Mystic Warrior. Alex Archer

38

       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.”