Authors: Alex Archer
Granada, Spain, 1430
Garin glanced over his shoulder toward the distant Alhambra Palace. It sat like a jewel perched atop the red hills. The setting sun glinted across the palace, catching glass and metal in a twinkle.
“No time for dawdle, apprentice.”
Roux reined his mount near Garin’s and nodded north. They’d crossed the Darro River an hour earlier. It was a fine time for dawdling. The night moved upon them with a surprising chill. The goshawk circling above had left them for her nest, no doubt to settle for the night.
Exhausted from the journey, Garin was ready to make camp. Ahead, a grove of trees edged a field of some crop he couldn’t guess at, perhaps wheat. The trees would provide shelter for camp.
“We will rest soon?” he wondered, but expected the answer.
“No.”
His master reined closer and Garin could see the old man’s pale irises. “Listen,” Roux said.
To what? The sound of his belly grumbling for lacking food?
Dropping his tight hold on the reins allowed the horse freedom to graze. Garin tilted his head, eyeing Roux as he listened. The old man held his gaze fiercely.
The rustle of leaves tempted. Almond trees, thick with white blossoms. Could a man eat the nut straight from the tree?
Yet there, yes, he heard something. Rather, he felt vibrations touch his bones with a wicked warning.
Garin pulled rein. His unspoken fear was met with a nod from Roux.
“They’ve been following since Granada,” Roux said. “Six or more, I’m sure.”
Now the horses picked up the vibrations and lifted their heads. Ears twitched. They walked, heads bobbing, ready to gallop. Garin let his mount follow Roux’s lead as he heeled his to action.
“Why?” Garin called, as their meander into the night became a blood-racing gallop.
“I may have something they want,” Roux called back. “Head for the trees. We can use them as defense.”
Defense. Garin shook his head. “Here we go again.”
The old man did have a manner to him. He attracted a skirmish no matter where he traveled. It was good training for Garin, and he never minded a chase followed by the clash of swords.
W
IELDING LEATHER SHIELDS
and helmets, six warriors entered the grove of almond trees full speed. Swords to the ready, they were quiet, no voices heard amidst the thunder of hooves.
“Moors,” Roux whispered to Garin. “From the palace. Must be de Castaña’s guards.”
“The alchemist? Why would he send men after us? Did you not pay for the dagger?”
“Oh, indeed.” Roux patted his hip where he’d sheathed the kris dagger.
He jumped from his mount—ridiculous to do so when the warriors were so close. Opening a flap on the saddlebag Roux dipped in his hand.
“I may have forgotten to pay for this, though.”
He drew out the small skull Garin had marveled over in the alchemist’s lab. A wink from Roux seemed ridiculous, yet Garin could only laugh. His master wasn’t one to take no for an answer. If the alchemist had refused to sell the skull, well, then.
“Will it be worth it—” Garin drew out his saber “—when our heads are on the ground separated from our bodies?”
“There’s but six of them, boy.”
Indeed. Those were good odds.
Heeling his mount, Garin charged the vanguard. The first slash of his saber cut across the lead rider’s face. Hot blood spattered Garin’s wool cloak and chin. He swung low and right, sliding his back along the horse’s flank to avoid the swing of a curved saber. His forehead skimmed the bark of an almond tree. Better that than the cut of a blade.
Night had fallen and navigating the grove was tricky. Garin let his rouncey take the ground where it wished. He had only to direct it toward the cavalcade.
A Moor’s saber cut down his mount’s neck. Slashing his blade, Garin cut off a hand. The horse’s withers tensed. Garin sensed it would rear and try to shed him. So he jumped down and put his back to a narrow tree trunk.
Listening, Garin tried to locate Roux. What was the old man up to? Huddled in some tree trunk caressing his prize?
No, the guttural cry of triumph told him Roux had taken down a rider. He may be getting on in age, but his master loved a fight as much as he.
The horse’s tail snapped his cheek as if an iron-tipped whip. Garin dodged to avoid a hoof and swung around with a wide lunge toward the rider gaining him. His blade cut across the leather shield.
Swinging his shoulders, Garin used his free hand and hooked it in a stirrup. A tug mastered the rider’s equilibrium. He was tossed from the saddle and, flying over Garin’s head, landed on the hard red dirt with a yelp.
