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  Dark Wolves

  Dark Wolves

  Book Two of The Templar Wars

  J. A. Deriu

  Copyright J. A. Deriu 2021

  [email protected]

  J. A. Deriu asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Prologue

  She looked to the heavens for a sign from the Skygod and focused on the strangely shaped clouds. She strained her eyes trying to understand the shapes. She thought she saw an animal – maybe a dog. As it moved it changed into a wolf.

  She was disturbed by the ugly voice and language of the barbarian. His stench was disgusting. He stood uneasily in her presence. His eyes looked toward the rock face, that covered one side of the balcony, and then the sky. His muscles were broad enough to pull up a tree. She cursed at him. He had ruined the chance for any magic. “What do you want, you stupid oaf?” she asked in the gruff language of the barbarians.

  His dumb face showed no reaction. “There is someone here to see you, and he won’t wait.”

  She looked across the goat-ravaged wastelands. Whoever it was, they had come through the main gate, exposing themselves like a fool.

  She followed the barbarian down the stone steps and touched the dagger strapped to her waist as she moved. They went into darkness as the steps wound into a passageway of the old castle. The barbarian moved slowly, but she was in no hurry. She would miss this hideout. She had already been there too long, but it was well protected with plenty of food, especially tasty nougat.

  She pushed him out of the way, feeling his oily shoulder. “I know where. You wait here.” He stopped and moved backward into the shadows. She was glad to move away from his smell. She had recruited three of them, all from the same time-forgotten village. She assumed they were related. The family sold them at less than a bargain. The horse-eating elders of the village still lived with the dreams that boys could embark on a warrior’s life. Depart for adventure; become fighters, make names as gladiators, battle sorcerers, and tyrants, usurp thrones, and return to the village as kings. The first step was getting them out of the village, and that meant trading them to the first person with coin that passed through. The biggest fellow, who was called Batz, was the only one who spoke to her. He spoke surprisingly well, and she had conversed with him on the long ride, although the conversation was mostly her talking.

  She would never share a meal with him or the others, but they were useful – tireless in sparring. Blindly loyal in the way they absorbed every insult as if they were being splashed from a drinking fountain. Someone of her profession needed reliable muscle-bound flunkies.

  The passage opened onto an outdoor terrace with arched doors on either side. The forest was in the distance, bristling with pointed trees, and the gray-blue sky behind. She breathed in the smell of the open. On the terrace a man was waiting for her, standing upright, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a well-kept beard and thick eyebrows hanging down over his eyes. She stopped upon seeing the guest. She had never seen the man before, but she could tell by the gold chain that held together his overcoat that he was an operative of the Mahsusa, the Ottoman spy service. He flinched for a moment when he first saw her and then quickly composed himself, which was a trained skill of his profession. At first look she would have looked like a man to him, wearing her training clothes. Her pants were taut on the muscles of her legs, and her cotton tunic was loose to allow her to swing her arms with freedom.

  “My name is Orhan Bulkat, trade representative of the sultan, the Shadow of God on Earth, the Hero of the World. I am from the Ulaanbaatar post.”

  “My commiserations. What a terrible job.”

  “What? Ha … I see.” His expression darkened. “I have been given the task …” He paused, studying her closer. He suddenly was disconcerted when he saw her eye. “Where are you from?”

  “Your task? Your sultan has given you a task? Please continue.”

  “Ah, yes, yes. Your services are required …” He paused again and loosened his stance. “I’m sorry. You are not who I expected.”

  “What did your boss tell you about me?”

  “He told me that this was a task of the highest importance. That you were capable.” He scratched at his beard. “He didn’t tell me you were a woman and so young. How old are you?”

  “I am in my twentieth year. And did he tell you I have already completed two tasks for the sultan, the shadow hero, of the highest importance?”

  “Maybe he did, but it is a long trip out here. I forgot.”

  “Are the instructions written or oral?”

  “Oral, of course. The highest importance can only be relayed orally.”

  “Proceed then.”

  “Yes, I need to sit down. Can I sit down?”

  She indicated a wooden bench that overlooked the drop to the woods. He sat down. She remained standing with her hands on her hips and her dagger leaning forward.

  He looked at her, concerned.

  “You are slow with your words, distracted. Talk, so that you can complete your task.”

  He hesitated and glanced at her again. “Your eye – it is unnatural.”

  “Ah, I forget it distracts the superstitious. I have two pupils in one of my eyes.”

  He lowered his head and dusted dirt from his blazer.

  “It does not diminish my beauty, you’d agree?”

  He moved his head as if agreeing. “This is not your usual abode, I take it. Why are you here?”

  “It is well stocked,” she said with a half frown, half grin. “I have no usual abode. When you do what I do, you need to keep moving.”

  “And these wild men that guard?”

  “You ask too many questions for a messenger.”

