Swordsman's Legacy

Lambert made his move

Annja bent her knees slightly, prepared for defense, but cautious.

“I’ve got my eye on a new treasure,” he announced. The epee swept the air in a hiss. “It is another sword. A magical one.”

“You believe in magic?” Annja countered.

“I believe what I saw when I watched you in the file room on the security cameras. You wielded a fine sword, Annja Creed. And you produced it from thin air. Where is it? Bring it out of wherever it is you keep it. I want to see it.”

She remained silent. Alert. Ready.

“I know something about you,” he said in a singsongy tone. “Your Monsieur Roux wasn’t quite so careful as he should have been.”

Roux had come here? What was the old man up to now? She didn’t like what that implied.

“I’ve done my research on your Roux and Joan,” he said. “I know, Annja, I know.”

Titles in this series:

Destiny

Solomon’s Jar

The Spider Stone

The Chosen

Forbidden City

The Lost Scrolls

God of Thunder

Secret of the Slaves

Warrior Spirit

Serpent’s Kiss

Provenance

The Soul Stealer

Gabriel’s Horn

The Golden Elephant

Swordsman’s Legacy

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michele Hauf for her contribution to this work.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Iowa, 1978

Jack and Toby Lambert had been inseparable until the day Toby collapsed after baseball practice. Twelve hours later in the hospital, Jack clung to his seven-year-old twin’s hand. Toby’s skin was a funny yellow color. He couldn’t speak, but his eyelids did flutter when Jack spoke.

Not far from the bed, behind a curtain, Jack heard a doctor announce to his parents that Toby’s liver had failed. He called it something like acute. Toby would need a transplant. Jack’s parents were instructed not to be too hopeful, for the waiting list was long, and there weren’t a lot of donors out there.

Pressing his face against the hard hospital mattress beside his brother’s prone body, Jack sobbed quietly. He didn’t want his parents to hear. They had enough to worry about.

He and Toby had planned a raid on Nasty Black George’s awful gang of four tonight. The entire neighborhood—boasting seven boys under the age of ten—regularly organized pirate raids and booty captures. Jack and Toby wore the monikers “Mad Bloody Jack” and “Evil Gentleman Tobias” proudly. No one stood in their way when they came a-pirating. Their plunder was piled high at the bottom of Evil Gentleman Tobias’s closet. Dirty Joe still fumed about his pillaged Atari.

If his parents had money, they could buy a new liver for Toby.

Jack knew that wasn’t possible. His mom had been putting on a skirt and jacket every morning before he and Toby left for school. She was looking for work, they both knew, because dad’s job was “cutting back the fat.” Whatever that meant.

“I’ll help you,” Jack whispered. His brother had not moved since his collapse. “Mad Bloody Jack will plunder a real treasure so we can buy you a new liver. I promise, Toby.”

M AD B LOODY J ACK KNEW just the landlubbing wreck of a ship to raid. Hidden in the tower at the center of the playground gym, he and Toby—er, Evil Gentleman Tobias—had kept a keen eye over the goings-on across the street from the city park using their plundered telescope.

The purple house with the gray shutters and wild hedges always kept its curtains pulled shut. The craziest stream of traffic steadily pulled up the driveway, and then away. Some visitors were there less than five minutes. Toby timed them on his Cap’n Crunch watch.

Pirate Silly Ned had once said his mother was always calling the cops on that LSD house. They did nasty things, and shouldn’t be in this neighborhood.

LSD was a drug. Jack had looked that up in the encyclopedia on the bottom shelf in his dad’s office. It made people see visions and act funny. And people paid a lot of money for it. It was also illegal.

Putting two and two together, Mad Bloody Jack decided where there was LSD, there had to be money.

He eyed the purple house through the telescope. The sun had risen an hour earlier. Jack should be in school. But he knew the purple house would be quiet until at least noon, so he had to act now. Toby’s life depended on it.

