City Of Swords

In Charlemagne’s footsteps, a man who would be Holy Emperor...

It was the kind of internet posting guaranteed to attract the attention of the American cable TV show Chasing History’s Monsters: “Dog-headed men sighted by tourists in Avignon.” Drawn to France to explore the myth of Saint Christopher and the cynocephalus or the dog-headed, archaeologist and television host Annja Creed finds herself repeatedly and inexplicably targeted by vicious mercenaries. Her best defense is to trace this brutal violence back to its source, which she soon discovers to be a millionaire and self-professed descendant of King Charlemagne.

Caught up in a romantic and ruthless sixth-century world, the man is convinced that if he collects mankind’s most precious and holy swords, he can fulfill his medieval ancestor’s failed goal to build the City of God. And he’s stealing the priceless relics one by one to arm his modern-day paladins. Now he has his eye on a very special sword—Annja’s.

And he’ll have to kill her to get it.

It happened fast, the two grabbed Rembert and spun him around

The taller of the two men put a knife to her cameraman’s throat, while the other produced a second knife and held it to his stomach. Rembert dropped his camera and flailed his arms up, but stopped moving when the one named Gaston jabbed the tip hard enough to draw blood.

“Stay still,” Gaston said.

Annja had been reaching for the sword in her mind, had felt the sensation of the pommel against her palm, but she left the blade hanging in the otherwhere.

“I told the kid the money is at the hotel.” Annja squinted through the driving rain, taking in Rembert’s panic. “I only have a few Euros with me. You can have them, but—”

“We don’t want your money, Annja Creed. We want your sword.”

His accent. Annja recognized Gaston. He was one of the gang she’d fought in Paris outside the old train station. He was one of the gang who’d fled before the police arrived. What was he doing here? Had he overheard her talking to Roux, telling him she was coming to this city for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters?

“The sword! If you hand over the sword, we’ll let your friend live.”

City of Swords

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Legend

...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleaned in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Jean Rabe for her contribution to this work.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 1

His arrow struck deep in the deer’s chest but missed the heart. The animal struggled to get up, tangling itself in the tall grass and making a painful mewling sound that caused his throat to tighten. Dragging one leg, he limped toward it. Though always a heavily built man—sturdy, he preferred to think of himself—he used to get around effortlessly. But age had taken its toll, coupled with the fevers that had plagued him these past few months.

His doctors demanded he avoid roast meat. Who were they to tell a king what to do? Boiled venison was not so tasty, and he intended to savor a properly prepared roast tonight.

Charlemagne drew his sword, the blade catching the late-afternoon sun and taking on a molten cast. He couldn’t stand to see the animal suffer. One slash across the throat finished it.

“Cette épée, ma chère amie, a déjà tué,” he said. This sword, my friend, has already killed. A great many men. He spoke French to accommodate his aide, his tongue halting around the words. He much preferred the Germanic dialect of the Ripuarian Franks, or Greek or Latin, or even the exotic-sounding Arabic that he fancied. But his aide was not well versed in languages.

The two men dragged the deer back to Charlemagne’s home.

He cleaned his blade first, then bathed and dressed for dinner, wearing a linen shirt against his skin and matching breeches. Over this he wore a dark tunic trimmed with a pale silk fringe—the one bit of finery he allowed himself. He preferred to dress like a commoner, leaving all but one jeweled ring in a chest by his bed. Lastly, he put on ivory hose and comfortable shoes. He left the room, but returned to check himself in the mirror. There were guests to consider tonight, and he wanted to appear well-groomed.

Despite his years he remained good-looking, tall but not overly so, with a thick, squat neck and a nose that belonged on a bigger man’s face. His hair was white, but there was an abundance of it. He arranged the curls with his fingers, squared his shoulders, pronounced himself acceptable and went downstairs.

Among the dinner guests he was about to greet was his son Louis, whom he had recently crowned. It would be good to see him again and to speak of politics and alliances. No doubt someone would ask to hear tales from one of his great battles. Charlemagne had been engaged in one clash after another throughout nearly all his reign, usually at the front of his scara bodyguard squadrons. But sometimes alone when there was no one to bear witness.

Always with Joyeuse in hand. Mon épée. He patted the scabbard. Three decades of fighting, more than a dozen wars, and now this sword was relegated to putting a deer out of its misery.

Perhaps he would regale those gathered with that final push he’d orchestrated to conquer Saxonia and to convert the barbarians to Christianity. It was a good story, and he didn’t mind retelling it. Then he would excuse himself and retire early, as he planned to venture out again at first light. A few more days of hunting, then he would travel to Aachen, given the onset of November. He’d come to enjoy hunting animals far more than he’d ever enjoyed hunting men.

