. Eyes wide, face red with rage, he screamed, “You don’t deserve mom!”
Alejandro stood silently, watching his son glare at him as Felipe led the boy to his study. You’re probably right, Joaquin.
Heartbroken, Alejandro waited until the study door shut firmly, then he slipped behind the virgin’s statue, opened the doorway to Zorro’s lair, and quickly made his way down the darkened steps.
Within minutes, Zorro and Tornado raced from the church garden and sped through the night.
Elena crept into the winery through the loading dock, watching as the men were led by a guard past massive, but empty, wine vats. Hugging the darkened walls of the corridor, she peered out curiously as the men were brought to a wall of stacked barrels. The guard touched one at its center and the barrels swung open revealing a secret door. The men threaded through the door swiftly, the guard drawing his sword and remaining behind as it closed.
Elena scanned the area for other guards and she spotted three more stationed by the main entrance. Ducking into the shadows, she looked about for anything she might use as a distraction. A dull emerald gleam caught her eye and she snatched up an empty wine bottle. Finding a heavy wooden paddle to use as a weapon, Elena rolled the bottle across the corridor and darted back into the darkness as it tinked against the far wall. The guard by the barrels came to investigate. Brow furrowed, he moved around another vat and looked down at the wobbly wine bottle.
Elena burst from cover, her sharp high cry making the guard spin to face her. Swinging the paddle, she smashed the guard’s face an instant before he could raise his blade. He grunted, tumbling back and dropping his sword as he crashed against a stack of metal buckets. She snatched up the fallen man’s sword and leaped onto the lid of the vat just as two other guards approached.
One lightly slapped the face of his fallen comrade to rouse him, the other cursed under his breath as he looked about for an intruder. Elena was perched high on the lid with the downed guard’s sword gleaming in her hand, when she cleared her throat. The men whirled and raised their blades. She leaped down at them as they charged.
Elena’s blade sang as it sliced the air. Her motions were joyous, her heart thrilling at the feel of cold, deadly steel in her hand. At last the shackles had been thrown off, she was free to fight out in the open.
A saber swept before her face, snapping loose a few of her wild hairs, which she blew away deftly with a single breath.
Now listen Elena, whispered the voice of Enrique De Leon, the blademaster who trained her, a short, perpetually youthful man who never left home without a smile. Do not let appearances fool you. You have no idea the level of skill your opponent may possess.
Two opponents, she thought. Attack au Fer. Her stratagem selected, she gave herself to “the dance” as her teacher had called it. The blades before her, biting the air like stinging insects, conveniently approached from either side of her field of vision. The swordsmen stood within arm’s reach of each other, their features scrunched up tight in concentration. Elena parried, deflecting one blade then the other, her sword ringing out angrily, defiantly, as it slapped the opposing blades alternately, traveling barely a foot apart to deliver each expert riposte.
A flicker of surprise and confusion passed between the men. Who was this lady? Who would have dared teach her how to fight?
You should get out more, thought Elena, backing away then turning, luring them deeper into her trap. They pressed ahead, confident that she was on the brink of being overwhelmed, all the time unconsciously drawing closer and closer to each other as each vied to gain the center point of her attention. As she planned, they slammed into each other, startled as if they had forgotten the other swordsman even existed. Their attacks faltered. Lunging ahead, Elena swept her sword across both of their bellies, then r
eadied it for another strike even as their shrill cries filled the hall. With grace and fortitude she drew back, whirled in an extravagant, triumphant circle, and struck a pose with her sword raised.
X marks the spot, she thought, looking at the crimson slashes she had made on the two bewildered men quaking before her.
A creak of well-polished boots sounded behind her, causing her to spin on her heels. A third saber snapped at her. She parried, yet another guard engaging her. Darting back to keep the wall behind her, she fended off his thrusts—until suddenly she faced a brutal three-point onslaught from the newcomer and the pair of guards she had wounded thus far. Treating her with the respect one offers a proper threat, they fanned out, one attacking from directly before her, the others at either side.
With only one blade and a single pair of eyes, Elena knew she could not win this battle.
Chapter 14
The blades pressed in. Elena steadied herself for a desperate last stand—when the air was split with a bold, mocking whistle. All heads turned as Zorro leaped into the fray. The entire trio of guards raced to meet the masked interloper, turning their backs on Elena.