Skipping across the street, Mad Bloody Jack insinuated himself behind the freestanding purple garage, which was where he’d seen most of the visitors go when they stopped. Tramping a patch of dandelions, he pressed his body flat against the wall. A good pirate should practice stealth—he’d learned that word from last week’s spelling test. The window on this side of the garage was blocked with black paper. He checked and saw it was the same on the other side.

A thick steel padlock secured the door, but the wood was old and warped. Mad Bloody Jack was able to slide a finger under the crack at the bottom. And there, under some kind of rug, he felt something cold and metal.

A key.

“I DON’T KNOW where he could have gotten this….” Jack’s mother choked on her astonishment and clung even tighter to her husband’s arm.

Her son had dumped out a pillowcase on the floor in the bathroom attached to Toby’s hospital room. “Plunder,” he’d muttered, and then had gaily announced the family now had enough money to buy Toby a new liver. He dashed to his brother’s side.

Jack’s father toed the pile of rubber-banded bills. Hundred-dollar bills. “There must be tens of thousands here.”

“We can’t—”

“Of course not. I’ll ring the police,” he said and instructed his wife to remain in the bathroom and keep an eye on the money.

A PIRATE NEVER GAVE UP the location of his best plunder. Never. But when two police officers escorted Jack’s mother from the hospital room where they’d been questioning Jack and his father, Mad Bloody Jack became irate.

“Don’t touch my mother!” he shouted.

“They’re not going to hurt her, Jack,” his father reassured. “Though I don’t know where they’re taking her. You have to tell us where you got the money. Please, Jack, to keep your mother safe.”

In a rush of fear and utter exhaustion, Mad Bloody Jack gave the details of his raid. He didn’t take it all. There had been too much to carry. Now would they please let his mother go and get to ordering that new liver for his brother?

Toby died three days later. The police had confiscated the money. Jack had been inconsolable. He’d done it. He had found a means to save his brother’s life. And the adults—they’d done nothing! What was wrong with them? Didn’t they want to save Toby?

“It was never that simple,” his father said. Keith Lambert’s face was drawn and his sigh chilled across Jack’s shoulders.

1

France, present day

Ascher Vallois unlocked the trunk of his car. The hydraulics squeaked as the trunk yawned open. He was ready for a new car, but given the finances, the ten-year-old Renault Clio would have to serve.

He set a practice épée and mask onto the trunk bed. Tearing the Velcro shoulder seams open on his jacket, he then tugged that off.

Wednesday afternoons demanded he wear the leather-fronted plastron. The teenage students he taught were overly confident about their lunges. Actually, they thought themselves indestructible. They didn’t give consideration to their teacher’s destructibility. That was why he also wore a full mask. The scar on his jaw had been a lesson to ensure he wore complete protection around kids at all times.

Tomorrow he planned to bring his collection of instructional videos to the studio. The students could learn the importance of a well-designed weapon from watching a master forge a blade. As well, there was much to be gained from watching fencing masters in competition.

Ultimately, he wanted to have a camera set up in the studio so he could record students, and then play back their practice matches for them to study. The best way to learn was by observing your own bad habits and then correcting them.

All things in good time, he told himself. And if his latest expedition proved successful, the aluminum fencing piste he’d been dreaming about could become reality. It was wireless, which would be more practical for movement and scorekeeping, considering he hadn’t the cash to hire an assistant.

He slammed the trunk shut. It was well past sunset, yet a rosy ambiance painted the horizon, reminding him of a woman’s blush. An autumn breeze tickled the perspiration at the back of his neck, drying his sweaty hair.

The noise of traffic from the main shopping stretch had settled. Sens had relaxed and let out its belt. The citizens of the French city were inside restaurants chattering over roasted fowl and a bottle of wine, or at home watching the nightly news or shouting at the quiz shows.

Shoving a hand in his pants pocket, Ascher mined for his keys, but paused. A tilt of his head focused his hearing behind him and to the left.

He was not alone.

