Alex Archer - Swordsman's Legacy

Annja reached out to her right, exhaled a cleansing breath, and focused her will to that untouchable otherwhere that served her wishes. With her inhale, she felt the weight of Joan’s sword fit to her grip.

This sword belonged to her. She had claimed it when she’d fit the final missing piece to the other pieces her mentor Roux had collected, quite literally, over the centuries. It answered no one’s bidding but her own. And it had become her life.

She curled her fingers around the familiar hilt. Wielding the well-balanced weapon expertly, Annja swept it through the air before her in a half circle and then to en garde position.

One of the thugs sat on the ground, huffing, both palms to the grass. Obviously he’d tripped.

“Get up! The entire forest will soon be ablaze!” The other man beat the air in frustration with the stolen sword.

“Now boys, that’s no way to handle a valued artifact,” she announced.

Both looked to the woman who stood at the edge of the forest, medieval sword wielded boldly and determination glinting in her eyes.

Knowing both thugs carried guns, Annja dashed across the grassy meadow, cutting their distance, and the range for an easy shot, to a minimum.

The one standing reacted by defensively stabbing the stolen sword at her.

Annja took the bait. But she didn’t connect her blade to the ancient blade. Instead, she delivered a thrust to the air just over the opponent’s shoulder and slapped her elbow against the very tip of his blade, which bounced it out of threatening position.

The man on the ground thrust out his right arm. Annja knew a gun would be in his hand. She swept her blade across his forearm, slicing through his leather jacket. The gun dropped. Blood spattered her wrist as she did a one-foot reel, swinging forward to grab the gun and spinning up into a twirl to land on the other side of the grounded thug.

A cold jab poked her neck. The man with the sword smiled, and charged again. He’d actually poked her with the thing! Yet a slap to her neck did not find blood, only a sore spot.

“You’re going to destroy what you believe to be a valuable artifact?” she challenged, and bent to avoid another inexpert swing of the rusted weapon. “You must have come after it for a reason. Why risk damaging it now?”

That question appeared to give the idiot some thought. Tossing the sword to his left hand, his right then went for his gun, tucked in the front of his waistband.

Aware that the man on the ground groped for her ankle, Annja kicked, landing her heel aside his head. He fell unconscious.

Instinctively diving to the ground, Annja’s palm hit the grass as a bullet skimmed her shoulder. It burned, but didn’t go deep. Rolling to her side, she pushed upright. Her weapon was not designed for choreographed fencing moves. Nor was she. Annja jammed her sword into the thigh of the gunman. The thug took the hit with surprising sanguinity. He grunted, but appeared to swallow back a curse. The Glock found aim with her head.

A dry branch cracked under her boot as she stepped to the side and bent, charging forward. The pistol retort echoed in the sky.

Crown of her head barreling into the gunman’s gut, Annja put her weight into the move, and kicked from the ground. They both went down. Thinking she’d land with her palms, Annja willed away the sword. Her fingers slid across dried leaves and grass.

She spied the gun but it was a grasp away. Cocking out an elbow, she jammed it into whatever she could, landing on the tender curves of an ear. It was a choice shot. The gunman growled and dropped his head, rolling toward her.

Again willing the sword into her grip, Annja swung out and with the heavy hilt, clocked the man at the back of his head above his ear. He dropped, out for the count.

Scrambling forward, she grabbed the second gun. Another Glock—the clip was full. Stuffing the first at the back of her waistband, she then stood and held the second on both downed thugs.

“Annja!” Ascher appeared, scrambling out from the trees. “What the hell?”

“I’m fine.” She walked toward Ascher, who clutched his left side.

As for her sword, she always seemed to release it without thought. It was safe, wherever it was that it went when she did not need it. That made it very handy when the need to be discreet presented itself. There’d be no long black Highlander coats for this chick.

“How did you do this?” He looked over her carnage. “They both had guns.”

“I charmed them,” she offered, and then smiled because if he knew the truth, he’d never believe it. “You got some rope back at camp?”

“Yes, but—they’re getting back up.”

Annja spun, but instead of leaping forward to swing her sword after the thugs, she couldn’t move. Ascher gripped her by the shoulders, and she could do nothing but watch as the lead thug grabbed the stolen sword from the ground.

“Let them go,” Ascher said. “You have the sword!” he yelled to the thugs. “Now leave us be.”

“I am not going to let this happen.” Annja twisted from Ascher’s grip.

In less than a breath he’d positioned his body before her, his chest up against hers. A bulldog guarding its territory.

“It’s not the sword,” he hissed. “Let them go.”

“They were going to kill us. Or at least try. Are the others all right?”

“They are fine.”

She took a step to the left. Ascher matched her. Taller than her, and bulked with muscle, his physique didn’t give her concern. The idea of simply allowing those men to walk off with the sword—any sword—felt like defeat.

“Come back to camp,” he said, his shoulders dropping and his tone settling to a softer plea.

The SUV revved and pealed across the gravel, heading back the way it had come from.

“There’s more to this than a simple treasure hunt, isn’t there?” she asked.

Ascher rolled his head and shrugged his shoulders in an aggressive move. Then he sighed and walked toward the forest. He left her to follow.

Annja sucked in the corner of her bottom lip. She could walk across the field, hop in her car and be done with this treasure hunt masquerade.

Or she could turn around and hound the deceitful Gascon for the truth.

Seventeenth century

N ICOLAS F OUQUET LOOKED UP from the list of expenditures Cardinal Mazarin had handed him.

“Where is it?”

The king marched into his office, red heels clicking and garish blue silk rosettes bouncing at shoulders, hips and toes.

“Your Highness.” Mazarin turned on the chair where he sat before Nicolas’s desk. He didn’t offer a bow. Instead he held out his hand, for the king to kiss his ring. Louis did. “What troubles you this day?”

“Where are the jewels?” Louis rubbed his fist against his stomach, which was a common habit of anxiety. “My mother’s private stash. Some are missing. Have they been stolen?”

“And how are you aware of these so-called missing jewels?” Nicolas asked, but immediately cursed himself for being so bold. Mazarin may have had the king’s respect, but he yet strived for that elusive confidence.

“Surely—” Mazarin sent a cruel glance toward Nicolas to reprimand “—she must have handed them to the royal jeweler for cleaning?”

“No.” Louis paced between the bookshelf where Nicolas kept his legal volumes and the window that overlooked the Tuileries. “I check our coffers every Sunday. Today there are many pieces missing. She is not wearing them. There are some items she has never worn. I cannot understand that.”

The king looked imploringly at his financier and the cardinal. So young yet, and with an entire nation depending on his guidance.

Nicolas cleared his throat. But when Louis beseeched him silently, he looked down and merely shook his head. He couldn’t reveal that he had seen the map. He valued Queen Anne’s trust immensely.