“Behind me, boy!”
Stabbing quickly, Garin pushed his blade into the fallen Moor’s chest. It passed through mail and bone. Blood scent imbued the air. Then he ran toward Roux’s voice. The air thundered. No, that was the ground.
More warriors. Dozens entered the grove. Hooting cries and slashes of blade littered the darkness. The soft touch of white almond blossom petals rained upon Garin’s skin.
“So many?” Garin said as he crashed against Roux’s side. Back to back, they held position in the night. “For a skull?”
“Time to see if it will give us the good things it promises.”
He had no idea what the old man babbled about. Garin swung and caught a rider across the shoulder. The taste of blood was vile.
“Back toward the tree,” Roux directed. “And stay behind me.”
Stumbling over a fallen body, Garin wasn’t willing to put himself in a position to be surrounded by the enemy. But Roux had never led him astray without then either teaching him a means to overcome, or outright crashing their way through, the melee.
He was still alive after a dozen years with the man. He trusted he had a good dozen more at the very least. This would not be his night to die.
Garin’s shoulder bruised against the tree. The scent of sweet almond oil stirred amongst the froth of heated horseflesh and dust.
“Give us good things,” Roux recited.
He held the skull before him with both hands, high and as if an offering to the moon.
A thump within his heart unsteadied Garin on his feet. Or had it been a physical movement beneath him? The earth had pulsed. Men cried out. Horses whinnied and hooves trampled the ground.
Almond blossoms were unleashed from their tethers in a storm.
Amidst a swirl of petals the melee was put back. Riders fell from their mounts and landed on the ground, arms splayed. As if cut through the heart, their chests opened wide. Blood gurgled up. The ground grew muddy from human blood. They did not rise and advance upon Roux and Garin.
Gaping, Garin clung to the tree trunk.
It was as though some unseen force had blasted through the air and killed them all at once. What supernatural force had been unleashed? He whispered a prayer to his God.
Another pulse blew the trees bare of blossoms. Garin clutched Roux’s shoulders, but found he was neither toppled nor injured.
“What is it? How is this happening?”
“I would call that good,” Roux said. He slapped a hand on the skull’s top. “This marvel just killed all our enemies.”
“It is evil,” Garin gasped. Blood rushed through his veins. The old man was surely the wizard rumors claimed him to be.
“Evil it may be, but it saved our sorry asses.”
Roux strode past the bodies toward his Andalusian. He did not seem to take measure of the startling event that had just occurred. Mounting and tucking the skull at his hip, he nodded to a warrior’s horse that had not been stripped of flesh or fled.
“You’ve been wanting a new mount, boy.”
A guttural sound warbled from Garin’s mouth. Numbly, he grabbed the reins of a Moor’s mount.
“Good things?” he muttered. “God in heaven, forgive and watch over me.”
T
HEY MADE
M
EDINA
Sidonia by sunrise. Garin could not think of sleep, for the itchy dust crowded his eyes, nostrils and the back of his throat. He’d yet to take his gaze from the skull Roux held as if a child. Nestled at his hip, the white bone taunted.
It had power. A power that frightened Garin. He’d seen wonders since Roux had taken him as an apprentice. Babies birthed and giants of men fallen. Dying men cured with magic potions, and there was the man in London whose heart was exposed for all to see. Garin had seen a live heart beating.
Last night had put all those wonders to shame.
They cantered toward the village, which was just waking to the new day. Ahead were women busy at a stone well with their wash.
Forget about the battle in the grove.
They would find food and rest and be on to France with no more discussion of the skull.
The truth was, he wanted Roux to be rid of the thing. The occult scared him.
A young boy, no higher than a grown man’s hip, rushed out from a stone home and toward Roux. Arms wide and eyes bright, he could not know the approaching rider. Such childish innocence. It gave Garin a smile.
The boy was lifted from his feet and flung through the air. His frail body collided with the red tile roof and slid. The tiles clattered sickly. The body dropped to the ground with a thud.
Dead.
Garin heeled his mount to parallel his master. “What have you done? It is that damned thing!”
