Grim Lions (The Templar Wars Book 1) Read online

  They surged out of the woods, many of them, clad in black, carrying the black flags of death. He heard coordinated yelling and braced himself against the rock. They moved stealthily, purposefully, toward the village. Strong, powerful-looking men, weapons hanging from every part of their bodies, long knives, longer guns, and others he didn’t know. They moved as if in a pack, each one knowing, with confidence, each part of the ground they staked. There was no time for further thought. He turned and fled, keeping low to the ground and waiting for the sounds of shooting to come from behind him.

  He was ready to dive into the grass when the threat came. He had waited too long. They had come too quickly. He heard firing, but there were no signs it was aimed at him, nothing hitting nearby. He would be a speck to them if they were looking. What kind of an army wasted bullets like they were? What he had always been told must be true. An army of endless resources and ruthless power. He got into the shrubs and landed on the ground, crawling to the denser vegetation, annoyed to see the cat next to him, as if racing or chasing him, even playing. He waited until he was well into the trees before turning. His shirt carried many twigs and was blackened, the color of the dirt. He wedged himself between fallen logs and scanned the village. The houses he hadn’t torched were now smoking. The invaders were pulling burning boards from houses and lighting the others. The militia leader, his mother, had told him that they were as likely to burn the houses as to keep them for their men to sleep. His mission had been to not give them the choice.

  The stretch of grassland back to the village was clear. He had not been seen. Some of the enemy lifted their arms, bent their heads back, and called out, as if speaking to the sky. Others sat on the grass, spread their legs, and rested.

  He focused on the need to disappear into the forest, move like part of it, not disturbing a thing. A leap of squawking birds from the treetops could force the eyes of the enemy to look in his direction. He had been instructed many times what to do. Stay close to the river. It would provide water and food. Follow it as it flowed. It would take him far away from the enemy to the borough, where he would catch his schoolmates and the others who had fled. His mother had not said why the invaders had crossed the border to attack their lands. She had shrugged. “Why? After generations of nothing, as if living in the shadow of a volcano, it is erupting.”

  He was now covered in neck-high foliage. He felt relieved enough to fall onto his backside, place his arms across his knees, and breathe long breaths. It was real. Everything had been lost. He had the temptation to look a final time. But then, like his mother, he did not look back. Instead he looked about him, at the barely visible insects darting in front of his face, flicking against his skin. The spots of sun on the ground moved with the shifting branches. He hated the woods. He always had. It was the place where all the scary stories happened. Fighting with the militia was preferable to being alone in the woods. He pushed his hand into the moist dirt and lifted himself up. The cat made pathetic whimpering noises at his feet. He pushed it away with his boot. A cat could cause one or more of the wood’s creatures to become feral. It looked at him, as if insulted. He thought about giving it a deadly kick, screwing its neck. It would be a mercy. He decided it would waste time. He needed to move. It wouldn’t follow. Cats hated the woods more than he did.

  He heard firing from the village, like the crackling of a log fire. They were shooting into the air, wasteful, a drunken celebration.

  Sun blinked though the trees. He followed a sad trail no wider than his feet. It edged upward, rising away from the village, thickets pulling at his trousers. The trees bent over, meeting and darkening the path. He had been this way before. It was his mother’s favorite hunting trail. There was a fat oak ahead. Its branches could be climbed. His name was carved into its trunk. The path cleared. The oak stood in sunlight, its network of branches reaching out like gangly arms. He bent to find his name, carved among the others. He ran his fingers over it. Jack.

  If he lifted himself up using a branch, he would be able to see the village below. It was what he had always done, as if looking over the whole world. Making sure it was orderly, as it had been all his life. He turned away. His mother had not looked back, and neither would he. The ugly sounds from the village came to him over the trees below. He moved along the path as it darkened into the woods. He had not been this far. The oak was a boundary marker in his mind. He studied the path. The cat darted in front of him, stopped, and looked for him to follow.

  Chapter Two

  Carsten sat in a modest chair on the ninetieth floor of the tower, thinking he was alone, in semidarkness. He looked across the Metropolis. Hundreds of towers stood in front of him in the dusk, visible by the thousands and thousands of windows lit by yellow lights. He impatiently turned his head to look at the old clock against the wall, ticking loudly. He couldn’t see the time. His eyes were no good. He was nearly ninety, eighty-eight this year. It must be close to ten. The meeting had been scheduled for late, to avoid attention. His butler, Rovis, would enter and switch on the lights. He narrowed his eyes. Instead, Rovis was sitting at the end of the room, his chair leaning back against the wall, legs outstretched, eyes closed, waistcoat unbuttoned.

  “What time is it?” he called across the room. “Has the lady arrived?”

  “No, sir.” Rovis straightened, feeling for his loose buttons. “She’s not due until ten. It’s more petitioners, as before. Will I show them in?”

  “Ah.” Carsten sighed. “Were you asleep?”

