Chapter XVII: Of Wolves and Lions
October 28, 1582
Renault took a second to check behind him before turning back to the mob that had quickly formed in front of him. He had taken the time to formulate some kind of escape. The room itself was a rather large rectangular structure probably near the very heart of the large labyrinth beneath that city of Mecca. There were four corridors on each of the longer sides but only single corridors at the narrower walls. He could still hear the loud bang of strange gunshots from one of the many corridors on his right.
He deduced that their barracks must be in one of the left corridors since that was where the majority of reinforcements were beginning to pour in. The only choices he had left were either to break through the mob and head to the corridor on the narrow end ahead of him or to the unattended corridor directly behind him, but which way would lead him to the Timepiece?
As the screams followed the unruly cracks of metal against flesh, more of the maze’s inhabitants seemed to be rushing to the corridors to the right to be met only with a single flash of light before their existence was epilogued by a sanguinary scream.
Renault breathed heavily although he could not hear it. His ears were deafened by the staccato brewing elsewhere in that labyrinth as it slowly approached that central room. Gunpowder and burnt flesh seemed to seep into the chamber and overtake the once earthy musk of the bosom of the dirt.
As he slowly backed away, Renault still held onto his rosary, carefully smoothing one side of a bead with his thumb. The repetitive movement reminded him that despite the chafing atmosphere of the dust filled chamber, there was always an underlying softness. The bead was a reminder of the peace and abandon that his Faith provided him. He would live or die attempting to do what was good, he thought, and there was no greater courage for a man than when he must protect those he loves, even at the cost of his life.
Amongst all his other senses that brought about different sensations and different feelings, it was his eyesight that was most keen at that very moment. His pupils studiously followed the movements of the guards cautiously approaching him and at times he would gaze upon the reddened face of the deep voiced adversary. His initial blow with his forehead had gashed the other’s brow into a reluctant outlet for blood.
Despite the tense movement of the guards, he could sense their apprehension at the danger their comrades were facing behind them at the other doorways. There would be terse reports coming in from various couriers to the central room indicating the progress of strange looking men approaching the chamber.
Even in the locking of eyes, the poor guardian of the labyrinth faltered and betrayed himself. For a second, Renault noticed, the eyes of the guardian wandered to look over Renault’s shoulder. He was worried about the unprotected corridor.
With that knowledge in mind, Renault had the advantage, and now, as the spears approached him, he would wait for his chance.
The chance Renault was waiting for came in a familiar form. From one of the corridors, a plume of fire entered the main chamber and several of the guardsmen screamed out in terror as their bodies were consumed by the flames prompting all present to turn their heads at the sight. How could this be, they thought, the intruder had already destroyed their Mithra machine earlier!
From that smoked filled corridor piqued with blackness, a figure entered the main chamber. Holding a mechanism which only slightly resembled the pump they had used against Renault to blow naptha, this man seemed to perform the same trick of science by himself with no aid of slaves. There was no face to this man, merely a mask of what seemed like hardened steel and eyes which glowed a shade of sky when the sun set. Similar looking men seemed to file into the room behind this apparition of black. The myriad host of those guardians held around the penetrated corridor like a crescent facing a rising star.
Renault had not stayed long enough to witness the entrance of these wolves among men but had run towards the rear corridor as soon as the others’ heads were turned. In his flight, he saw nothing ahead of him but a faint glow of light hidden behind a bend and curve. Following these movements he stopped himself at last at the final room of that city underneath a city.
It was a simple structure he entered; it was a square like room with four exits—one of which he just entered from. In the center, however, was a raised dais. Quickly climbing the short staircase and stopping in front of the structure he noticed the intense glow of light emanating from a large square opening from above. It felt like sunlight, even off the reflection of the stone slab in front of him.
But the object of his gaze was not the impressive structure, but a perpetual darkness scattered across the table. Fragments hard and rugged decorated the mesa top and seemed to seethe against the intruding light by emphasizing their dark nature. In the center of these many pieces was the largest slab measuring perhaps the length of Renault’s forearm and had been cut, perhaps by the procurers of the meteorite, into a stone block of equal length width and height.
Renault’s hand passed to the center of these items and gently touched the smoothened sides of that black box. In time, he thought, this item would be encased in the familiar gold encrusted container with the symbol of the Holy Roman Emperor. But now, this ancient artifact would have to make it safely back to Madrid.
Before picking up that black square, he looked around himself making sure that no final booby traps would catch him off guard. He wasn’t sure what to expect next, perhaps a huge ball of rock chasing him down a tunnel? A gallery of snakes? He shook his head and almost laughed to himself as he surveyed the area—he’d been through worse than what he imagined.