  “You are not a native. That I can see. I asked where you are from. You didn’t answer. Perhaps I can guess?”

  “Get to your task. The shadow hero would not appreciate idle talk when it comes to his business.”

  Bulkat scratched at his beard. “I assume you have heard of the debacle that was the Qing operation.”

  “I have.” She smirked. “How could anyone not? The general defected.”

  “Yes, indeed, terrible misery. The sultan is rumored to walk the palace at night cursing that general’s name.” He looked at her eye again and quickly averted his gaze again. “So be it. A loss is a loss. We all know the empire is no weaker, and the Qing will fall at a later date. The sultan will recover. The empire will continue on its destiny to rule the world. In the meantime there are residual problems to be taken care of.”

  She changed her position so that she was not blocking the morning sun from his face, and he had to lift his hand to cover his eyes. His worry seemed to ease when he struggled to see her.

  “After the brief cessation of trade, the merchants are crossing back into the empire from the delinquent kingdom of the Qing, as if nothing had happened. This is to be expected and not a concern for the wheels of trade must always turn. However, these merchants are bringing wild stories with them. And these stories are spreading. As you know my organization monitors the talk that crosses borders and is always thinking ahead to how the words of today affect the deeds of tomorrow.”

  S
he nodded, watched him intently, and started to form an idea of where this was going and where she would be required to travel.

  He gave up trying to look at her and instead settled on the ground. “The wildest of these stories is that the victory by the infidel forces was led by the sixteen-year-old son of the pretender tsar. That he was at the front of their charge and inspired them to the unexpected victory. Vivid pictures are being drawn. A young, dashing boy-warrior without fear. As you can imagine, this type of tale, no matter how far-fetched, will stir the heart of Cossacks. This boy, Nicolas, is quickly becoming a legend. Already there is news of vandalism and painted slogans appearing out of the darkness showing this boy’s name. This is happening in the more backward parts of the hinterland. They boast that he is coming to liberate.”

  “Hmm.” She hummed. “I can taste where this is going. There’s going to be a long and dangerous journey ahead. I hope you have come with a fat contract and in particular a bloated section where it refers to my payment.”

  The Ottoman looked confused for a moment. “There is no contract. That is not how these things are done. But there is payment, of course. You will be given a letter of credit that can be cashed for any currency at one of the sultan’s banks once the task is completed.”

  “And how do the bankers know when the task is done?”

  “My organization will handle that.”

  “How will you know?”

  “You make sure word carries.” He lifted his head and covered his eyes. “He will be talked of and watched like a star. News of his death will travel faster than a falcon.”

  “And the letter of credit. How much?”

  “Ah, I am not involved at that level, but this has the foremost authority. I imagine it will be at the highest rate.”

  She felt her smooth jawline.

  “There is urgency with this request,” he added.

  “I imagine so,” she replied. “There is a vast distance to the Qing and inhospitable terrain all of the way. If even one-tenth of the rumors are true, he will be guarded and prized like a priceless piece of artwork.” She refocused on the Ottoman. “Has this task been offered to others?”

  “Perhaps. I can’t say.”

  “Hmm. Ulaanbaatar is two days travel away. Look at you. You have been traveling a lot longer than two days. You have seen others. All of them said no. I am not surprised.”

  “This is a task directly ordered by the sultan.”

  “There was a time, I imagine, when no one would say no to him.”

  “There still is that time.”

  “Tell me, Orhan, are you new at this game?”

  “Somewhat.” He shrugged. “My skills are actually in negotiating trade, but the … you-know-who … are short of hands in this region.”

  She walked across the open terrace, looked across the treetops – skittish birds jumped from branch to branch – and then lowered her head to see the overgrown gardens of the castle. She imagined that this would have been a picturesque home when it had been kept by an official of the empire and his family and their army of servants. The empire had not renewed its investments in these far-flung lands for years, leaving these outposts of civilization free for types like herself.

  She wandered back to the Ottoman official. He watched her nervously and straightened as though about to face a bench of judgment as she neared.

  “I will take the commission,” she told him.

  He breathed a long sigh. And she could see the fear of more traveling and of more declines being unburdened from his frame.

  He stood and blinked, as his eyes were drawn to her face. “It is your task, then. The sultan thanks you.” He looked away from her and said in a different voice, “Will you succeed?” – almost as if talking to some authoritative presence over her shoulder.

  “You will learn that assassins do not look like assassins. The good ones, anyway.”

  He slowly nodded his head and stole a glimpse of her eye.

  “Now do you know the rules for an oral message?”

  “No. What?”

  “The message must be destroyed to be kept from others.”

  “But how?” He pointed at his head. “It is in my head.”

  She lowered her hand so that it was near her dagger.

  “No.” He lifted his shaking hands to plead. “No one told me this. Please, no.”

  She laughed. “Ha! I’m joking. Develop a sense of humor, will you?”