Swinging a peripheral scan, he paused only a quarter of the way through his surroundings.

Standing at the front left corner of the Clio, a tall thin man with choppy brown-and-blond hair rapped his knuckles once upon the rusted hood of the vehicle. A silver ring glinted, catching the subtle glow from an ornamental streetlight up the street. Small bold eyes smiled before the man’s mouth did.

Ascher felt the salute in that look. A call to duel. The foil had been raised with a mere look. He stood in line of attack.

From where had the man come? This narrow street was normally quiet, save for the business owners who parked in the reserved spaces where Ascher now stood.

Suddenly aware that others had moved in behind him, Ascher stiffened his shoulders but kept his arms loose, ready. He jangled his keys. A tilt of his head, left then right, loosened his tensing muscles.

The air felt menacing, heavy, as if he could take a bite out of it.

The smiling man offered a casual “Bonsoir.”

Wary, yet not so foolish as to leap into a fight—this may be nothing more than a man asking directions—Ascher offered a lift of his chin in acknowledgment.

“Mr. Vallois, I am a friend,” the man offered.

His French accent wasn’t native, and he looked more Anglo than European, Ascher thought. A dark gray suit fit impeccably upon a sinewy frame. Probably British, he assumed from the slim silhouette of the man’s clothing.

He knew his name? Caution could be a fencer’s downfall. Confidence and awareness must remain at the fore.

“I have many friends,” Ascher said forcefully, lifting his shoulders. “I know them all upon sight. I do not know you.”

Sensing the potential threat level without moving his head to look, Ascher decided there were two men behind him. Bodyguards for the man standing before him?

Ascher eyed the practice épée through the window of the Clio. “Are these gentlemen behind me my friends, as well?”

“You amuse me, Mr. Vallois. And yes, if you wish it, they can be your very best friends. More preferable than enemies, wouldn’t you say?”

What the hell was going on? He’d been keeping his nose clean. In fact, the past few years Ascher had gone out of his way to remain inconspicuous. There was nothing like a run-in with the East Indian mafia over rights to claimed treasure to cool a man’s jets.

“Jacques Lambert.” The man thrust out a thin hand to shake—an advance that put him to lunge distance—but Ascher did not take the bait. This guy was not British. An American using a French name perhaps? “My business card claims me CEO of BHDC, a genetic-research lab in Paris. You have not heard of us.”

No need to verify that one. Ascher’s interests covered anything athletic, sporting or adventurous. Science? Not his bag. “Genetic research? I don’t understand,” Ascher said.

“It is a difficult field to get a mental grasp on,” Lambert replied. “But the beauty of it is that you don’t have to understand. Simple acceptance is required.”

“Sorry, I gave at the office.”

“I’m not on the shill, Vallois. In fact, I have an interest in financing your current dig.”

The dig? But he’d only that morning gathered a small crew of fellow archaeologists online. They weren’t set to convene in Chalon-sur-Saône for another two weeks.

Who had brought in this fellow without consulting him?

Ascher trusted the two men he had chosen to assist on the dig. Jay and Peyton Nash had accompanied him before. They were his age, far more knowledgeable in archaeology than him, and also enjoyed a challenging mountain bike course, like the one they’d conquered in Scotland’s Tweed Valley.

Although…he’d recruited another. A woman. He did not know her beyond what he’d learned while chatting with her online. And admittedly, knowledge of her character had been not so important as her figure and those bewitching amber-green eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert, if you have been led to believe—”

The sudden heat of breath hissing down the back of his neck did not disturb Ascher so much as piss him off. He stood tall, not about to back down or cringe from the bully behind him.

If the trunk were still open…but it was not. The only weapon he had to hand was his ring of three keys and a rudimentary grasp of martial arts. He slipped the ignition key between his forefinger and middle finger, point out.

“I have been following your research online for months,” Lambert said. “Fascinating how you tracked the Fouquet journals in the Bibliothèque Nationale.”

