Rogue Angel 47: River of Nightmares (7 page)

When he appeared to tire of the walk, they returned to the benches. Roux was waiting. Charlemagne bowed and kissed her hand.

“Il a été très agréable, Annja Creed. Traiter l’épée bien. Jusqu’à ce que nous nous reverrons...”

“Yes, until we meet again.”

Then he was gone. She closed her eyes and listened, hearing Roux pacing nearby. Annja wondered what he would look like when she opened her eyes again. Different? A little, she confirmed. He had yet darker hair and even fewer lines on his face, more years disappeared. On the bench across from her was a slip of a girl. She hadn’t heard the child approach, though she could now smell her—flowers and youth.

At first Annja thought it was the thief she’d chased outside the airport. She was the same size and had the same smile. But there were no braces, and the clothes were plain, like an extra at a Renaissance Faire might wear.

Roux bowed deeply to the child and then faced Annja.
“Annja Creed, rencontrer mon cher, cher ami de Jeanne d’Arc.”

Annja shivered. Joan of Arc? Annja often thought of Joan, but never had thought of her this young. The girl was probably twelve or thirteen. At first she seemed plain, unremarkable. But the longer Annja stared, the more beautiful she realized the child was. Her eyes were clear and wide, face unblemished. The girl looked perfect and innocent, yet her mien was determined and her lips set firm.

Annja had no words for her imagined encounter with Christendom’s youngest martyr.

“My sword,” Joan said. Her voice was small, musical, but it could be heard easily through all the other sounds of this spot. “Only a moment ago, and yet so very long ago that was my sword you have in your lap. When I walked the earth at Chinon I sought a blade. It was in the Church of Saint Catherine of Fierbois. It was behind the altar with other weapons, all covered with rust. I knew the sword was there, the voices...
my
voices...told me it was there. Five crosses on it, and not deep beneath the ground. The prelates cleaned it for me, said the rust fell away like dust. And I was given two sheaths for it, one made of red velvet and the other of a golden cloth. Lovely, but not appropriate, thoughtful though. I thanked them for the gifts. But I had another made of strong leather, more practical. I told the inquisitors about it, the sword, and they asked where I had gotten the blade. They asked so many unnecessary questions. I told them the truth about the sword. But not
all
of the truth, for they were not of a mind to understand.”

Annja found her voice. “Understand? Understand what?”

“That I loved that sword like a mother would love a child. I loved Saint Catherine, and it was found in her church. They would not have understood that God delivered the blade to me when I was ready for it. And they would not have understood its purpose.”

By having Charlemagne’s grandfather bury it inside a church? Was that how it was delivered?

“And now you have the blade, since you were ready for it.”

“I can’t save the world,” Annja said. “And I can’t change the world with this sword.” Charlemagne said his grandfather asked if he could change the world with it. In her way, Joan had effected changes that stretched from her birth to her death...and that had ramifications for centuries beyond.

“You have saved many lives, dear Annja,” Joan said. “And saving even one person means that in their eyes, the world is forever changed.” She raised her chin. “And that, I believe, is the sword’s purpose.”

Are you real? Is any part of this real?
Annja rubbed at her temples.

Joan had aged in the moment Annja had looked away. She was still young, in her teens, but there were scars on her arms and she looked weary. Her clothes—pants and a discolored tunic, what a farmer might wear—were soiled. Annja had seen enough blood to know that the garments had been spattered with it, and the attempts to wash it out were not wholly successful. Yet, she didn’t smell blood on the girl, only the soft scent of sweet flowers. French flowers—fleur-di-lis.

Joan looked at Roux, and in that instant Annja saw his face soften and eyes become watery. His hands relaxed, and he mouthed something. Annja did not try to make it out, although this was her dream. Roux had been Joan’s knight. Annja looked down at the tips of her feet. Insects scurried along the ground in all directions, intensely colorful beetles. A butterfly lit on the ground, large and amazingly beautiful. Annja swore she could hear the gentle beat of its wings. Her gaze followed it as it rose and landed on the bench opposite her.