Around him was nothing but the bareness of the room. Four tall poles as tall as the dais were raised at the corners of the structure sporting candles at the top end—no doubt, perhaps, to illuminate the artifacts when the diverted sunlight from above faded into moonlight. Indeed, he looked up at that strange source of radiance. Mirrors, he thought?
Satisfied with his deduction and eager to take his chances with one of the corridors, he lifted the item carefully from the table. The weight of the item itself was not particularly heavy at all and it carried like his long forgotten pack. Despite that, as soon as the item was lifted from the tabletop, a low rumbling was heard. Not again…
It was not water, this time, nor was it the opening of a gate to a fake fire deity. No, he had gone through the tests of water and fire, it was time for earth. The corridor leading back to the main room shut closed behind him and from the three exits remaining; a substance began to pour in quickly—quicksand.
Parts of the roof suddenly burst open and fell down upon the ascending moving earth and poured forth their own contribution of that deadly material; it rained down in several holes: that light brown effluvia of the desert.
As the mounds of moist dirt gently approached, Renault had very little time to formulate a plan, but unlike most individuals who would panic at the sight of such a certain doom, he understood this kind of dirt very well. Pulling the four candle poles up from the ascending sea of quicksand, he hurriedly placed himself and the four poles atop the highest point on the dais clearing away some of the other meteorite fragments. Taking off his overcoat, he wrapped the leather as best he could to join the four wooden poles together at the center allowing them freedom to fan out on either end.
The murky depth of the incoming dirt was now at the level of the dais and he situated himself on top of the center of that contraption and gazed uneasily at the last remaining exit above him: the source of the sunlight.
As the edged of the poles felt the upsurge of the sand, the thickness of the rising danger pushed all those wooden planks upward with it. Carefully holding the Timepiece with one hand and holding steady the poles underneath him, Renault allowed himself to float above the surface of the coming tide.
He would laugh to himself months after this incident, he thought. He remembered on many of his archeological trips to the Levant and Alexandria where he traversed desert landscape with a pole in hand, wary of those areas where the sand was not as firm as it seemed. Of course, he usually had Amin or Kit to pull him out afterwards, but at least those adventures and near death experiences were not put to waste.
Particles of dirt sloshed up against his sides, his legs, his arms and underneath him between the poles but he kept his sight towards the direct sunlight above him. He would turn away at times in the intensity but he ascended surely and the precious object held tightly with his arm.
At the height of the room, Renault did indeed notice a mirror held in a slight angle through the opening above. Reaching out carefully with one arm, he balanced his back on the poles while attempting to reach the edge of the square above him. If it worked as he had deduced, he would find a small corridor allowing light to pass from mirror to mirror until it lead to the outside world.
His fingers unintentionally chafed against the abrasive stone at the peak as his body continued to go nearer and nearer the ceiling and the room below him reduced to nothing but a gurgling mass of sand, water, and dirt. Finally his nails and fingertips found the open edge of the corridor where the mirror was facing. Pulling as hard as he could with only one arm he heaved his whole body off of the contraption and placed the square block artifact onto the crevice. With one more heave he raised his whole body into the light tunnel nearly blinding himself from the illumination coming from the next mirror in the relay.
Quickly picking up his prize and running towards the second mirror in the relay to the top, he swiftly began his ascent to freedom.
---
Oedo, 2nd generation family head of that boryokudan only a few miles from Osaka, faced the end of the hall by himself. There were no girls to entertain him, no guards to protect him. They had all either fled or been killed by the intruders he was given to murder. It was supposed to be a simple deal, he thought, get rid of a political enemy and the emerging shogunate would turn a blind eye to operations around the border. Smuggling with the Spanish black market was, after all, very profitable.
But the man was ruined, and he consoled himself by a sip of sake from a vessel the size of a scallop shell. Despite the decorum, one could see his hand shake. A criminal does not think of death as nobly as a samurai. A criminal makes sacrifices in order to gain something. The worst death for a criminal—this criminal—was to see all of his sacrifices come to nothing.
The perverted whispers of his girls were now replaced by the cleansing sound of a million tongues of flame kissing his compound. If he closed his eyes and avoided the light coming from the balcony to his right, he would have probably thought it was the sound of rain baptizing him and removing his sins. But no, this criminal was not as fortunate to be given the gift of repentance.
His door slid open and he saw the approaching figure of a foreign samurai. He was followed by a foreign woman who seemed more distracted by the fact that she had blood stained on her garments. The third who entered was a young man with a blue tunic holding a rifle in one hand and a pistol in the other wearing a crest of a strange creature on his arm; it seemed like a hairy dragon, Oedo thought. There was a fourth, he had perceived, but if there was, that last one remained in the shadows to the rear of the opened door.
