Mystic Warrior

Uncovering an ancient aristocracy and its hidden secret

Archaeologist and TV show host Annja Creed trades in her dig tools and dirty excavations for the sunny climes of Hollywood. Serving as a prop consultant for a popular TV fantasy series, Annja’s enjoying the lights, camera and much less action. Until a scrying crystal is stolen off the set...and it turns out to be something more than a prop.

The crystal, in fact, is a priceless artifact from the period of the Crusades. But in the process of recovering it, Annja discovers something far more valuable: an ancient document that could lead to the lost treasure of the Merovingian kings. Rulers of France’s oldest dynasty during the third century AD—predating even Charlemagne—the Merovingians were said to be mystic warriors, armed with the power of God.

But Annja isn’t the only one who knows about the document. And now she must face down a malevolent group that’s far too familiar with Garin, one of her closest allies. Good thing she shares far more with these mystic warrriors than even she could possibly imagine.

“Grab the crystal. Let’s go!”

Annja was happy to see that Orta was already picking up the manuscript sheets and replacing them in their protective case. Grabbing her backpack, Annja quickly shoved her gear into it and pulled it on. Orta looked at her. “There are more of these men?”

“Yes.” Annja pulled the ear-throat mic into place and clipped the walkie-talkie to the ammo belt. A deep, controlled voice spoke at the other end, demanding that Fox Six reply. She ignored the command and nodded to Orta. “You know the campus layout. Which is the quickest way out?”

“Follow me.” Orta headed to the back door.

Krauzer had the crystal wrapped in one arm like an oversize football and was reaching for the other machine pistol lying on the floor.

Taking a quick step, Annja kicked the weapon under the table and out of Krauzer’s reach.

He whirled on her, his features taut with rage and fear. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to keep Orta and me alive,” Annja said. “You’re a movie director, not a commando.”

“And you think you’re some kind of action hero?”

Annja glanced at the two unconscious attackers. “I’ve got experience with this sort of thing.”

Mystic Warrior

Alex Archer

Rogue Angel

THE LEGEND

...THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed 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...

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

THE LEGEND

Prologue

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Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Bourthes, Nord-Pas-de-Calais Kingdom of the Franks 752 AD

Pepin the Younger, also called the Short behind his back, sat at the head of the large wooden table under the wheel of lighted candles and struggled to contain his anger at his “guest.”

Childeric III sat sulking at the other end of the table. Like all of the Merovingian royal family, Childeric wore his bright red hair in long, flowing locks. People often whispered that the hair contained the power of the Merovingians.

This night, Childeric didn’t look powerful. Any mystical might perhaps contained in his hair was not working to salvage his fate. Pepin had already sealed that.

The events of the past few weeks, and the knowledge of what was to become of him, had worn heavily on Childeric. In the beginning he had been hopeful, certain that he would remain king. Now those hopes had dwindled.

Like a truculent child, he sat at the table and refused to eat.

Pepin gestured with his knife. “Come, Childeric, you must eat. The road to Saint Bertin is long and wearying. You must keep up your strength.”

“Must I?” Childeric braced both his hands on the table and made as though to rise. “I am still king, and you presume to tell me what to do like I was some idiot?”

To the king’s left, his son, Theuderic, placed a restraining hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Father, do not engage him,” Theuderic whispered. “He seeks only to antagonize you.”

Pepin toyed with his knife and smiled. Death would have been easier and was probably preferable to what Pepin intended for his two prisoners.

“I will not sup with a betrayer,” Childeric said hoarsely.

“You have eaten with me on plenty of occasions before this. My lord.” Pepin waved the protest away. “We are still two men who seek to break our fast. I thought you would enjoy eating indoors for a change after the meals we have suffered upon the road. This inn is a pleasant change from the days of hard winter travel we’ve endured.”