The Frenzy War
Authors: Gregory Lamberson
DEDICATED, WITH LOVE, TO MY DAUGHTER,
KAELIN
Published 2012 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 by Gregory Lamberson
Cover illustration by Patrick Reilly
Cover design by James Tampa
Edited by Lorie Popp Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
ISBN# 9781605424538
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I'd like to thank my wife, Tamar, for providing the occasional English into Spanish translation and everyone at Medallion Press for their continuing and superlative support. Special thanks to my editor, Lorie Popp Jones, for keeping track of the multitude of characters and timelines that grow increasingly complex as The Frenzy Cycle and The Jake Helman Files progress.
“We have many (rules), but the most critical are these.
âDo not kill man.'
âDo not reveal your true self to man.'
âDo not endanger yourself or your pack.'”
âAngela Domini
to NYPD Captain Anthony Mace
Luce, Italy
T
he iron hammer struck the red-hot silver with all the strength Marcelino Bianchi could muster, fusing together the two halves of the long object lying upon the anvil. Marcelino had labored as a metalworker, a blacksmith, and a silversmith for two decades, and his muscles had become as hewn as the stone face of a mighty cliff. He had learned the trades from his father, who had apprenticed under his own father and now helped Marcelino manage his business. Marcelino had taken his son, Petro, as his apprentice, but he wanted neither his father nor his son to help him now. This was his chance to serve God.
Sweat seared Marcelino's eyes, but still he hammered away at the silver, flattening the blade, reshaping it, making it whole again. He approached his work with the fervor of an acolyte, taking strength and satisfaction from his efforts.
The clanging in his ears, like the tearing of his muscles, inspired him to work harder, to serve those men who served his Lord. Perspiration soaked the long-sleeved shirt he wore beneath his leather apron.
When he finished his task, he seized the weapon's hand-carved handle and drove the great blade into a chest filled with ice, heaving a sigh as steam hissed around him. He found the process purifying and wondered how it would feel to wield the sword in combat.
As she drove through the hilly terrain in her silver Fiat 500, admiring the view of the mountains in the distance ahead, Valeria Rapero engaged in small talk with her passenger, Father Jonas Tudoro.
She thought of the aged priest as a father figure, for he had placed her with a foster family when her parents had died in an automobile crash in Tuscany when she was eight years old and had looked in on her from time to time, monitoring her progress and encouraging her studies. When she turned thirteen, Valeria's foster parents sent her to a private Catholic school, and again Tudoro had checked on her status. His visits became so frequent that he became a mentor to her, and as she neared graduation, he came to her with a proposal.
“The church has need of your services,” he said one sunny afternoon on the school grounds. “We've cared for you for nine years. Will you repay us with nine years of service?”
“Of course,” she said. “You know I will.”
Now, seven years later, after rigorous physical training,
Valeria found herself escorting her mentor to the medieval village of Luce, a ninety-minute drive from Rome. Trees lush with green foliage parted, and the dirt road gave way to a driveway, which led to a three-story stone house that had once been an abbey.
Valeria parked the car and shut off the ignition, and she and Tudoro got out of the two-door compact. A gust of hot, dry wind blew long strands of blonde hair into Valeria's eyes, and she brushed them over one ear. She scanned the bright green yard around the house and saw no sign of children.
A tall man with broad shoulders and a bushy mustache exited the rear of the house, which had a separate roof. A shop, Valeria supposed. The man wore a scorched leather apron, and as he approached them with a wide smile, he removed suede work gloves and stuffed them into the apron's blackened pouch.
“Welcome back, Father.” The man's sweat-soaked hair was black, even though he appeared to be middle-aged.
Valeria gazed at the veins in his piston-like arms and felt her own muscles tensing on instinct.
“Thank you, Marcelino.” Returning the smile, Tudoro shook the man's hand. “This is Valeria, my protégé.”
Marcelino glanced at Valeria, his face registering surprise. Valeria had grown accustomed to such looks. Tudoro was a Catholic priest with gray hair, and she was a young woman not unaware of her attractive appearance. They made an unusual pair whenever they traveled together.
Marcelino offered her a polite bow. “Miss Valeria.”
“How do you do?” Valeria spoke in a respectful tone as
she had been taught. Despite Marcelino's powerful-looking physique, Valeria knew she could take him in a fight, but there was no need for her to dress down his ego.
Marcelino gestured to the back of the house. “I'm all ready for you.”
Allowing Tudoro to walk beside Marcelino, Valeria brought up the rear, searching the trees for movement. Whenever she accompanied the priest, she acted as his unofficial bodyguard, whether he realized it or not. She would allow nothing to happen to him while he was under her protection.
Marcelino led them into his dark shop, where he closed the wooden door and slid a dead bolt into place.
Valeria eyed the cluttered interior. Chains hung from the wooden beams in the ceiling. Hammers and accessories covered shelves. Silver trays and goblets arranged on a display shelf awaited pickup. A massive anvil dominated the center of the room. She noted a large furnace, a rack filled with precision tools, and an ice chest filled with water. The room felt at least twenty degrees hotter than the outside temperature, and sweat dampened her brow.
Marcelino picked up a narrow box four feet long and set it atop the anvil. Valeria thought the box contained a rifle.
“For your approval,” the blacksmith said.
Tudoro looked at Valeria. “Open it.”
Valeria felt her eyebrows rising and saw Marcelino's do the same.
Tudoro's eyes twinkled. “Go on. It's yours. Why do you think I brought you along? I'm still quite capable of driving myself.”
Valeria moved toward the anvil, the soles of her boots whispering across the floor. With great care, she opened the box, revealing the scabbard and sword within. Using both hands, she removed the sheathed sword. Surprised by its heft, she brought the weapon close to her face, like a cross, and inspected the carvings on its handle: on one side, the head of a man wearing a hood low over his eyes; on the other, the features of a snarling wolf, with two red jewels serving as its eyes. Rotating the sword, she studied the heads in profile, facing in opposite directions.
A shiver of excitement ran through her body. Valeria knew about the swordsâshe had studied their historyâbut had never expected to hold, let alone possess, one. Drawing the sword from its scabbard, she wielded it with one hand, not an easy task, and the silver blade gleamed even in the dull light. Only scarred metal a foot above the pommel revealed the sword had once been broken. After setting the scabbard down, she grasped the sword with both hands and resisted the urge to show off her fencing skills in front of Marcelino.
The Blade of Salvation,
she thought.
