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.
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In Charlemagneâs 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 Historyâs Monsters: âDog-headed men sighted by tourists in Avignon.â 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 mankindâs most precious and holy swords, he can fulfill his medieval ancestorâs failed goal to build the City of God. And heâs stealing the priceless relics one by one to arm his modern-day paladins. Now he has his eye on a very special swordâAnnjaâs.
And heâll 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 cameramanâs 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.
âStay still,â 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.
âI told the kid the money is at the hotel.â Annja squinted through the driving rain, taking in Rembertâs panic. âI only have a few Euros with me. You can have them, butââ
âWe donât want your money, Annja Creed. We want your sword.â
His accent. Annja recognized Gaston. He was one of the gang sheâd fought in Paris outside the old train station. He was one of the gang whoâd 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 Historyâs Monsters?
âThe sword! If you hand over the sword, weâll let your friend live.â
The Legend
...The English commander took Joanâs 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
His arrow struck deep in the deerâs 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 manâsturdy, he preferred to think of himselfâhe 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 couldnât stand to see the animal suffer. One slash across the throat finished it.
âCette épée, ma chère amie, a déjà tué,â 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 Charlemagneâs 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 fringeâthe 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.