“I did not—” Shaken, Roux inspected the skull. “It was not my doing!”
“The boy is dead! By supernatural means. Be rid of the thing!”
Roux turned the eye sockets away and lifted it high.
The women gathered around the well stood and screamed.
“Put it away!” Garin cried. “Destroy it!”
Blood streamed across white fabric, spilling from ears and eyes. The women clutched at their hair and stumbled. Wash buckets overturned, washing the flowing blood into runnels of dirt.
“Turn it away from them!” Garin shouted.
But the old man was too shocked to understand what was happening. The skull was destroying more than their enemies. It was taking away life in an attempt to clear their paths.
A
NNJA BREATHED OUT
. The room, very still, felt heavy with an ineffable pain. Garin’s regret. His fear of the skull. Roux’s naïveté of its power.
“It murders?” she asked.
“It does not seem to discern murder as wrong. It gives the holder what it believes to be good. Putting back our enemies. Clearing a path through the village for us to pass.”
“What did you do with the skull? How did you stop it?”
“Roux tried to crush it under his boot. It was as if forged from steel. Finally, I had him throw it down the well. It was too late for the laundresses. And half a dozen strong men who rushed to stop us.”
“What did the villagers do to you?”
“We didn’t stick around for the fireworks. While the village frenzied and wondered at what had happened, we fled.”
Garin stroked his goatee, his gaze lost somewhere out the window on the dreary New York skyline.
It occurred to Annja that a man who lived five centuries must pay a price no mortal man could conceive. Sure, there were riches and supernatural healing and all the travel and parties. But a darkness she had but glimpsed accompanied both Roux and Garin.
It softened her to his hardened exterior. A man like Garin had to wear some kind of protection against the world. But she wondered if he wore the same protection around his heart and mind? It would be impossible not to.
“I’m no saint, Annja.”
That she knew.
“So in the hands of a necromancer,” she said, “the skull could do some wicked damage.”
“I don’t want to begin to imagine. We need to get that skull.”
“I’ll give Professor Danzinger a call.”
Eric Danzinger liked spending late hours at the university. The desk lamp tossed gold light across the granite lab tables as if splashed out from a miner’s pan. Hundreds of skulls observed from shelves. The
tick-tick
of the radiator kept a syncopated beat that reminded of a slow jazz tune. A man just didn’t get atmosphere like this in his stuffy little Bronx apartment. It was also neater than his home, which was covered wall-to-wall with rock-and-roll memorabilia.
Humming a Rolling Stones tune, he sorted through the guitar strings coiled upon the granite lab table for the high E string. Threading the clear nylon string through the baseboard, he formed a nifty twist to keep it secure, then stretched it along the neck to poke through the tuning peg. He twisted it tight, then leaned aside to tap the computer keyboard.
Freaky Tuner was a shareware program that played notes to tune virtually any instrument. One tap of the return key played a steady acoustic guitar E note. He twisted the tuning peg, and plucked the string until the vibrations wavered to nothing and the notes matched.
The B string was next. He went through the same motions, smiling bemusedly at the skull upon the stuffing in the little box Annja had delivered it in. It seemed to approve of the musical break he’d decided to indulge.
“Wonder what kind of music you listened to. I bet if you had ears, you’d bow in worship to Keith Richards, too.”
On the other hand, it was an infant’s skull. Best save the rock and roll a few more years.
The professor had taken dozens of photographs of the skull’s interior. The computer was cobbling them all together as he waited. The program amazed him as to how it could piece photos together without overlapping. The interior map was about fifty percent complete.
The gold lining the skull sutures sparkled after a soft polishing with a little water, some ammonia and dishwashing soap.
Though he couldn’t guess at the original date without proper dating equipment, he did have a good idea that the gold had been added later. Certainly the thing hadn’t been born that way. It was very common to find altered artifacts, especially those of unknown origin.
Skull modification wasn’t his thing. Though he was aware it had been prevalent in early Mayan cultures. He should give Sharon in Anthropology a jingle and see what she could make of the skull. The woman got more turned on by bones than sex. Not that he hadn’t tried to alter her perceptions regarding a night well spent. Man, had he tried.