Joan of Arc was gone...Roux was at Annja’s side, looking older now, the decades rushing back upon his frame. She stood and took his offered arm. There were lines at the edges of his eyes, and they deepened as he escorted her through the village and to the earthenware tubs and then beyond them to the shaman’s hut. His hair was long and gray by the time he pulled the curtain back and gestured for her to go inside.

“Until we meet again,” he said.

Annja went inside and woke up to screaming.

Chapter 13

A dream! Joan of Arc, Charlemagne, Roux...all of it really had been a twisted and yet magically wonderful dream. Soul-satisfying.

Annja picked herself up from the hut floor. An oil lamp burned, revealing the hut’s interior—simple furnishings, animal skulls and primitive knickknacks. She was wearing the coarse piece of cloth, wrapped around her like it was a bath towel. Annja was alone in the shaman’s hut.

A look outside told her it was night. So she’d slept a few hours. That would explain why she felt so rested. And it probably also meant she’d slept so much that she’d have a hard time drifting off later tonight.

She stretched and looked to her pile of clothes, reached for them and stopped when a scream interrupted the chorus of insect sounds.

She thought she’d dreamt the scream.

But there it was again, and what she’d heard hadn’t been part of her dream. Wearing only the coarse cloth, Annja dashed outside. Immediately she felt the sword hovering anxiously. She summoned it, finding the feel of the pommel in her hand reassuring.

The foliage was so thick here that it was nearly impossible to make out the trunks of the closest trees. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and in the distance she saw the glow of a torch or a cook fire from the village. She hurriedly stumbled toward that, free hand out to her side to guide her and fingers brushing tree trunks, vines, a snake; feeling first the cool dampness of ground cover beneath her feet, then the biting rocks and broken pieces of wood. Her foot caught on a raised tree root and she went flying, the unseen ground rushing up to meet her. As she slammed into the earth, the air whooshed from her lungs and she instantly got back up and kept going, the sword still held tight in her hand.

Another scream, long and painful.

To her right, half the village was shrouded, but to her left the huts in the water and at the river’s edge were clearly visible. An incredible number of stars in the sky above the Amazon River glimmered like shiny silver sequins against a stretch of black velvet; they let Annja take in the grisly details. She raced forward.

The captain had warned them about alligators, and there was a large one on the shore, a villager firmly in its mouth. The unfortunate man screamed once more as Annja closed the distance. There were other villagers nearby, throwing rocks. Four men with spears jabbed at it, but it refused to release the man. It had already killed three men, bitten them in half, their blood and organs spilled on the bank and gleaming in the starlight. If she’d had anything left in her stomach....

Annja rushed past the spearmen and brought the blade down on the beast’s neck. It was a caiman, not an alligator, and twice the length of any caiman she’d seen, probably two dozen feet long and maybe two thousand pounds. It was squatter in appearance than an alligator, resembling a black armored tank on stumpy legs.

And it was fast.

Her sword bounced off its hide and she swung it again. She hated the notion of killing such a creature, but there was no choice. Its eyes were black marbles the size of billiard balls, unreadable but locked onto hers.

“Run!” She recognized D’jok’s voice.

“The captain!” That was Marsha, somewhere behind her. Annja kept her focus on the huge caiman.

“Annja, Marsha, the captain’s dead!” hollered Ned, who was on the deck of
Orellana’s Prize,
anchored a few yards out from the bank. A camera to his face, he was undoubtedly taking pictures, recording the grisly tableau for posterity. The channel certainly wouldn’t use the images.

The caiman spat out the dead villager and came toward Annja now, head swaying as it trundled, maw opening and fat tongue covered in blood.

Midway between the bank and the boat Annja saw a body—or rather part of a body—floating face-down in the river...what was left of Captain Almeirão. While she’d been dreaming with Joan and Charlemagne, and talking about swords...enjoying her mystical experience, people had been dying. Her “me time” had proven fatal to others.

“You have saved many lives, Annja.” She recalled the line from her dream, yet she hadn’t saved any of the caiman’s victims. Because she’d selfishly indulged herself.

She stepped in and redoubled her attack on the beast, darting one way and then the next, nearly slipping in the blood and feeling a stone hit her back that had been meant for the caiman. A few more stones pelted it, and the spearmen jumped in, but could not effectively pierce the thing’s thick hide. One lucky tribesman managed to lodge a spear into the caiman’s side, but it seemed to serve only as a minor irritant.