“Oedo, I have come to take you under Spanish custody for your crimes against the people of this village,” came the awkward Japanese from the foreign samurai. Oedo took another sip of his sake as he listened.
“You have no jurisdiction here,” the boss replied, “go home!”
The fake arrogance of the man seemed to make the girl amongst them laugh. Oedo hid the dismay on his face with another sip from his cup.
There was no further reply from the group. Instead, they all seemed to approach him. Oedo quickly took out his sword and stood to his feet. Drawing that blade he pointed it squarely at the lead person and a crazed look erupted on his face.
“Get back!” he screamed.
Despite Oedo’s cry, it was the figure that stepped inside from the balcony that caught the group’s attention. It was a man wrapped in tight clothes fitted for movement in stealth. He wore the same colour as the night darkness and let it veil his mouth and nose. His eyes were like an owl’s but widened not just by extreme perception but also from a blood thirst.
There was no exchange of words; the rigid posture of both parties seemed to indicate the nature of the meeting. The only response was for the foreign samurai to draw his katana once again. Simultaneously, in that clever moonlight, one may have noticed a glint of steel in between the girl’s hands as she held the umbrella—perhaps a hidden blade in the shaft of the parasol?
As the shadowy figure moved towards the crazed Oedo, his eyes seemed to glimmer a red glow as they postured from one person to the other. It was then that Oedo attempted to make his escape. Running towards the balcony and leaping off, he landed safely on the ground amongst the dead bodies of his men below. The others in that room did not move. If one had better eyes in the dark, they may have seen that person who stayed behind outside of the door quickly move towards the exit. Oedo would not get far.
For those remaining in the main room of the once rich Oedo, there were only exchanged glances. The veiled figure slinked his own sword from behind him, but unlike the curved edge blade of the foreign samurai’s katana, this was a straighter blade with two edges. It raised some brows in the room—it was a Chinese Jian.
“Who are you,” asked the foreign samurai at the front, “and who do you work for?”
The only response to that stern question was a wheezing laugh. It was the kind of sound one would hear if an ill man was drowning from liquid in his lungs.
“Allow me, Don Antonio,” the boy in the rear asked. Without taking their eyes off that strange opponent, the lady and gentleman stepped back and the young man came forward.
“I am Doctor Jakob DeWitt of the Lions of Meissen,” proudly proclaimed the young man as he tugged on his pocket and lowered his rifle to the ground. He donned what appeared to be a chain mail glove on his left hand as he held his pistol with his right. Perhaps the glove was a weapon for when his pistol failed?
There was no response from the opponent to the introduction; instead, there was merely a widening of those owl like eyes. One could have seen the tugging on the cloth covering the face of that nameless one, a terrible smile was brewing.
With no response, Jakob raised his pistol to aim squarely at his opponent. There was no movement afterwards. With only his pistol, Jakob had one shot. From the range in that long room, it meant that firing too early would certainly mean failure. He refused to underestimate his opponent. He would wait until he moved closer.
It was an understanding both shared. The veiled figure watched carefully for signs of weakness in his opponent. He knew that if he could foolishly bring his opponent to prematurely discharge his weapon, not even that mail glove could stop the edge of his Jian. That Lion, as he called himself, would die and so would his foolish friends.
There was a moment when everyone seemed to hold their breath simultaneously. It was like when one knows a blow is about to happen, they brace themselves. It was at that time that the masked opponent grabbed a triptych from the side of the room and hid behind it. Pushing forward, the rammed himself towards Jakob his shadowy figure only barely visible behind the painting as it rushed towards the young man.
Jakob made careful aim towards the head of the shadow and discharged his weapon. The painting burst into a gaping hole and came to a wafting halt in the middle of the room. The sound of the bullet was greeted by another wheezing laugh. The clever veiled man had used the candlelight to project his shadow onto the back of the painting which he threw forward. In fact, he had stayed near the rear of the room and pretended to run towards Jakob. Jakob’s single shot was used.
Cutting short his celebration, the clever assassin now leaped forward and began running with blade in hand towards the stoic looking Jakob. He saw the young man bring up his chain mail hand, but the assassin would strike elsewhere. He knew he could eventually hit the young man somewhere nice, such as in between his rib cage. He was savoring the taste of the boy’s organs hemorrhaging to his blade already.
The woman seemed to step forward but was quickly held back by Don Antonio with a stern yet comfortable arm. They would watch Jakob handle this himself. Antonio brought himself and her back further near a pillar to the rear of the room.