He tightened the B string, wondering if it was too late to call Annja to come take a look at the interior map. A woman like her probably had an insane schedule. Darting from dig to dig, hosting a television show, writing books and appearing on
Letterman.
Yeah, he’d like it if she could find a place for him to at least guest as a researcher on the show. He didn’t mind the spotlight at all. And if it meant he could meet Kristie Chatham, well, then.
It was almost ten. Annja was likely still awake, but he’d wait until morning. The music wanted his attention.
H
IS RUBBER-SOLED RUNNING
shoes made no sound on the old tiled floor in Schermerhorn Hall. It was dark, save for a few lights toward the end of the hall, two coming from consecutive doorways, another across the hall from the first.
Ravenscroft’s orders had been clear. He’d likely find this strange skull in the anthropology building. He’d found a name of a teacher associated with the TV chick and had tracked his teaching schedule.
The building should be empty of students as well as professors, especially with the holiday weekend. But Jones had been given the all-clear to take matters into hand should he run into anyone wanting to ask questions.
Sliding his leather-gloved fingers inside his jacket, Jones drew them the length of the knife tucked inside a narrow pocket.
As each step drew him closer to the lighted rooms, he got a sense for the one on the left. Just a feeling. Must be like that intuition his girlfriend was always yapping about.
Stopping at the first door on the left, he read the syllabus taped outside on the wall. It was signed by Professor Danzinger. Bingo.
He knocked lightly. The door, not completely closed, swung inward.
“Professor Danzinger?”
He entered the quiet room. A bright lamp beamed over a lab table. A computer, textbooks and various tools and papers scattered messily across the stretch.
And a skull. Sitting there on an open box with tufts of wool cradling the small cranium.
Ravenscroft had said he might need to mention a woman’s name. “I was given your name by Annja Creed.”
“Yes, Miss Creed.” The professor removed his glasses and set them on the countertop. An acoustic guitar lay on the table before him, the neck propped by a textbook, one unwound string coiled at the base by the sound hole. “And you are?”
“Jones,” he offered. “Bill Jones. I’m a colleague of Miss Creed’s. I see you’ve got the skull. Annja and I are eager to learn what you’ve discovered about it.”
“Yes, well, the interior mapping isn’t finished. As for the date…” He leaned over the skull and tapped the thin gold tracing around one eye socket. “I’d give it a good millennium. Perhaps. I’m no expert, more a fascinated learner.”
“That’s intriguing.” Jones moved to the professor’s side. When the man straightened and looked him over, he placed a gentle palm to his shoulder. “Looks like just another skull. What’s so special about this one?”
He felt the man’s muscles tighten under his testing touch. “How did you say you know Annja? She didn’t mention—”
“I’m surprised she didn’t mention me, but then Annja is always so busy.”
“Yes, with her show.”
Show? Jones filed that one away. “I’ll bring it back to her.”
“But I said I’m not finished yet. Maybe I should give Annja a call?”
“Sure, certainly. You play, Professor?”
Jones stroked the guitar neck. Three strings were strung.
“Since I was a boy. You like guitar music?” Danzinger asked.
Jones picked up one of the thicker, bronze-wrapped strings and unwound it curiously. “Music is not one of my talents.”
“You don’t need to be able to play to appreciate. I’ve got a phone in the office. If you’ll give me a minute—”
Fitting his arms over the man’s head and tugging the guitar string, Jones choked off the man’s protest. The wire dug into flesh. He pulled hard, sawing it slightly until he smelled blood.
As he felt the man’s weight sag, Jones decided he couldn’t wait. Taking the professor’s head between his palms, he gave it a smart jerk, separating the spinal disks. The spinal cord severed, the body slumped and dropped.
Jones stepped back, dragging his feet from under the professor’s sprawled limbs. He dropped the bloody string across his chest. Leather pants and a shimmery leopard-print shirt? What kind of professor dresses like an aging rock star?
Dismissing the thought, Jones bent forward, bringing himself eye level with the skull.
“Kinda ugly, if you ask me. The thing’s cranium is bigger than its face. Must be deformed. But is that gold?”
He grabbed the skull, and when it wouldn’t fit inside his pocket, he tucked it in the box filled with wooly stuff.