Fractured Earth Saga 1: Apocalypse Orphan (23 page)

A few minutes after Wolf set out on the walk back to the castle, Syn’s voice cautioned in his ear, “Commander, beware!” A twig snapped behind him, and he spun around, coming face to face with a band of about fifty ragged men. He sneered in disgust at the leader of the pack—it was Sylvaine the Templar.

The knight removed his helmet, revealing fiery red hair, sea-green eyes, and a pasty face, freckled and red. He had thick lips and appeared to have Irish blood was in his veins. He flashed an evil grin and said in a booming voice, “So, buffoon, we meet again! I told you I would have your life. Today I collect. You will die outside the old fool’s castle. We will chop you into pieces and throw them over the gate to your friends. But don’t be distressed—they will all join you soon in death.”

“Blah, blah, blah, you are a blowhard. Talking and talking. If you think you can kill me,” Wolf said, drawing a new Bowie knife, “Come on and try it.”

“Commander, are you all right?” Syn asked in his ear. “I sense over two hundred bio signatures closing in on you from all directions.”

“Two hundred? Am I clear towards the castle?”

“No, sixty men are approaching from that direction. Shall I come there? I can disperse them in seconds.”

“No, it’s better for them to attack me here and now. These men are ruffians and I don’t want them preying on the citizens of Waylan’s land. They are scum, foaming at the mouth and pulling their hair out as we speak. Let them find out how formidable I am. Maybe they will lose heart and run away. Stay put.”

“But, Commander—”

“Stay put, Syn.”

Wolf placed his backpack on the ground by the mountain entrance. He danced a few steps of a Hopi war dance, hearing the drum beat in his mind. He then screamed a war cry and charged at the men who drew back in surprise.

“Attack him, fools! Kill him!” Sylvaine barked.

The ruffians closed in on Wolf and then recoiled as he smashed into their midst. He swung his knife in a wide arc, slicing through flesh and sending two heads rolling onto the ground. He threw a punch with his left hand that pulped the face of another. Blood splattered everywhere as the men hacked at Wolf, stabbing with murderous intent, but their weapons couldn’t penetrate his rock-hard skin. Axes struck him in the head and thudded against his chest, but Wolf felt no pain. The hardest blows they landed felt like light rain sprinkling on him. He continued slashing at the ruffians, every strike delivering death to Sylvaine’s feeble army.

Wolf felt deep sorrow for the onrushing attackers as he systematically slaughtered them. Their eyes were glazed from the inebriating effects of the drynox. Some dropped to the ground, gnashing their teeth into the flesh of their own fallen comrades, consuming them in an orgy of madness. None of the men uttered coherent words indicative of human intelligence—they gibbered, howled, grunted, growled, and kept coming.

Wolf had cut down thirty men when he saw King Waylan emerge from the mountain entrance, leading a band of his knights. The old King held a mighty sword and swung it like a schoolmaster’s switch, slaying five of Sylvaine’s men and injuring three others in the first few minutes of the fight. He fought to Wolf’s side and together they forced Sylvaine’s army into retreat. Spears flew all over the field. Several hit Wolf in the chest and face, and the men who threw them cursed as the spears deflected harmlessly off his body. His clothes were shredded, and he was splattered with blood as he and the king fought through wave after wave of ruffians, drawing closer to the Templar Sylvaine.

“Ass, your luck will run out soon enough. My master comes with many men. We will kill you yet. You chose the wrong friends in this fight, you freak,” Sylvaine hissed as he melted into the trees, leaving his men dead or dying on the battlefield.

King Waylan gazed at Wolf with admiration. “You fight like a champion. I saw blows land and not bite upon your body. It is true—you are the Warrior of Legend! I thank Jesu I am witness to it.”

Wolf looked around at Waylan’s men who were gazing at him in awe, many with hero-worshipping expressions. Meeting the king’s steady gaze, he answered, “I am no Warrior of Legend. I am just a lonely man. Please do not force me to be the pawn of prophecy you seek. I will help you in your war, but I am no savior.”

“Spoken like a prince, but we have little to celebrate. Indulge us. I ask as a friend, let us at least give you your due for winning two battles.”