Ascher thought about the days spent in the huge Paris library that he had genuinely enjoyed. “I haven’t posted that information publicly,” he said.

“Yes, I know. You made it very difficult, but once I tracked your conversations with the Nash brothers, I continued to follow them.”

So his friends hadn’t invited this man. Yet they had inadvertently lured an outsider.

“I’ve hired all the men required for the dig, I’m afraid.”

“You misunderstand, Vallois.” Lambert made eye contact with the thugs over Ascher’s shoulder. He went for the riposte, slipping something out of his suit coat’s inner pocket. It unrolled with a shake. Lambert then slid one hand into the surgical glove. “I—” he gave the glove a crisp snap “—have a keen interest in the sword.”

Ascher’s intuition screamed this was not the place he should be at this moment. Sometimes it was better to run, and risk injury, than to stick around and risk death. Fencing skills aside, now was the time to employ street smarts.

Ascher jabbed an elbow backward, catching one of the thugs in the ribs.

A meaty arm snaked about Ascher’s neck. A vicious squeeze choked off his cry of surprise. Levering his foot against the door of his car, he tried to push off the man, but his attacker leaned into the force, making escape impossible.

“No, no, mustn’t struggle,” Lambert said calmly, as if directing a child afraid of the dentist’s drill. He tugged the fingertip of one glove, snapping it smartly into place. “This is not what you might suspect.”

“I suspect everything,” Ascher hissed. “I know I do not like you—”

Chokehold released, Ascher’s arms were wrenched behind him and upward. His shoulder muscles were forced beyond their limit, and his deltoids stretched painfully. Bent forward, he intended to kick backward, but Lambert’s next move stopped him.

Further utilizing the dread calm of a looming dentist, Lambert withdrew a vial from inside his suit coat.

“The musketeer’s sword has been tops on my list of plunder for quite some time. I believe you have discovered the only possible resting place for the sword, Mr. Vallois.” Lambert tapped the finger-size vial against his wrist. There was something inside, white, stick-like. “Surprising, the conclusions you made about the location, but when I thought about it awhile, very believable. I wish you great success.”

“The sword is not for sale,” Ascher said.

“When one acquires plunder, sir, one does not pay for it. But I am willing to put forth something for your efforts. You will require cash to finance your dig.”

“Already taken care of.”

“Your check bounced at the bank. My guess? You should start seeing the overdrafts immediately. I know you are two months behind on rent for that little fencing salon around the corner. Pity. The children will be deprived of your witty yet charming teaching manner,” Lambert said.

Ascher grunted against the increasing force straining his muscles.

“As for that cottage you call a mansion out of town, I’ve made it my business to know your electricity will be shut off two days from now.” He bent close to Ascher’s face. “Allow me to ease your financial strain.”

“There is no amount you can offer for the sword.”

Ascher twisted. Two meaty hands held firmly. It was quite embarrassing how easily he’d been wrangled. As long as his aggressor held his arms back at such a painful angle, he could not escape.

“That sword is something I have searched for for years,” Ascher hissed. The gloved hand waggled its fingers before him. A disturbing threat. “I could not possibly put a monetary value to it—”

Suddenly pierced from behind, Ascher’s body clenched, his chest lifting and his body arching upward as his shoulders were wrenched further backward. He was impaled. Stuck like a pig. The pain was incredible, so much so that much as he wanted to scream, he could not put out a single breath.

A blade had entered his left kidney. The thug behind him shoved it to the hilt.

Lambert stood right before him now. An intelligent and greedy gaze followed Ascher’s gasps of pain. “Of course, it would be difficult to fix a price to so intriguing a find as the sword.”

Wincing, Ascher groaned low in his throat. He felt tears roll down his face. It was impossible to make a defensive move or push away his attacker. Barely able to stand, he battled against his fading consciousness by drawing in deep breaths through his nose.

“I wager you’ll hand over the sword for a kidney.” A snap of the rubber glove released a haze of cornstarch powder.