The spearmen skittered back and she continued to swing.

The creature could have filled the starring role in one of those cheesy SyFy movies, but this wasn’t animatronics; it was angry flesh and flashing teeth, she could smell it, a fetid odor that reminded her of death and rotting. A wave of the smell surged up from its belly and she gagged.

The spearmen yelled and jabbed, retreated and yelled again.

The caiman raised its head and opened its cavernous mouth wide, its teeth sparkling in the starlight.

“Annja! What are you doing?” Marsha’s voice called to her and she heard footsteps behind her. “It’ll kill you. Run! Get out of there!”

“Marsha, stay back! I’m okay.”

“Don’t get so close!” Marsha swept to Annja’s side, but stayed well away from the caiman. She had her video camera pressed to her face—more footage that even Doug would veto. “Keep away from it!”

Annja’s throat constricted when the beast turned, its eyes on Marsha now.

“Oh, no,” Marsha muttered. “Annja! Help me!”

Like lightning, the caiman shot toward a weaponless target, snout and tail brushing aside the spearmen who’d darted in again, sending one of them into the river. Annja leaped, barely registering a snapping-chittering sound that came from the water—piranha feasting. She pointed the sword down and wrapped both hands around the pommel, drove the blade as hard as she could as she fell onto the caiman’s back. The rough ridges of its carapace dug into her like a hundred little knives, and she clamped her teeth tight to keep from screaming. She pushed with all the strength she could summon, the tip of the blade digging even deeper into the caiman’s neck, then sinking in farther—through it and into the damp ground beneath.

Annja managed to drive the blade in all the way up to its hilt, pinning the caiman like an insect collector might pin an elephant beetle. The beast thrashed and threw Annja off, its tail striking her in the face. Annja felt dazed, and its tail lashed her again. She felt herself drifting, but Marsha slipped past its snapping jaws and pulled her away.

“Stay awake, Annja. Stay awake!”

Annja fought to stay conscious and focused so the sword would remain in this world. If she lost consciousness, the sword would vanish, the caiman would be free, and who knew how many more people it would kill.

The snapping-chittering from the water grew louder and a glance showed the surface choppy from the feeding frenzy.

“Those are piranha, aren’t they?” Marsha pulled Annja back even farther, falling once, but getting back up and pulling again. “Piranha, and they’re eating the captain.”

Something was eating the captain and any other villagers that had been tossed in the water. Annja protectively pushed Marsha behind her; the dizziness had passed. Starlight reflected off the blood pouring from the wound on the caiman’s neck. It continued to thrash and the sword wiggled like it was working itself free.

“Black!” Marsha shouted. She’d picked up her camera again. “It would have to be black, wouldn’t it? Black monster. Black river. Damn night. It’ll take some finessing to get it to show up on screen. But it’ll be awesome footage to go with our series.”

Annja’s empty stomach roiled. The loss of life, and Marsha was thinking about
Chasing History’s Monsters.
No wonder Doug hired her...they were very much alike. But even Doug would refuse to show all this death.

The entire village had turned out by now. Men and women continued to throw spears that bounced off the caiman’s hide and pelt it with rocks. Annja picked up a dropped spear and hollered for everyone to stay back.

The scent of the creature and its blood, coupled with the blood of its victims, filled her senses and made her lightheaded. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and edged closer, mindful of its tail and snapping jaws and ignoring the nervous talk of the villagers. The caiman remained pinned at the neck, but Annja could tell it wouldn’t for much longer. And she concentrated to keep the sword in this world and not let it vanish to its resting place.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Marsha called. “I’ve got new batteries in and everything.”

“Oh, come on,” Annja said, annoyed. “Put the camera down.” Time to end this, she decided. She sprinted forward, avoiding its buffeting tail, and landed on its back. She crouched to keep her balance. The thing gyrated, trying to throw her off.

How to kill it quickly? The caiman’s hide was impossibly tough. It had taken all her strength to jab the sword through its neck, and this spear was a poor weapon. The sword then; it was her only recourse. She’d try using it again, aiming for the spine this time. Sever the spine and kill it.