As his enemy approached, Jakob watched that blade glimmer in the moonlight as it approached to take his head off his neck. He raised his mailed hand upward in preparation to block the blade; his stern face focused on the enemy ahead of him.
There was a wheezing laughter as the assassin approached, but suddenly Jakob shook his head and took off his glove. Throwing it adroitly at his opponent, the assassin scoffed at the idiotic attempt to stop him. His blade quickly moved to strike the object out of his path. Sparks emanated from the contact of the metal blade against the abrasive chain as he sliced downward. He kept both eyes on the incoming object as well as his opponent. What a coward, the assassin thought, he’s ducking behind a pillar!
Before he could readjust himself to follow, the sparks he created ignited the cache of gunpowder and chemicals Jakob hid inside his glove. The massive explosion seemed to suck in the air as the chain mail burst apart into jagged crescents which found ample lodging through the clothing of the assassin and into his flesh with explosive force. The three other participants were safely behind pillars which captured the links that shot their way.
Aside from blowing the Jian away with explosive speed towards the balcony, it also crushed the man’s hands into his chest and ignited his clothes which burnt quickly into dark ash. If the explosion did not kill him, the shrapnel lodged into his body would bleed him to death. The wolf-man would terrorize no one ever again.
---
January 11, 1583
Cardinal DeWitt gave a boisterous embrace to his pupil amidst the private, muffled fanfare of the Lion’s Headquarters in Madrid. Naturally, the general public would never know of Renault’s recovery of the Timepiece, but at least his friends and benefactor could celebrate properly within these halls.
“Well done, Renault, you’ve far exceeded our expectations on this assignment,” was the praise the Cardinal gave to the rugged man next to him.
“Thank you, Your Eminence, I’m glad I could have been of service to Emperor and Pope,” was the humble reply.
All around them was the gleeful cheers of their comrades indulging in the best imported beverages of their patron’s country—all to the highest compliance to the Reinheitsgebot, of course. Cardinal DeWitt’s vast collection of beverages was now the benefit of his friends ever since he himself began to moderate his consumption.
In that Lion’s hall it was a stark difference from the Palacio Real. There were no gold gilded chairs or velvet upholstery here. At the same time, it was not the stifling murky atmosphere of the Silent Room. Indeed, this chamber was made of simple stone and wood with the various standards of Lions hanging along the walls. A crucifix hanged above the standard of the House of Habsburg which reminded all in that chamber for what purpose they celebrated—and at what priority.
In the middle of the room was a generous table made for the various men to sit. It was here that the party was being held. As is the tradition amongst these noble knights, every time a party was held, a different orphanage or charitable organization was invited to partake in the celebration. Although this made it unpopular with some of the more high brow aristocrats of the city, it did attract a good bit of people. For them, all they knew of the Lions were that they were a charitable social organization supported by the Church.
Walking towards a balcony, the Cardinal had taken aside the hero of the celebration.
“I wanted to tell you Renault,” began the prelate, “that aside from my nephew, you have made me the most proud, and I wanted to thank you for your kind dedication.”
Renault seemed to chafe slightly at the praise, a bit embarrassed, and nodded modestly with a smile.
“If there is anything you would like to ask, I will grant it,” was the almost exaggerating announcement of Cardinal DeWitt. He knew full well that with both timepieces in secure possession, there will finally be an era of peace.
“No, Your Eminence, I’m well taken care of already.”
At that, both smiled and looked out past the balcony to the busy streets of an emerging World City.
“Though…” Renault suddenly began bringing his head down.
Cardinal DeWitt quickly turned to his companion eager to shower reward upon reward for securing the world from imminent danger.
Renault seemed to take a grim tone, however, and he turned candidly to his benefactor and straightening himself up.
“I have been thinking about the recent colonial expansion in the West of the Americas… Being so far away from Madrid I have heard disturbing reports about the treatment of the native populations there…”
Cardinal DeWitt watched him closely and his smile began to straighten into a concerned understanding.
“That is not to say, Your Eminence,” quickly added Renault, “that you have been neglectful of it! With the war with Persia and the priority of retrieving the Timepiece I under—”
“No no,” the Cardinal interrupted with a gentle smile putting a robust arm around his thinner friend, “I understand what you mean. Ever since the beginning of the exploration of the Americas most of us in the clergy have been keenly aware that the secular masters and governors have been exploiting the local populations. The Society of Jesus who we’ve sent to the Americas especially has reported on the cruel ways that their Portuguese or Spanish overlords have treated them in the past…”
For a moment, the prelate paused and looked back into the hall from the balcony at the great enthusiasm by his fellow Lions. Renault could only watch that taller man. He thought he sensed a little flushness in the Cardinal’s face… it must just be the sun reflecting red off of the Cardinal’s vestments, he said to himself.