  The room was lit by a gray light. The petitioner was from the other side of the continent. “Your business, sir. It’s the biggest employment in town,” the man said. His hair was brushed and gleaming. “Before your diamond mine, we were cattle, that’s all. Lots of them.” His fingers pulled at one another. “We weren’t that many, families only.”

  Carsten jotted half a sentence in his notebook and then stopped. He sat across from the petitioner. He could feel his intense breathing, smell his dinner. Rovis sat casually on the third chair, filling the large space in the meeting room, his foot moving as if in tune with some unheard melody.

  “Since the mine, there have been thousands coming,” the man continued, his eyes attracted to the vista of the Metropolis. “This has made all kinds of problems.” He adjusted his ill-fitting jacket.

  “I don’t like to hear that.” Carsten spoke with the modulated voice of an undertaker.

  The petitioner looked away from the window, at Carsten, and then at the floor. “Sorry to say, sir, but all kinds of undesirable things have landed in the town, mostly coming from the cities. Liquor. Saloons that are not really saloons. A lot of unwed men. And some that are wed, but to other men, they say. Moochers walking about with their hands out. Strange people, strange beliefs.”

  “These kinds of things always follow where there is prosperity,” Rovis said casually.

  “Is there not something?” the man stuttered.

  “What are your thoughts?” Carsten asked, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees.

  “Well, we need a school. Give the boys something to do during the day, and the girls. A library for afterward too. Facilities to play sports.”

  “Yes, of course this should be the case. Do you not have a government there? Someone who collects taxes and builds these things.”

  “They take tax, I think, but they don’t build anything.”

  “You have come such a long way.” Carsten considered. “A man must really love his community to come such a distance. What about a church? Would it not be that the spiritual is also required?”

  “We have a church,” he said. “Not attended enough. Another would be right too.”

  Carsten relaxed in his chair and crossed his legs. “We will help you. We certainly will. My man here, Rovis, will put you in contact with the right people in our corporation. We will build many buildings in your town. All of them pleasant.”

 
Rovis gripped the arms of his chair. “Right.”

  The man closed his eyes, his face awash in relief. “I am speechless, sir. They said it would be hard.” He opened his eyes and put his hand to his mouth.

  Rovis held the arm of the grateful petitioner and led him to the door. He closed it and stalked across the floor. “What was that, sir? You usually ask a million questions. Your notebook is empty.”

  “The place is impoverished.”

  “It is what happens when towns grow. Inevitable. Wealth comes, and so do all the sins. Inevitable.”

  “Maybe. Not for this town.”

  “Ha. You are becoming more the patron of desperate, lost causes.”

  “I am keen for the next meeting. Ten o’clock.”

  “There are still more petitioners.”

  “Send them away. Give them what they want, please.”

  She held his hand and bowed slightly as she shook it. Her touch was hard. He lowered himself slowly into the chair, rebuffing her gesture for help. She sat upright, ready for him to talk. She was dressed conservatively, a dark, long, narrow dress that reached to her ankles, a thick jacket, buttoned high. No jewelry. Rovis poured water into glasses at a side table. The room was mostly bare, the walls of rough, dark stone made to look like a cave. They were unadorned except from the light fixtures, which protruded like medieval torches.

  “You must understand,” Carsten began, “that everything that is said between us tonight cannot be said again.” She glanced across at Rovis. “That is Rovis. He will be leaving now.”

  The butler dried the edge of the water jug with a cloth, placed it back on the table, and unhurriedly left the room.

  “I understand, Mister Cheval. I am pleased for your meeting.”

  “And I am pleased it was agreed. Your name was mentioned to me. I should say, it was whispered to me. I should talk to you. You should talk to me. That is why we are here. But more than that, I trust you know that I have resources and a resource in particular that procures information for me, with speed and usefully. Knowledge is power, I would agree, but not really. Only knowledge acted on is power. I was surprised to learn about you, but not surprised that you are a Templar.” He raised his hands, as if to signal to hold on, expecting an objection from Clavdia. She stared at him with complete attention, emotionless. “I understand it is not known publicly, but I do not doubt it. I am not a Templar myself. That is how you choose to operate, some known, some not.”

  “Sir, I hope you’d understand. I am not going to confirm this.”

  “No need to. But I must tell you, I also know that you are not merely a Templar. You are also a commander.”

  “Sir, my response will be the same. I am not going to confirm this. I am here only to listen.”

  “No need to call me sir. I am Carsten.”

  “That is your request, Carsten.”

  “Let me continue. What the Templars debate, or those that show their faces. I don’t know if they are real Templars or not. What they say sometimes ferments in my head. I think to myself I am of that opinion also. I know, I know, this is impossible, hypothetical, at best. That’s the discussion at any time. The politics are too fractured, or to be more precise, the leaders who would support such a path, are fractured, powerless.” He paused and looked across at Clavdia, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you interested in what I am saying?”

  “I am, but with respect, you aren’t saying anything.”