“Now I’m insulted,” she said kicking the closest in the backside, sending him reeling toward one of his compatriots with a surprised cry. They fell in heap, Zorro dashing out of the way of the mad bulls.
The remaining guard attacked the masked man, determined to claim the legendary fighter’s head as a trophy. Zorro’s blade flashed, sabers sparked and scraped.
“So you thought the little woman needed saving?” Elena called reproachfully.
“Of course not,” replied Zorro gleefully. “But why should you have all the fun, eh?”
Elena’s two opponents recovered and launched into yet another furious assault. Zorro edged near her and within moments, they stood back-to-back. Elena cut down one man quickly. Seizing his sword, she turned and whacked Zorro out of the way with a wild swing of her hips. As the hero stumbled, his confused cry distracted the two remaining men. With all her might and in a lightning strike, Elena drove her blades through their hearts in a lightning strike, yanked the weapons back, and cleaned them off on the jackets of her prey all in an instant before the bodies dropped.
Heady with victory, Alejandro sheathed his sword. He looked to Elena, taking in the glistening sweat on her fiery flesh, and was lost in the wild promise of her eyes. Overwhelmed, they rushed together, colliding in their passion. Elena’s hands seized his back, furiously crushing him to her sleek body. Desire radiated from them as their ravenous lips met. Sharing a dazzling kiss between them, Elena’s lovely fingers played with Alejandro’s sensual hair, while his mouth joined so tightly with hers it was as if he sought to taste her soul.
She pulled back suddenly and gestured to the doorway. “Armand went through there, we have to hurry—”
“I know about the Pinkertons,” Alejandro said in a rush.
Shuddering, Elena asked, “How?”
“It doesn’t matter, they told me everything.”
Elena expression softened and she brushed a stray hair from his eyes. “It’s alright, my darling. I forgive you.”
Wincing, Alejandro drew back. “You forgive me? I forgive you!”
Her expression hardening, Elena cried, “For what?”
Alejandro’s hands rose with his incredulity. “For everything you put me through!”
Her smile grew rigid as she raked her blade across the floor, the gesture subtle but menacing. “Everything I put you through…”
Alejandro felt the coming tide of her fury. He didn’t care.
Elena’s eyes burst into fiery suns. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d kept your mask on!”
Laughing bitterly, he pointed at the gleaming bauble around her supple throat. “Really? Then why are you still wearing his necklace?”
Her free hand whipped to the jewelry in surprise, as if she had forgotten it was there. “I’m undercover!” Her mouth quirked cruelly. “Besides, these are pearls. You never gave me pearls.”
Alejandro shrugged. “You said you didn’t care about things like that!”
Elena’s sword whipped before her, slicing the air before her ex-husband’s face. He jerked back, as she knew he would, and seized her wrist. His hand was hot. She grinned. “I lied! Every woman in the world wants pearls!”
He crept close enough to hiss in her face. “Well now you have them, Princess!”
Shaking violently, she eased closer to him and laughed. “When I said we were never meant to be together, I meant it!”
Inching nearer to his beloved, Alejandro spat, “Finally, we agree on something!”
Exchanging scorching looks, their brains grown feverish with desire, Alejandro and Elena grabbed for each other, their bodies crashing together. Their lips and tongues and hands sought to consume every sensation, every instant of pleasure stolen from them. Writhing in delight, murmuring with lust, they kissed until their hearts thundered as one. Flushed and shaking, they pulled away from one another, their breath ragged with desire, blood set to boil.
“This changes nothing,” Elena warned.
Alejandro nodded reasonably. “Absolutely not.”
“Follow me,” Elena commanded as she slipped toward the darkened doorway through which Armand had disappeared.
“You bet,” said Alejandro, barely masking his smile.
Not surprisingly, Armand’s trail led them deeper into the mazelike winery. They slipped through old stone buildings smelling of crushed grapes and quickly caught up with their preening, sauntering prey.
Armand entered a private courtyard. Alejandro gestured to an antique couch sitting adjacent to a barred window. Silver moonlight engulfed the couple as they worked together to quietly slide the couch into place directly below the window, each taking a small private pleasure in how easily they worked together in this, a simple but important task. They climbed upon it and peered into the courtyard, where Armand had taken these precious moments to prepare.
