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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4

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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.”

“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 currently 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.

“In one hundred twenty feet, turn left onto West Pico Boulevard, Steven.”

Krauzer was already sailing through the intersection. He missed colliding with a city bus by inches. “You know,” Annja said, “there’s really no rush to find Melanie.”

For a moment, the cool, cocky composure Krauzer displayed evaporated. He curled his left hand into a fist and banged it on the steering wheel.

“Melanie Harp stole from me! She took that scrying crystal because she knew I was going to need it for the scenes today. She’s trying to destroy my film.”

“She probably doesn’t even know the theft has been discovered.” The realization that the scrying crystal was missing had occurred only a little over twenty minutes ago. Since Annja had been hired as an expert on the authenticity of the props, Krauzer had demanded she come with him to find the woman he believed had taken the scrying crystal.

“Ha!” Krauzer reached down and flicked the gearshift, skidding through another corner and nearly locking bumpers with a delivery truck that pulled hastily to the side. “That just goes to show that you might know a lot about anthropology, but you don’t know squat about Hollywood.”

Archaeology.

But she didn’t press the issue, because it would only serve to distract the director. Since she’d been in LA serving as a consultant on his movie, Krauzer hadn’t paid attention to her anyway.

Krauzer hadn’t even known about her show, Chasing History’s Monsters. She’d been requested as a consultant on the film by one of the producers. When Krauzer had discovered she was something of a celebrity herself, he hadn’t been happy. He’d warned her about becoming a distraction to the filming. What he had meant was she shouldn’t steal any of the the director’s thunder.

Chasing History’s Monsters had a large international fan base, and Annja enjoyed doing the show. She strove for actual historical authenticity and audiences responded well to her stories. An elf witch’s scrying stone, however, was off the beaten path for an archaeologist.

“If you check social media,” Krauzer went on, “I’m sure someone has posted about the theft of the elf witch’s scrying crystal. Five minutes after Melanie Harp took that thing, you can bet the whole world knew. No. We’re going to be lucky if she hasn’t left town and gone back to wherever it is she’s from.” He looked at Annja. “Do you know where she’s from?”

“No.”

Krauzer returned his attention to the streets. “I thought you might have known.”

“Why would I know?”

Krauzer shrugged. “She’s a girl. You’re a girl. Girls talk.”

Annja struggled not to take offense at the offhand summation, but it was difficult. She took out her smartphone, entered the security code and studied the viewscreen when it opened up the websites she’d been inspecting.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“When we found out the scrying crystal was missing, I programmed in some online movie memorabilia sites to see if the prop showed up there. In case Melanie is trying to sell it.”

“The prop? Seriously? Just yesterday you were telling me that we might have a real artifact on our hands. You were begging me for a chance to examine it. Now the elf witch’s scrying crystal is a prop?”

Begging was a strong word. After seeing the crystal briefly in one of the scenes Krauzer had shot the previous day, Annja had been curious about the piece. She wasn’t all that invested in the crystal. She’d wanted to see it, but Krauzer had refused, insisting that the crystal had to be locked up when the filming had finally finished. She’d known the director was deliberately throwing his weight around.

Annja hadn’t lost any sleep over not getting to see the crystal—even if that seriously hampered the job she’d been paid to come here and do!—but the possibility that it might be authentic kept scratching at her mind. Los Angeles—California in general—was a melting pot of the world’s history.

Annja had planned on taking advantage of the movie deal to pursue research into Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, the Portuguese explorer who had sailed under a Spanish flag to explore the West Coast of North America. Annja had turned up some rumors on the alt.history and alt.archaeology sites she’d wanted to check out while she was in town. And Doug Morrell, her producer on the television show, had wanted her to investigate sightings of “ghost pirates” he’d heard about on some late-night radio show.

The research she’d done on Cabrillo had actually led to her interest in Krauzer’s so-called prop, but she hadn’t told him that.

And now the scrying crystal had been stolen and might disappear before she got to find out.

“If Melanie took the scrying crystal—” Annja began.

“Which she did!”

“—then she might think of selling it on one of those sites. How much do you think it’s worth?”

Krauzer cursed. “Fans are idiots! Do you remember when that comic-book artist, the guy who drew Spider-Man or something, paid over $3 million for a baseball?”

“That was Mark McGwire’s seventieth home run in the 1998 season.”

“You’re a baseball fan?”

Annja shrugged. “I live in Brooklyn.”

“Baseball. Bunch of guys standing around waiting for stuff to happen.” Krauzer blew a raspberry. “My point is, this comic-book-sketch guy blew the prices for collectible baseballs for a long time. And they’re baseballs! They sell those everywhere. You can write anybody’s name on them. But that scrying crystal? That’s one of a kind. I made sure of that.”

Annja believed it was one of a kind, too. She needed to study it. “If she was smart, she’d sell the crystal back to you.”

“Me?”

“You’d pay for it if you had to, and you’d pay a lot. You’ve got it insured, right?”

“Of course I’ve got it insured. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?” Annja ignored the question, certain Krauzer really didn’t want to hear her answer.

“Insurance companies routinely pay off on buyback situations.”

“This is something you know about?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Behind the sunglasses, Krauzer’s features knotted up in suspicion.

“Insurance companies have sometimes hired me to verify a certificate of authenticity on objects that were stolen and bought back. Sometimes thieves have created copies of the stolen items and attempt to sell those to insurance companies, doubling down on the original theft.”

“That cannot happen. I cannot shoot this movie with a counterfeit. Do you know what would happen to my reputation if I did something like that? When fans go to see a Steven Krauzer picture, they see a genuine Steven Krauzer picture. There’s nothing fake about it!”

Krauzer slammed on the brake hard enough that the seat belt cut into Annja as it held her to the seat. The tortured shriek of shredding rubber echoed through the neighborhood, and the Lamborghini came to a stop half on the street and half on the sidewalk.

Leaning over, Krauzer popped open the glove compartment and took out a nickel-plated revolver with a six-inch barrel. “Let’s go.”

He opened the car door and got out.

2

Shocked at the sight of the gun and the director’s apparent willingness to use it, Annja was a step behind Krauzer as he strode toward the building. She caught up to him as he slid the big pistol in his waistband at his back and covered it up with his shirttail.

“A gun?” Annja asked. “Seriously?”

“Having a gun makes people listen to you.”

“Do you even know how to use it?”

“Of course I do.” Krauzer shook his head. “I cut my teeth on guns-and-ammo movies. Action stuff. Science fiction. I had to know how to use guns so I could film actors using them. You wouldn’t believe how many times directors get it wrong because they don’t know how to use a gun and the actors don’t know, either. Big case of the blind leading the blind.”