  “Yet. I am not saying anything yet, but I will. You will understand why you are here. You are the person I have been told to talk to. You are a Templar, a warrior. To be well less than thirty and a commander, remarkable. Your position at Montgisard Corporation, also remarkable. The highest-ranking executive, second to none, it appears, I am not certain, the hierarchy at your corporation is opaque. There may be more powerful on the board, the chairman perhaps. I doubt it. The finance operations are yours, and that is where the power rests.”

  His head drooped as he spoke, more often as he aged. It must have appeared as if he was watching his shoes. He lifted his head to see that her facial expression and body language had not changed since he had first started speaking. It was passive, giving him nothing. This was satisfying. She was perfect. He admired leaders like this. It was impossible to know their mind, making negotiations labyrinthine. “In this organization, we have known about you since you emerged. Not me personally, like that. As you’d expect we watch those on the horizon, looking for our own leaders. Thus, when I say I was prompted to learn about you, there was much already here. I would hope a complete picture. Yet I am not certain how good my people are. Nonetheless, I had a deep file with your name on it available. It did not take me long to determine in what fields you had made your name at Montgisard Corporation. You have an uncanny, perhaps even unnatural, eye for ventures and talent. This makes things perfect for what I am discussing this night. Perhaps, I should do this now, as I am sure you do not want to hear about yourself, but are more interested in my proposition. What do you know of the Qing of the Middle Kingdom?”

  “I know of this. The kingdom has been falling apart for decades, maybe a rump left. More immediate, the Ottomans have their Eastern Armies encamped in the north, waiting for spring. Some say the dynasty ended years ago. This is debatable, but nonetheless, whether the dynasty existed for three hundred and fifty years or three hundred and seventy is academic. They are ending.”

  “What you say could be true. The Ottomans will invade. That is certain. More certain than the reasons. Why the conquest now? Restlessness, territory for ambitious kin? Perhaps the sultan has a threat? Why have they always expanded? Because they were able. But what if the Qing Kingdom did not end?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “What if they repelled the Ottomans?”

  “I don’t see this.”

  “I know, I know, but say hypothetically, what if they defeated the Ottomans?” He held his head with his hand clasped under his chin, observing her face. She had absorbing pale-blue eyes, which returned his stare with added vigor. Fair skin, a beautiful face, serious, almost ferocious in its attractiveness, more gifted than any of the starlets who dominated newsstand racks.

  “Well, that would be unimaginable, earth shattering,” she replied.

  “Perception breaking?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have trade with the Qing, and currency.”

  “Who has trade?”

  “Corporations. Corporations of the Metropolis.”

  “Yes, no doubt, but not for long.”

  “Is not trade, currency, a cause for aid, support, especially in conflict, to assist with the preservation of those trades?”

  Clavdia showed her first glimpse of emotion, a slight change in her facial expression, which Carsten recognized as engagement. “That is debatable. Are you suggesting that aid is provided to the Qing Kingdom against the Ottomans?”

  “In fact, I am.”

  “Let me state what you would expect. This would be impossible. There would be those in this city, the most powerful, who would do all to stop this. Their fear of the Ottomans and their allies, and their corresponding desire to appease, which is decreed, would annihilate anyone proposing any kind of opposition. They would prefer to lose the trade, which they would argue is inconsequential, especially compared to the wrath of the adversary.”

  “Yes, this is right, and the whole point of everything is that this is the case, and it is the case because there has been no victory, no victory at all, against the adversary for as long as anyone can recall, and that includes me.” He moved his hand to indicate his aged face. “A victory by the Qing, with the hand of these lands, would be a significant shift in the current.”

  “What you are suggesting is impossible.”

  “It actually is not. The Ottomans can be defeated. Principally because the greatest enemy of any army is overconfidence. The
y will be defeated on this.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I dreamed it. I had tea with the greatest military intellect of all time. It does not matter how I know it.”

  “Why have you asked to meet me?”

  “Because the battle must be joined via Montgisard Corporation.”

  Clavdia moved all at once. Her arms fell off the armrests, she arched forward, and her eyebrows lifted high over her face. “That’s preposterous. We are no cat’s paw. We may not have the renown or balance sheet of your enterprise.”

  “It has to be. The stars are aligned in your favor. Give me the agreement that any defeat of an army of the Ottomans would be a cause of celebration, will you not?”

  “I will. You don’t have to be a Templar to believe that they and their like can no longer be left to dominate the world. Yet the greatest enemy to this is here, in this Metropolis, and its leadership, where power resides. This is who the Templars spend their hours rallying against.”

  “And I agree with you. And this is why I am lame. The House of Cheval is too intertwined within the pathways of power in the Metropolis to embark on such an expedition. We would be rapidly toppled, card-like, but Montgisard Corporation is nimble enough to avoid these imbroglios, rebel enough to have cover, and bold enough to act.”

  Clavdia put her open hands to her face, covering her eyes momentarily, and then her hands dragged down past her mouth. She spoke again. “We do not have the financial resources for all this would encompass.”

  “We are having the right conversation.” Carsten nodded. His facial features showed he was pleased. “This is why we are talking. Because I do.”

  Clavdia rested in the chair and placed her hands back on the armrests.