Mystic Warrior Read online

  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.”

  Titles in this series:

  Destiny

  Solomon’s Jar

  The Spider Stone

  The Chosen

  Forbidden City

  The Lost Scrolls

  God of Thunder

  Secret of the Slaves

  Warrior Spirit

  Serpent’s Kiss

  Provenance

  The Soul Stealer

  Gabriel’s Horn

  The Golden Elephant

  Swordsman’s Legacy

  Polar Quest

  Eternal Journey

  Sacrifice

  Seeker’s Curse

  Footprints

  Paradox

  The Spirit Banner

  Sacred Ground

  The Bone Conjurer

  Tribal Ways

  The Dragon’s Mark

  Phantom Prospect

  Restless Soul

  False Horizon

  The Other Crowd

  Tear of the Gods

  The Oracle’s Message

  Cradle of Solitude

  Labyrinth

  Fury’s Goddess

  Magic Lantern

  Library of Gold

  The Matador’s Crown

  City of Swords

  The Third Caliph

  Staff of Judea

  The Vanishing Tribe

  Clockwork Doomsday

  Blood Cursed

  Sunken Pyramid

  Treasure of Lima

  River of Nightmares

  Grendel’s Curse

  The Devil’s Chord

  Celtic Fire

  The Pretender’s Gambit

  Death Mask

  Bathed in Blood

  Day of Atonement

  Beneath Still Waters

  The Mortality Principle

  Mystic Warrior

  Alex Archer

  Rogue Angel

  Mystic Warrior

  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

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  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.”

  “I am your lord! I am your king and your master. God will punish you for what you do.”

  “Might I remind you that God does not favor you overmuch these days?” Pepin gestured to the papal representatives sent by Pope Zachary who were seated on the other side of the long table.

  “Sacrilege. You have bought off the Greek scoundrel who pretends to listen to holy words! You cannot buy off God, you wretched creature, and you doom your eternal soul to play at such games.”

  Lifting his wine goblet, Pepin drank to give himself a moment to control his anger. He focused on enjoying the power he wielded. Carefully, he replaced the goblet on the table. “For eleven years, I have toiled as mayor of the palace, caring for your household and running your kingdom while you took no note of the business affairs and trade agreements that kept our country running. You were nothing more than a figurehead, as was your father before you.

  “The time has come for the true power to step forward from the shadows. I shall be crowned king, and I will rule as I have always done. Only now I shall be recognized.” Pepin glared at the man. “There is only one thing that I require from you.”

  “I will give you nothing. I will fight you until my dying breath.”

  Pepin shrugged. “I can ensure that release from this mortal coil is a long time in coming, with plenty of pain before.”

  Theuderic spoke before his father could, and the younger man’s words cracked with fear. “What could you possibly still want from us, you monster? You have already taken all that we have.”

  Childeric placed a hand against his son’s chest, perhaps afraid of the wrath Pepin would visit on him.

  “In all the years I have managed your affairs, I have never found the hidden treasure of the Merovingian kings.” Pepin swirled the contents of his wine goblet.

  Theuderic looked to his father in confusion. Childeric sat back in his seat and his eyes shone.

  “I have listened to legends and rumors about this treasure.” Pepin wanted to remain silent, but he found he could not still his tongue. “Before me, my father, may God rest his soul, gave his life in service to your family. During all that time, he heard bits and rumors about the mysterious object, an unholy and unwholesome thing of dark magic hammered on a forge in hell, that protected the Merovingian kings from their enemies.”

  “You think I will tell you?” Childeric smiled slightly.

  Pepin paused to sip more wine. “I do not think such a treasure exists. Do you know what saved the Merovingian kings from the bloodthirsty Saxons? From the caliphate’s men at the Battle of Tours?” He paused, and when there was no answer forthcoming, he slapped his hand against the table. “My father did that. And he bent Frisia, Alemannia and Bavaria to his will.” He banged his fist against the table once more. “My father. Not some demon-spawned thing your family has claimed to hold captive.”

  The innkeeper, a short, thin man with a long face and deep-set eyes, stepped into the dining hall. Other men stood behind the innkeeper. The scuff of their boots announced them, and the rattle of their armor and weapons gave them away.

  Pepin sat for a moment, frozen in surprise that there would be any who would dare such aggression against him.

  “I am sorry, my lord.” The innkeeper wrung his hands, then lurched forward as a blade burst through his chest. Blood spilled down his quivering lips as he struggled to stand. Then the soldier behind the dead man kicked the corpse forward, freeing his blade.

  A dozen armored men swarmed into the dining hall. Their drawn blades flashed in the firelight.

  Pepin heaved himself from his seat and freed his sword from the scabbard beside the table. He was not a gifted fighting man, but his father had trained him in the way of the sword.

  Steel shrieked and bit, and the screams of dying men filled the dining hall. In mere moments, blood covered the stone floor and made footing treacherous. The attackers fought with skill and fury, but Pepin had chosen some of his best warriors to accompany him on his journey with the deposed king and the prince.