* * *

THOUGH HE WOULD WORK at it doggedly for those few days, fate would grant him only one undersize buck. Charlemagne’s plans to return to the hunt in the spring would never materialize, as he would fall ill with pleurisy.

“Joyeuse,” he said, as he took to his bed a final time. “Mon épée.”

A servant placed the sword at his side.

Charlemagne wrapped his thick fingers around the pommel. This sword, his one constant companion, gave him some measure of peace.

“Joyeuse, ma très chère amie.” He took one more breath, and died.

Chapter 2

The sword was her one constant companion. It was a yard of double-bladed steel, honed impossibly sharp. Though a priceless relic, it was not a showpiece suited to a museum. It was a dealer of death—her servant and master, good fortune and wretched curse. Once belonging to Joan of Arc, shattered and mysteriously re-formed, it had come to her...along with a destiny to wield it wisely.

The lights from the train station were diffused by the thin fog and distorted the blade so it looked like a ribbon of darkened silver. Annja swung it above her head in a flashy move meant to rattle her less-skilled opponent.

“Eh...à armes égales!” he cried.

French was one of the several languages Annja knew. Fight on equal terms, with equal weaponry.

He wielded a switchblade, which was no match for her sword. He should have fled as his two companions had moments ago, but he stood there, puffing himself up with the bravado of youth. The night and the mist hid some of his features, but Annja could tell he was probably still in his teens, given the acne scars on his face. He stank from going too long without a bath and wearing clothes tinged with the grime of Paris. His breath smelled of vodka, which meant he’d consumed a generous amount, likely adding to his courage. His hair stuck up at all angles, held in place by something that smelled vaguely sweet.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll fight you on equal terms.” With a thought, she dismissed the sword, relegating it to the otherwhere where it hung, waiting for her to summon it again.

He glanced quickly at the ground and into the shadows. Not spotting the sword, he returned his full attention to her. “Pute!” he spat.

With a clipped laugh, Annja crouched to meet his charge. He didn’t disappoint her, darting in and slashing forward, a quick jab typical of street brawlers. The tough lacked finesse, but he was burly and mean, and those traits helped compensate for his deficiencies.

She sidestepped and brought up her foot, catching his ankle. He stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. He whirled toward her, eyes narrowed.

“Espèce de pute!”

“Quite the limited vocabulary,” she taunted, again waiting for his rush.

“De merde,” he replied. “Putain de merde!”

Annja made a tsking sound and waved her finger at him.

“Livrer aux chiens!”

“No,” she said. “I’ll throw you to the dogs. Actually, the police.”

She’d come here looking for a fight. She’d needed the exercise and a distraction, from an assignment she had no interest in—a two-part segment for Chasing History’s Monsters. Her TV show’s producers were really reaching into the bottom of the barrel for legends to sensationalize. Familiar with Paris, she knew to avoid Les Halles, Le Châtelet and Gare du Nord this late at night, when the crowds had disappeared. So that’s precisely where she’d ventured. Les Halles and Le Châtelet had yielded no opponents, but Gare du Nord and its shadowy side streets had brought out this fellow and his now-absent friends.

Tourists traveling alone around the old train station were warned to keep a low profile and to avoid wearing jewelry that might entice thieves. But Annja had done the opposite. In the sequin-trimmed cocktail dress she’d worn earlier to dinner, emerald necklace dangling in the low V of the fabric, she’d trolled back and forth like a fisherman after bass.

This fellow’s fluid, if vulgar, French was tinged with some kind of accent. Probably from one of the Roma camps, she guessed. France had declared war against the illegal encampments that had sprung up around Paris, evacuating many of the immigrants living there. But pockets still persisted. Paris news agencies had been reporting on the Romany gangs preying on travelers arriving from London on the high-speed trains. Now Annja was preying on one of those gang members.

He shuffled to his right, putting his back to an old stone wall and tossing the knife into his other hand—trying to rattle her. His breath was slow and even, and his crouch was similar to the horse stance of the swordsman. Annja waited for him to make the next move, knowing full well he was weighing her with anger in his eyes.

A moment later he came at her, this time stabbing at her side, then wheeling and darting at her again. The move was unexpected, and he managed to slice her dress. Annja cursed herself for underestimating the youth. A street brawler, yes, but somewhere along the line, he’d had training. She appraised him more carefully. The sleeves of his shirt were tight around his biceps, suggesting muscles. His calves were thick, too. Certainly not the common ruffian she’d originally considered him to be. As he came forward and jabbed at her, then shuffled back, she realized his moves were those of a boxer.