Now! She dropped the spear and with both hands grabbed the pommel of her sword, gritted her teeth, and yanked with all the strength she could put into it. At first the sword defied her efforts. But she tried again and was finally rewarded.

The blade came up, but the act set her off balance and she slipped from its back.

“Annja!” Marsha screamed. “Annja!”

The beast was on her, whirling one way and slapping her with its tail, then bending the other direction so its jaws could reach her, its teeth scraped her leg as she scrambled out of the way. She raised the sword again as it shot forward and it didn’t miss this time. Its teeth clamped onto her leg. The pain was excruciating, white-hot daggers sinking in and burning like acid. She screamed, sweeping the sword down across its snout, trying to make it release her. The blade bit in, but not far enough to cause serious harm. She swung again, but the blade bounced off.

The beast dragged her through the blood of its previous victims, then into the water. The caiman’s jaws were locked so tight that she couldn’t free herself. She felt her heart pounding, as if it were bursting from her chest.

“Annja!” Marsha splashed into the water, spearmen at her side, some of them hurling spears and almost hitting her. Marsha retreated and kept filming.

A part of Annja prayed the caiman would actually bite her leg off so she could crawl away, but that didn’t happen. It tugged her out farther, where the water was turbulent from the feasting piranha. She swung once more, feeling the blade sink into its flesh.

She jerked the sword free and Annja had just enough time to grab a breath before the caiman took her under, beneath the feeding frenzy. It dragged her across the rocky bottom, objects she couldn’t see scraping her arms and face and adding to her agony.

She could no longer effectively swing the sword, the water a barrier that slowed the blade’s course. Annja shifted her hold on the weapon, at the same time kicking at the caiman with her free leg—another exercise in futility. Using the blade like a spear, she jabbed at it again and again. But she couldn’t see and didn’t know if she was hurting it. Everything was black. She was effectively blind.

Be well, Roux had told her, take care of yourself.

He’d been worried about her for a reason, though unknown at the time. Fate or whatever was telling him that Annja would die on this trip, that the sword would be lost until it landed in the grip of yet another warrior. How many centuries would pass in the meantime?

Annja was losing.

She didn’t fear death...or rather she hadn’t until this point. Fear coursed through her now—as firmly rooted as the pain radiating from her leg. But there was no direction to the fear, her sense of terror chaotic and unfocused and all-consuming. How much longer would she suffer? When would the real blackness come? And was there something on the other side?

The river was at the same time turbulent and caressing, and the caiman’s stumpy legs churned the water into a roar. What would it feel like, she wondered, when she came to the boundary of death, would oblivion be fragile or hard as stone?

Annja didn’t want to find out—not here anyway, not now. Not in the Amazon and not to a hungry caiman that had already slaughtered too many people.

She couldn’t quit just yet.

Her lungs screamed for air as she jabbed the sword where she figured the beast’s jaws must be. She’d cut off her own leg in the process if she had to. One leg in exchange for her life? A fair price.

Eyes wide open, the world was utterly black. What was it D’jok had told her about sight blocking her other senses? She listened, and thought she heard the caiman moan in pain.

She couldn’t tell how far down below the surface it had pulled her, but she felt the pressure of the river against her ears.

Her senses still achingly acute from the dreaming experience, she felt things brush her skin...plants, fish with tiny scales. Each touch was distinct and lingering. She felt the warmth of the blood that continued to pour from the wound on her leg. The captain’s words came to mind about the dangers of getting blood in the water and how it changes everything.

Well, there was plenty of blood in the water now.

Slicing her leg in the process, she managed to work the blade between the caiman’s jaws, and she heard it scream, an unnerving spine-jarring sound. She’d seriously hurt it this time. She jammed the blade in farther, pulled it back, then once more and—

Freedom! The beast had released her!

There was more blood—its blood mingling with hers, mingling with the river. She could smell it, feel it, the blood warmer than the water. And there was more movement, too, more fish with tiny scales brushing up against her, the caiman gyrating nearby. All these things she pictured as...

The piranha! There are piranha down here! Not content with the bodies on the surface.

“Watch your step,” the captain had advised.