Armand’s guests were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs around a brightly painted crest of the Knights of Aragon, a viscous serpent encircling a globe, threatening to squeeze the life from it. Armand stood before them, a small table to his side on which rested a wooden box carefully protecting a glass vial. “Orbis Unum,” called Armand.
Responding quickly, the group chanted, “Orbis Unum.”
Colonel Beauregard crept from the shadows and took his place behind Armand. “Fellow Knights of Aragon,” said Armand as he slowly walked around the circle of knights, “today we face a rival prophesied by our ancestors. Soon the power of the United States will be so great, it will overshadow us. But…America has one weakness: its people. They are divided by North and South. A civil war is inevitable. The only question is, who will claim victory?”
He paused as Colonel Beauregard brought him a lacquered wooden box. Handing over the box as if it held something sacred, the colonel nodded and dutifully retreated. Opening the offering with his customary charming smile, Armand said, “We will determine the outcome—with this.”
His hand thrust up and pierced a high pool of moonlight. Clutched tightly in his powerful fingers was a pale gleaming rectangular object, its edges sanded down and slightly rounded. It was…
“An average bar of soap,” announced Armand, smiling indulgently. “Quite harmless in its current form. But science has shown us how to extract the glycerin and transform it into a compound thirteen times more powerful than gunpowder.”
Armand placed the soap back in the box, then carefully removed a second object from its confines: an ampule filled with clear liquid. He clasped it gingerly, like an egg.
“Nitroglycerin,” revealed Armand with a bold look of triumph. “For months, this vineyard has been a cover for its manufacture.”
The knights leaned in, exchanging amazed and incredulous looks. The ampule raised, Armand mesmerized the group once more, meeting the gazes of his fellows one by one. “Tomorrow, a shipment of nitro wil
l depart by train. It will be met at the state line by Colonel Beauregard, who will take possession of the shipment and distribute it throughout the Confederate army. As we speak, they are preparing to launch a preemptive strike against Washington, forever tearing this country apart.”
Colonel Beauregard nodded, his eyes ablaze with anticipation. Though his first allegiance was clearly to the Knights of Aragon, he clearly relished the notion of pounding the northern states into the annals of forgotten history.
“Gentlemen,” said Armand, “brothers. As Knights of Aragon, we will soon be restored to our former glory as we stand in the shadows and watch America destroy itself.”
A mad burst of hearty applause rose from all the gathered knights.
All but one.
Armand’s piercing gaze fell upon the lone dissenter. Lord Dillingham, a proper British gentleman, stroked his meticulously sculpted beard and frowned.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Lord Dillingham as he rose. “Brothers, you know my spirit is with you, but we risk antagonizing a sleeping giant if we fail…’’ Shaking his head, he abandoned the table. “I’ll see myself out.”
Lord Dillingham had taken only a few steps when Armand raised a solicitous hand. The silver-haired man waited.
Armand’s smile grew rigid. “Lord Dillingham, would a demonstration put your mind at ease?”
Sighing, Lord Dillingham said, “Perhaps.”
Armand shrugged. “Very well…”
The ampule suddenly flashed in the air, tumbling end over end as it flew from Armand’s hand. The British lord gasped and frantically tossed up his hands to shield himself, but nothing on earth could have protected him from the explosive power of the erupting chemicals.
From their place of hiding, Alejandro and Elena took cover as a blinding white flash threatened to sear their eyes and a blast of heat rocketed toward them, the explosion that decimated Lord Dillingham sending billows of smoke roiling through the bars over their heads. Alejandro heard cries of alarm, coughs, and furious curses while bits of stone from a chair caught in the blast dropped from on high. When Alejandro dared to look at the secret courtyard once more, he saw a blackened silhouette shaped like a cringing man burnt into the cobbles, while tatters of torn and soot-encrusted clothing gently wafted downward from above. A small crater was all that was left of where Armand’s victim had stood. Most of the knights were on their feet, pressed together in a tight group as Armand and the colonel stood off to one side, eyeing the others with contempt.
The Legend of Zorro Page 23