“You might make a better opponent than I thought,” she told him. By the look on his face, he didn’t understand English. She repeated the sentence in French.

“Marie-salope!”

“I’ve been called that before,” she returned.

He pointed the knife tip at her throat and made a gesture with his free hand.

“Yes, I gathered that you want my necklace.” When the corner of his lip turned up in a snarl, she added, “I’m rather fond of it. A gift from an old...friend.”

He continued to come at her, jumping in and back, swinging his knife and alternately punching with his free hand. He didn’t connect with anything, but he didn’t give up. She moved out of his way each time, but kept him close, not wanting to discourage him. She was in heels, and the spikes caught in the cracks of the brick and threatened to topple her. It would have been easier to slip out of them, but she didn’t want easy tonight.

“Tu peux crever, connasse!”

“No, I’m not going to die tonight,” she said. “But neither will you. We’re just playing, aren’t we? Like children looking to run off a little steam?” And in the process teaching you a lesson, she thought. “Ducon la joie,” she called him, half surprised at herself for stooping to his level.

The words enflamed him and he sped up his rushes, sweeping the blade in a wider and wider arc, his anger making his moves more erratic and easier to dodge.

“Du-te la dracu!” he shouted.

It was Romany now, not French. And though Annja knew only a smattering of the language, she figured out that he’d just told her to go to hell.

“Not tonight,” she repeated.

The exertion felt good, like the welcome burn from a long jog through Central Park. She kept her breathing steady and deep, drawing the smells of the place into her lungs. Oil from the trains, a trace of exhaust from cars that trundled by on the main street nearby, urine, and dampness and mold; it had rained here a few hours ago. And there was the smell from her assailant, stronger now because he’d been working up a sweat. She picked up a trace of cigarette smoke, which she hadn’t noticed before. The kid had that addiction, too.

“Maybe a stint in jail will help you with some of those bad habits. Clean you up a little, eh?”

He jockeyed for position, which allowed her to step onto the sidewalk. Easier on her heels. He cursed again, a mix of Romany and French this time. Annja surprised him and took the initiative, stepping in and thumping him on the chest with her open hand. Finally he was showing signs of fatigue, but he still wasn’t giving up, his predatory gaze lingering on the emerald necklace.

“The man who gave me this said it was four hundred years old, give or take a decade. Worth as much for its historic value as for the gems.” She knew he couldn’t understand her. “You’d probably fence it for a few cases of Alizé Bleu.”

The dance had managed to wash away her fatigue. The past four days had taken her under the city, to the famous Paris catacombs stretching back to Roman times, when they’d been excavated in the harvest of limestone. Annja had been there before, to tunnels that served as the meeting ground for secret societies, the birthplace of spooky legends. Even into the chambers where long-buried skeletons were stashed to make room for more bodies in the city’s overcrowded cemeteries. She’d walked through halls lined with bones and ancient graffiti, helping her cameraman figure out which angles to shoot from—no doubt beneath the spot where she and her opponent stood now. As many as six million dead were believed to crowd the labyrinthine network, some of them killed during the French Revolution.

The tunnels had been covered on television before, sometimes from a historical perspective or a military one; German soldiers had used a chamber during World War II as a bunker, she knew. Programs had aired about the reported ghosts, disembodied voices and shadows that followed tourists. Annja’s assignment had been to find something fresh, and so she’d interviewed tour guides, as well as several workers who’d hauled away rubble from some of the collapsed areas. The floating, hazy orbs they’d recently spotted seemed to be the fresh take she was looking for.

As always, she found the place fascinating. A skilled archaeologist, she had an affinity for ruins. But she also believed the tunnels had been done to death. She hadn’t wanted to come to France, anyway—it was a place of nightmares for her.

Joan of Arc had been lashed to a pillar in the Vieux-Marché in Rouen and burned at the stake in 1431. After her horrible death, her body was burned a second time and then a third, the ashes scattered into the Seine. Annja was somehow connected to the holy martyr, and her sleep on occasion was cut through with fiery images.

But while France held nightmares for her, it was also a paycheck. At least this week. She’d finished her work shortly before five today, showered, dressed in the only couture outfit she’d brought to the city and took her cameraman to Pierre Gagnaire’s in the eighth district for fish terrine. She was certain her little dance here had worked off the calories from the rich and expensive dessert. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

Her opponent took a few steps back and cocked his head, listening. She listened, too. There were the muted sounds of the city: cars trundling past on the main strip, the clacking departure of an aging train, the soft strains of a Thierry Cham zouk R & B tune that dissipated to nothingness, and a syncopated slapping that grew louder and announced the return of the hood’s companions. They’d brought help. Altogether there were seven of them.