“How did you know I was under attack?” Wolf asked, changing the subject.

“We didn’t know you were out here. Our scouts reported a gathering of our enemies at the foothills. We were going to hit them and retreat up the crevasse. We had no idea we would destroy them. Your presence here has done wonders. Jonar may not be too sure of himself now. He has lost two battles he believed he would win,” the king said, feeling ecstatic over the turn of events.

Wolf turned just in time to see Sylvaine hurl a massive spear at Waylan’s back. He jumped the three feet that separated him from the king and intercepted the spear, which slammed into his chest. It sounded like someone had thrown a brick against a wall. The spear’s iron blade bent to the side, and the weapon dropped harmlessly to the ground. The king spun around, and when he realized Wolf had saved his life, he earnestly said, “Again, I thank you.” Reaching down, he picked up the spear and examined the bent point. “You are the legendary warrior. Someday you will see this truth,” the king declared. Turning to his sergeants, he ordered, “Burn these bodies, and then return our dead and injured to the castle. Come, Wolf.”

Waylan set out towards the crevasse as Wolf retrieved his backpack. He glanced inside and saw that everything was still in place. He wiped the blood off his knife on a rag torn from his jumpsuit and followed the king up the defile towards the castle.

Syn hovered just above the battlefield, dressed in a Lara Croft look-alike outfit. Her creator had been an avid fan of the movie
Tomb Raider
. Syn’s hair was tied in a single braid that dropped to her waist, and she wore round-lensed sunglasses. A tight-fitting, tan, spandex shirt left her flat abdomen bare, and she wore dark brown short-shorts with a gun belt strapped to her hips. The belt was fitted with two holsters holding twin .44 magnums that shot laser projectiles. To complete the outfit, calf-high, black leather boots wrapped around her shapely lower legs.

Syn had opened all the weapons hatches on the ship. If the craft had been visible, the men on the field would have fled in terror. The ship’s four chain guns were locked on where Sylvaine had been standing when he threw the spear at Waylan’s back. She had almost let the guns bark when Sylvaine appeared—she wanted to cut the man to shreds. She was breathing fast, and anger was riding her hard like a bird riding the winds of a hurricane. Syn was tempted to unleash the ship’s fury on Jonar, destroying everyone in his land because his men had the sheer audacity to try to harm her beloved Wolf. Instead, she reluctantly closed the ports and returned the ship to its rocky perch. She went back to the hangar bay to resume working on Wolf’s surprise.

* * *

When Wolf and the king arrived back at the castle, they went straight to the baths. As they soaked in the hot, relaxing water, he and Waylan talked. Wolf had discovered that the king was not as feeble as everyone thought he was. The monarch was in his early seventies, but his body showed a remarkable amount of muscle. He confided to Wolf that the only thing bothering him was his left knee. Wolf glanced down and saw that the knee was swollen. He knew he could operate and fix it, but he decided to wait until another time to mention it. Waylan was a good man, and Wolf decided that he liked him.

A short time later, they met in the dining hall. Dinner was being served and the battle’s details retold. The men gathered in the hall looked proud and kept staring at Wolf, who shifted uncomfortably. He had never been a vain man. Even in his college athletic days, he had avoided the spotlight, retreating into the locker room after a victorious game to evade the throngs of reporters and cameras. The applause from Waylan’s men made him blush.

“Well, my lord, I see you have made the day festive again, showing your great might to the enemy,” a lilting woman’s voice purred. Jhondra strolled to Wolf’s side and grabbed his arm, saying, “Come dance with me.”

Music was playing and the king’s guests were doing a peculiar dance that appeared to be a cross between an American waltz and the Tango. Wolf politely declined, but Jhondra tugged on his arm. He worried that he would hurt the girl if he tried to dislodge her, so he allowed her to pull him to the dance floor.