  With his back nearly to the wall, Pepin blocked another swing, then reached to his waist for the long knife he carried there. He fisted it and turned aside another blow, then slid beneath the bigger man’s right arm as the heavy sword cut the air over his head. Before the man could turn, Pepin thrust his knife between the man’s ribs in the chain mail opening under his arm.

  Even though the man was already dying, Pepin shoved the knife into the man’s throat and robbed him of the last few seconds of his life. Breathing hard, Pepin studied the room. Though his men had been surprised, they had recovered quickly. Corpses now littered the dining hall, and only a few of them were his soldiers.

  Childeric knelt on the floor and bled profusely from his nose while two soldiers with drawn blades flanked him. The soon-to-be-deposed king swayed unsteadily and looked disoriented. Theuderic lay on the floor nearby with a sword to his throat, his eyes round with fear.

  “Do you see?” Childeric gazed balefully at Pepin. “My people will never accept you as their king. They will fight for me. This night or some day later, they will kill you.”

  “These men?” Pepin spit on the corpse nearest him. “These are not warriors who sought to aid you. These men were brigands hoping only to loot who they presumed to be only wealthy travelers, not soldiers. You cling to false hopes, Childeric, and it does not become you.”

  “Liar!”

  Pepin strode over to Childeric. The king struggled to get to his feet, but the soldiers beside him held him in check.

  Pepin sheathed his sword and the clang of metal against metal suddenly filled the hall. “I grow weary of your lack of acceptance of reality.” He held the bloody knife before his prisoner. Pepin knotted a fist in Childeric’s hair. “Tell me what I want to know and I will suffer you to live.”

  Childeric glared up at him. “Never. You will live in fear of the Merovingian power coming back to strike you down.”

  “Father!” Theuderic tried to push away the sword holding him in place. Instead, the blade bit into his unprotected chest and he lay there helplessly.

  “I will not live in fear. And I will have your secrets. If they exist.”

  Childeric locked his eyes on Pepin’s. “For everything, runt, there is a time. God made this so. You will regret everything you have done.”

  For just a moment as he looked into the other man’s gaze, Pepin felt the cold breath of fear.

  1

  Present day

  Annja Creed sat braced in the passenger seat of the burnt-orange Lamborghini and tried to divide her attention between the GPS screen on the dashboard and the late-afternoon traffic in West Los Angeles as they peeled around yet another corner. Traffic flashed by, though the number of cars was sparser than she had thought it would be. Los Angeles gridlocked a lot, and the streets were often choked with stalled vehicles.

  Of course, their luck could end around the next corner, which was coming up much too quickly. She pulled her chestnut hair back and tied it in a ponytail. Dressed in charcoal pants, a dark green pullover and a short-waisted jacket, Annja had been prepared to spend the day at the Hollywood lot where she was curren
tly consulting on a movie.

  Riding kamikaze through LA traffic hadn’t been on her itinerary.

  The voice streaming from the GPS was a steamy contralto Annja hadn’t heard before, but it sounded familiar and comforting.

  “Steven, you need to make a right turn in one hundred feet.”

  The voice had to be a custom package. That was something Steven Krauzer would want as a member of Hollywood’s elite director-producers.

  “Turn now, Steven.” The car slung around the corner and the tires shrieked and slipped wildly before grabbing traction again. Annja’s seat belt tightened around her. She was safe, for the moment, but certainly not comfortable. Especially with an insane person behind the wheel.

  On his best days, Steven Krauzer was believed to be not quite in touch with the real world. This wasn’t a good day at all.

  Several more car horns blared in protest as the Lamborghini powered through the turn, holding contact with the street through what had to be the thinnest layer of rubber. A cab loomed before them, growing larger as they approached. For a moment Annja saw the Lamborghini’s volatile color reflected in the shiny chrome bumper, but Krauzer yanked the wheel to the right, went up on the cracked sidewalk momentarily, then pressed harder on the accelerator. “Did anyone ever tell you that I trained to race at NASCAR?” Krauzer sat grinning confidently in the driver’s seat, belted in by a five-point system.

  “No.” Annja caught herself lifting her foot for a brake pedal that wasn’t there. With effort, she put her foot back on the floor.

  In his early thirties, and one of Hollywood’s wunderkinder as a child of famous parents—his father a powerful producer of movies and his mother an international film star—Steven Krauzer never really had time for anyone else in his life. He was lean and muscular, and he trained in a gym with near-fanatical devotion. He wore Chrome Hearts Kufannaw II sunglasses over dark eyes, and his black chinstrap beard matched his short-cropped hair. His jeans were custom-made and full of holes, and the tailored beige Carhartt men’s work shirt gave him that everyman look he cultivated. He was egocentric, prideful and a prima donna, but he tried to put himself out there as just one of the guys. Krauzer’s image was as much a production as any movie he’d ever directed.