  He laughed uneasily and mopped his brow with his fingers. “You haven’t told me where you are from, but perhaps you will at least tell me your name.”

  “My name is Zoe.”

  Chapter One

  They were all breathless. Gaspar, the teacher once known as John Smith, handed him the canteen. “You have a taste for this?” he said in between breaths. A thunderclap finished his sentence.

  Jack took the canteen. “Do you mean a taste for the drink or the action?”

  “I mean the action, of course. No one could have a taste for stale water.”

  They were silent as they waited for his answer. The five of them crouched in the ditch.

  Odo finally scoffed. “If you call playing hide-and-seek action. Or, that is, hiding without the seeking.”

  “I don’t care to be stopped by an imperial patrol. Do you?” Gaspar replied.

  The cat squeezed its head under a log looking for food. Odo watched it. “Why does the cat follow you?”

  “I feed it.”

  “Strange. I didn’t think cats were travelers. Why don’t you name it? It is your companion.”

  Jack looked at the cat. “I don’t know.”

  “Sir … Sir something,” Hoston said. “It looks like a sir.”

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” Odo asked.

  “I’ve never thought about that.”

  “Or looked.”

  “Or looked.”

  “It is a boy.” Amblard joined the conversation. “You don’t have to be a farmer to see that.”

  “So sir then.”

  “Sir what?”

  “Sir Lancelot. To join us on our quest.”

  “Must you name everything?” Gaspar asked, looking at Odo. “It’s Jack’s cat, and if he doesn’t want to name it …”

  “Sorry,” Odo offered and raised his head to look over the side of the ditch. “It’s as quiet as death out there.”

  “The patrol missed us,” Gaspar whispered. “Drunkards, no doubt.”

  “Well, boy? Sir Lancelot?” Odo insisted.

  “I don’t like it. The cat has no name.”

  Odo considered and looked at Gaspar, and then Jack. “If not the cat, then what about you?”

  “My name is Jack.”

  “It’s not a Templar name.”

  “Yes, he is right.” Gaspar mused. “It would be easier if you had a Templar name.”

  Jack looked away. “I don’t know.” A faint mist drifted between them. The tree leaves around them were wet with dew, their boots muddy.

  “Perhaps you are not ready yet,” Gaspar suggested.

  “Let things take its course, Gas,” the golden-haired Hoston added. “The name will find him, if it is to be … the same with all Templars.”

  Gaspar signaled for them to be quiet. He had heard something.

  Jack listened but could only hear the growl of a coming storm. His hearing wasn’t as alert as it has been when he was traveling alone. Traveling with the Templars had given him security and comfortable shoes. Amblard, with his steady fingers was a master at resoling shoes, and he seemed to have an endless supply of the hardened leather he fixed while watching with his emotionless face. The Templars slept in shifts. They were rigid with their routine, which did not allow him a watch during the night. He slept more than he needed to, a restful sleep, too, knowing that the four of his travel
ing companions were vigilant against the night.

  The leader was Gaspar, the one he had known once as a teacher called John Smith. Jack assumed that he was the leader, as he was always the one who called out when it was time for their prayers. They were fanatical about these. In the morning, they would be packing the camp hurriedly, and Gaspar would lift his head to the sky, fill his nostrils with a scent, and announce, “Time for morning payers, brothers.” He would do the same at night, and randomly, or so it seemed to Jack, during the day. The brothers, who were wary and alert at all times, would suddenly fall to their knees, close their eyes, join their hands, and become ambivalent to the dangers of their journey. Jack was not sure what he was supposed to do in these times, so he would step back and watch the perimeter of the camp.

  The golden-haired Hoston called himself the least handsome but made it clear he was joking. He liked to talk when no one else said anything, and if he had nothing to say, he would hum a song. He carried a short sword, very much like the one Jack carried, which he had taken from the dying invader. Hoston liked to practice with his sword, moving elegantly like a dancer, slicing at an imaginary opponent and making sure he was being watched. He had asked to look at Jack’s sword. He held it in front of him, moved it so that it caught the sun, and traced his finger along the blade. “Nice weapon,” he commented. He looked closely at it and studied the smith’s name that was engraved along the blade. “This was made in the old lands. The man you killed was an officer.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Jack had answered.

  Odo, the cook, liked to read. Not the same books as Jack. His were the cheap variety that told of improbable adventure, were badly written, often made no sense, and were full of dirty stories. Odo would cackle as he read them. He was broad shouldered with thick muscles that gave him the appearance of being able to stand against the fiercest wind. The others ridiculed his cooking. He would shrug and revert to his habit of touching the scar that started in the middle of his forehead, cut across his eyebrow, and twisted above his eye. The other Templars would finish to the last mouthful whatever he had made and, forgetting their earlier banter, eagerly ask if there was any more.