Wolf led Jhondra in the Landler, a folk dance that had been popular in Austria at the end of the eighteenth century. He had no idea he even knew it and wondered for a moment whether it had been subliminally implanted. The dance was beautiful, and the king’s guests stopped to watch the couple’s graceful steps. Jhondra fell into rhythm as they performed the intricate footwork, and she somehow fabricated the fluid movements she did not know. They finished the dance with Wolf going to a knee in front of her and kissing her hand. The crowd went wild, and the court musicians ran to Wolf’s side, begging him to dance the waltz again. He declined but promised to do so another time.

Jhondra’s fair skin was flushed red, and she was breathing hard as she gazed at Wolf. She had decided that she wanted this bold warrior, and her young mind was running fast, devising a plan to capture him.

“You are going to be mine, sir. You just don’t know it yet,” Jhondra whispered, but Syn heard her and hissed in Wolf’s ear, “We’ll see about that, hussy!” She had watched the dance through the window as the ship hovered nearby. “You better watch that little girl, Wolf. I do not like her at all.”

Placing a hand over his mouth, Wolf coughed loudly and then whispered into his hand, “What are you talking about, Syn? I danced with her, that’s all.”

“That girl has marriage on her mind. No one, and I mean
no one
, is marrying you. Do you understand?” Syn spoke with so much steel in her voice that Wolf’s head whipped towards the window.

“Yes, Syn. Relax,” Wolf answered, realizing that he would have to watch young Jhondra. The girl’s intentions were obvious, and Wolf knew he might be in for a rough time.

After he had seated Jhondra and himself at the table, King Waylan asked about the dance. Wolf explained it was an ancient dance from his land. He promised to teach it some other night, but people were already on the dance floor mimicking what they had seen.

“Sire, where is Randelf? I have something I want to present to the two of you,” Wolf told the king.

Waylan summoned a page and ordered, “Fetch the priest!” Then he turned back to Wolf. As Jhondra stood and walked from the room, he grinned and remarked, “She is a fine young woman, is she not?”

“Who?”

“Why, Jhondra, of course.”

Wolf saw the glint in the old king’s eye and held up a hand, saying, “Sire, we have urgent matters before we can even think about that. But more important, I am not available. I have many things to accomplish before I take a wife.”

“Wolf, you’re going to get it!” Syn yelled into the earpiece. “Tell them to stop playing matchmaker with you!”

“It’s just a thought, my friend. We shall see what the future holds,” Waylan grinned.

At that moment, Randelf walked in and hurried to the king, saying, “Sire, I came as soon as you called me. How may I assist you?”

“My friend Wolf says he has something he wishes to present to us.”

Turning to Wolf, the priest asked, “How may I serve you?”

“I have brought you a precious item. I am not sure whether any other like it exists on the planet. The origin of this book dates back many thousands of years. I noticed when you blessed the food the other day a similarity to this book. It was the greatest book ever written. Great wars were fought and many men died over the words in its pages. This is much more valuable than gold,” Wolf said, pushing back from the table and reaching into his backpack. He pulled out the Bible and handed it to Randelf, who accepted it with shaking hands.

As the priest stared at the cover, tears ran from his eyes. He looked to Waylan and asked, “Sire, do you know what this is?” Not waiting for an answer, he explained, “This book is the Holy Grail we have searched for during these many years.” The priest examined the writing on the front and traced his fingers in the words. He looked at the pictures and asked Wolf, “Who is this man on the front and what are these things around him?”

“The beautiful people with wings are God’s angels. The man sitting on the throne in the clouds is Jesus Christ. I noticed when you pray you say
Jesu
. I assume that, over the centuries, his name came to be mispronounced. This book tells the story of our Lord and his rise and death. The first half of the book tells the story of man’s journey to find God. The second half tells the story of man’s life and how you will find everlasting life at the right hand of God.”

Waylan had been looking at the figures on the front and at the pictures inside the book, and he said, “Wolf, this is magnificent. How did you get this?”

“Sire, it was given to me by someone I hold in high regard, and I present it to you for allowing me to share your hearth and home. It is God’s holy book, and without his laws, no one can enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“Thank you, Wolf. This is the greatest gift our kingdom has ever received,” Waylan said. “Your arrival here assures me that my land and my people will live on after me. You have given me much, and I have rewarded you with little. Please, tell me what you want.”