“I need only one!” Ascher defiantly managed to declare.

“Sure, a man can survive with one, but you won’t have that one forever.”

The other thug, who had been standing to the side, stepped forward. Ascher cried out as he took a punch to the right kidney. But, held carefully, his torso did not take the blow with another cringe. It seemed they wanted to ensure the knife remained firmly placed.

“Should you refuse to cooperate,” Lambert continued, “I shall return for the other. But know, I can give you a replacement in exchange for your cooperation.”

Feeling blackness toy with his consciousness, Ascher heard something crackle like plastic.

“Open his mouth.”

His mouth was wrenched open from the right by the one who had punched him.

Lambert stabbed something into his mouth and rubbed it inside Ascher’s cheek. “DNA evidence. I’ll take it back to the lab and immediately begin to grow your new kidney. Therapeutic cloning. Quite the marvel. Think of it as your new life insurance policy.”

The thug clapped Ascher’s jaw shut, and Ascher briefly saw Lambert deposit a white swab into the glass vial.

“What do you say, Vallois? Do we have a deal?”

“I…” He was losing it. Pain shot up and down his spine and spidered through his entire nervous system. He had never known such agony. He couldn’t think, let alone move.

“If you refuse, I’ll have Manny tug the knife from your back. Within twenty minutes, you’ll bleed out internally. You will be dead, Mr. Vallois.”

Death sounded much better than this torture, Ascher thought.

“But, keep the knife in place and accept the escort to casualty that I am willing to provide, and you’ll have a pleasant hospital stay, and be back in the field in, oh, ten days? Of course, the left kidney is a loss.” The plastic rattled before Ascher’s closed eyes. “What do you say?”

The man behind him tapped the blade shoved deep inside his body. Ascher yowled as the vibrations sent out new waves of shocking anguish.

“In or out?” Lambert asked. “The blade, that is.”

Feeling his body release the tense cringe and fall forward, Ascher chased the darkness. Passing out would stop the pain. And so would his compliance.

“In,” he muttered, and then the world stopped.

2

Court of Loius XIV

Seventeenth century

“History shall revere Charles de Castelmore d’Artagnan.”

Queen Anne nodded to Charles, who stood in full regalia—musket and bandolier spread across his black coat trimmed in gold. A red plume dusted the air above his right brow, and his boots were polished to a shine to rival the mirrors in Versailles.

To the queen’s right, a liveried foot guard stepped up, proffering a red velvet pillow with a sword laid upon it.

Containing his excitement, Charles drew in a breath and maintained a solemn expression.

The queen took the sword by the gold hilt and held it before her, seeming to look it over, but moreover, displaying it to all who had congregated in the king’s private chapel to celebrate one of Louis XIV’s musketeers. She handled the weapon with skill, though d’Artagnan doubted she’d had occasion to use the weapon.

“For bravery and valor,” Queen Anne recited in a regal yet quiet voice, which was her manner. “For honor among all men. And for all that you have done for your king and queen. You serve our country well, musketeer.”

She presented the sword to Charles, blade extended horizontally to the right. The hilt sparkled. A bit of damascening curled up near the ricasso of the blade. It was a rapier, and quite ornate. No simple sword for this simple man.

Head still bowed, Charles held open his hands to receive the gift. It wasn’t coin—which he could much use over another sword, especially one so decorative. But the gold on the hilt should fetch a year’s meals, and perhaps even outfit the ranks with the grenades Grosjean had demonstrated at Lille a fortnight earlier. They exploded on contact with the ground. What Charles wouldn’t do to put his hands to those marvelous weapons.

The rapier landed on his palms. It was well weighted; he could determine that merely by holding it. It was likely fashioned by Hugues de Roche, the king’s sword maker, and a most sought after craftsman.

This honor meant the world to Charles. To be publicly awarded this gift made him stand a full boot heel taller, and he felt his shoulders should never again slouch.