“Even with the Portuguese annexed, there are still pockets of mistreatment. And sometimes the local bishops are so corrupt they let it happen for their own gain. But the Pope has been very adamant about the treatment of the local populations and hence why our country has purposefully never attempted to eradicate whole populations unlike our other colonial rivals…”
The robust arm now lifted its weight off of Renault, although it seemed that his shoulders were heavier now than they were just a moment ago as he listened to his friend.
“I mean even if one was not to listen to His Holiness, those secular authorities surely should have thought of the advantages of converting the Pagans instead of burning their cities…” the Cardinal added, seeming to turn away almost more so talking to himself now. The lament the Cardinal had for the treatment of the natives seemed to make him a bit vulnerable.
There was a moment pause and Renault allowed it to pass with the Cardinal turned away from him.
“Well,” the Cardinal finally said turning back to his friend, “now with the Timepieces secure, we can turn our attention and resources to assuaging the situation. I have a few openings to help in the West, would you like to go?”
Renault smiled graciously and solemnly, “of course, Your Eminence.”
Cardinal DeWitt called out to one of his pages and they approached bowing deeply to the two in his presence. After a small exchange the Cardinal handed Renault a piece of parchment.
“You’ll be investigating this merchant guild near the port of Los Angeles. Your local contact’s name is listed there as well as how to contact her. She’ll be your partner.”
“Her?” Renault curiously asked raising a brow.
“Yes, her, is something wrong, Renault?”
He quickly shook his head, “Oh no, I’m just not used to working with women, it’s a surprise.”
The Cardinal gave another generous laugh before looking to his page asking him, “Right now, where in the world is Carmen?”
“San Diego,” his page replied and the Cardinal nodded.
“You’ll meet up with her there before heading north to Los Angeles, understood?”
“Yes, sir”
With that, the Cardinal and his page returned to the party leaving Renault to contemplate the parchment for a moment. The Schwarzschild Guild, it said at the top.
On the plane, Father Francis seemed to jostle the bullet he recovered from the floor of that corridor in Mecca inside a handkerchief. He looked at the edges carefully and reconfirmed the various markings he was familiar with.
“How is this possible,” he asked himself again as he noticed the frame of that spent round with a careful eye. He took the nearby magnifying glass to aid him in his investigation.
“So you’re sure this is the real thing,” asked the Duke suddenly from across the aisle on the couch.
“Yes, I’m very sure,” replied the priest his eyes remaining on that artifact.
“Records indicated that when the archeologist was engaged with the various guardians of the underground, they were overrun by men using guns he’d never heard the sound of before,” the Duke added taking a gentle sip from his glass.
Father Francis continued to study the crushed bullet with the magnifying glass.
“Strange…” the priest suddenly said, “there are markings which I don’t recognize on this…”
The Duke watched him carefully as he brought the object closer to the glass. “‘S Ind.,’ it says…India Sur, perhaps?”
Duke Jimenes seemed to ponder the meaning of those words for a moment but eventually sat back in his sofa. It would be four hours until they arrive back in Madrid, enough time to think about what this could mean.
--
“Who was it, Rodrigo? Was it your father?” Tom continued to ask.
Rodrigo had held the phone near his ear for a good while after the death tone of the cut line was received. He slowly placed it back on the receiver before saying, “No… it was nothing… don’t worry about it.”
“What do you mean it was nothing? They filter the lines that go through here so it’s gotta be—”
“Don’t worry about it, Tom. It was just… It was just one of the guards checking up if we’re alright. I just couldn’t hear him very well…”
Rodrigo immediately walked away from the telephone, his face had not seemed to change from that strange cold expression after having picked up the phone. Tom was perplexed and there was a strange lump inside his throat as he watched his friend move towards the beach view sliding door once more.
“What was the name of the Captain in charge here again?” Rodrigo asked without facing back to his friend.
“Captain DeWitt, I think,” Tom replied after a second. With that, Rodrigo nodded and left out of the sliding door.
When Rodrigo exited his view, Tom glanced back at the phone. Curiosity seemed to overtake him as he picked up the head set. What was he thinking? It’s not like it would be as simple as—well, he decided to try it anyway. *69 was dialed on the telephone.
There were a few rings and Tom seemed to clench the head set close to his ear. After a while, he heard the soft tap of a line picked up.
“Schwarzschild Industries Telecom router, how may I direct your call?”
Chapter XVIII: Schwarzschild (coming soon)