“Chamelle vérolée!” the one she’d been fighting shouted. He grinned widely, revealing his crooked teeth and a stud through his tongue.

Annja felt for the sword in her mind, but waited. She delivered a roundhouse kick to her dancing partner, her pointed heel jabbing his stomach. His breath knocked out of him, he doubled over and dropped the switchblade. Without pause she kicked him once more, angling higher and pounding her foot against his chest. He slumped to his knees, cursing. To make sure he wouldn’t be entering the fray again, she administered a quick neck chop, which rendered him unconscious.

Then she devoted her attention to the remaining six.

“You will die for that,” the tallest said in English, his Romany accent apparent. He brandished a gun and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 3

The bullet came close, passing where Annja’s head had been a heartbeat before. There must have been a silencer on the gun; its spitting sound was barely audible. On reflex she’d ducked just as he’d reached into his jacket pocket, and she rolled forward, losing her shoes on purpose and coming up in a crouch.

Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, they said. Or in her case, a sword. Still, in her mind she touched the blade, seeking its reassuring presence. One glance at the gang, then she slipped to where the shadows were thickest along the wall.

The patchy fog and the darkness made the men seem even more menacing. The tallest was well over six feet, thin but with broad shoulders. Like a dagger that had been jammed tip first into the street. He was in the front, two each to his right and left, back a few feet. So the guy she’d fought moments ago hadn’t been the gang leader, she decided. The others were all of similar build to the tall one with the gun, and all with the oddly cropped and spiky hair their unconscious fellow sported. A sixth held back. He also had a gun with a silencer, but she couldn’t tell its make for certain. Maybe an old French-made MAB PA-15. The guy up front had a sleek SIG Sauer. That they had guns, particularly a SIG Sauer—with silencers—marked them as a notch above a common gang. Probably stolen.

They were close enough that she could smell them; they had the pong of the streets. They talked softly in Romany as they scanned the area, taking in the guy she’d knocked out.

Well, she’d craved an adrenaline rush. Selfish.

One of the men moved his arms to his sides, showing that he had a length of chain for a weapon. The other three produced switchblades, one in each hand.

“Girl, girl, girl,” the tall one in the lead said. “Come out where we can get a better look at you.” He held his free hand high. “We won’t hurt you.”

“Much,” said the one with the chain.

Annja felt their eyes on her—they knew exactly where she was. She also sensed other eyes on her. Another gang member?

“Come out, girl.” The tall one again. “Girl, girl, girl. Come out. Come out.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Annja whispered as she did just that. In a blur of taupe taffeta, chiffon and sequins, she sprinted forward, surprising both gunmen, who couldn’t draw a bead. She slammed into the lead one, striking his throat with her elbow and grabbing at his gun with her other hand. She threw the SIG Sauer behind her, listening to it clatter on the street. She pulled her second elbow jab to avoid killing him and stepped back as he dropped, crouching below the chain that cut through the air.

Five left standing.

Four after she shot toward one of the switchblade wielders, kicking him in the groin, then following through with a punch to his jaw that sent a few teeth and a spray of blood flying. Almost too easy.

“Scroafă!” the other man with the gun hollered. He was considerably older than the others, maybe thirty, with a short beard and a dead eye. He fired, missing her again as she dived, the bullet striking the pavement behind her. “Scroafă!”

Annja didn’t know the word. He fired again, and this time the bullet grazed her arm, feeling as if an open flame had been put to her skin. She slipped by the three men surrounding her and raced toward the one-eyed gunman, darting left when he brought the gun up again. The sword was in her hand; she hadn’t realized that she’d reached for it. The pommel felt good against her palm; its presence cut some of the burning sensation from the graze. She turned the blade vertical to the street and then brought it around like a batter would swing at an incoming ball. The flat of the sword connected with the man’s hand and caused the gun to fly from his grip.

“Bisturiu!” one of the men behind her shouted. “Spada!”

“Yes, it’s a sword,” Annja said. It had taken the wound to her arm to make her realize how stupid she’d been, looking for a fight just to get in some physical activity. Annja had been thrust into more than enough fights through the past few years. She didn’t need to go trolling for them.

“Idiot!” She cursed herself as she spun on the ball of her bare foot, a painful sensation on the rough pavement, and brought the flat of the blade around again, striking him in the arm. At the same time she kicked at his knee, hearing a discomfiting pop.

“Scroafă!” The one-eyed man repeated it like a chant before Annja cuffed him on the neck and rendered him unconscious. She turned to face the remaining three just as the one with the chain lashed her chest.