.45 Caliber Soul
Chapter 3 – Blue Silk and Bad AttitudeI was a second or two away from being beheaded when this blur of light blue silk came out of nowhere and engaged the guy who was coming at me. She—it was a lady, whoever it was—blocked his sword stroke with her own sword, deflecting it down. He disengaged his blade and swung around for another stroke at her, but before he could do anything more, she hit him in the chest with a flying kick. He flew backwards into the communion rail; his sword clattered across the stone floor.
Before anyone else could react, she leaped toward him, her sword coming down in a killing stroke—which stopped abruptly a couple inches from his left ear. The teenager gasped. The girl in the blue silk held her sword there above blond guy's face a second or two, then backed away and sheathed it. "Just kidding," she giggled.
"Swords are not toys," Mitsurugi muttered in disapproval.
I had the .45 out by this time, but I wasn't going to need it. The blond guy was no longer in a fighting mood. Fact is, he looked downright embarrassed. I reholstered the gun and walked up to the lady in blue silk. "Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," she said. She was Asian, a little shorter than me, and drop-dead pretty. "Next time, pay attention to what's behind you," she added, half-teasingly.
"I'll do that," I said. She had deep green eyes. You could go swimming in those eyes they were so deep. It took a lot of effort, but I came up for air and turned my attention to the blond guy. "Nice to meet you, too," I said, with as much attitude as I could muster. "I'm Seamus O'Malley."
"Raphael Sorel," he said wearily.
"And this lovely lady," I continued, going for an air of playful nonchalance, "is my new best friend, ah . . . I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced."
"Chen Xanghua," she said, giving me an insolent little bow and a smile that had trouble written all over it. She was pretty, she was handy with a sword, and she had an attitude. How could you not like a girl like that?
The five of us spent about a half hour or so exchanging stories, uninterrupted by more sudden entrances or attempted beheadings. My companions were, as they say, a diverse lot. The lovely Xanghua was from Imperial China, one of the dynasties before the colonial period. She was the daughter of a nobleman, and a trained martial artist. She didn't have bound feet, though I'm not sure what that indicated. Did I mention that she was pretty, too?
Raphael was from France, after the Revolution but before Napoleon. He had a roguish manner about him, and could more than match Xanghua in the attitude department. He claimed to be a nobleman, or at least a wannabee nobleman, who'd been chased out of house and home by the revolutionaries and was living on the run—but then again, maybe he was on the run because he was one of those people who's always involved in something on the ragged edge of illegal. It could have been either, or both. He mentioned an adopted daughter, and if he cared for anything beyond his own survival and enrichment, it was that little girl.
The teenage girl was named Talim, and she was thirteen or fourteen. Like most girls that age, she was self-conscious and uncertain of herself. Those two short swords she carried had dual handles, one in the usual place, and one at a right angle to the blade, and like I said before, she handled them like she knew what she was doing. As best I could figure she was from the Philippines or New Guinea or Borneo or somewhere, and Raphael and I were the first white people she'd ever seen.
I've already told you about Mitsurugi, the Catholic samurai. One serious dude. You couldn't help but respect him, and even start to like him, even though he wasn't the friendliest sort.
"So, where is this place?" Talim asked. The question was directed at me. Somewhere in the course of the conversation, it seemed that the other four had elected me leader of the group. I didn't consciously try to assert control over the group. Maybe I did it without realizing because I'm an officer and I come off like I'm used to being in charge. Maybe they were deferring to me because my equipment was more technologically advanced and, being from a time after theirs, I had an advantage in knowledge. Maybe it was just my natural charm and good looks—yeah, right! Whatever the reason, I found myself serving as acting squad leader and all-round answer man.
"We're in Europe someplace," I said. She frowned. "I know that doesn't tell you a whole lot. Europe is . . . the part of the world that Raphael is from, and where my ancestors are from. If I had to guess more precisely, I would say we're in Germany." She sort of half-smiled; I guess it was a good enough description. "There's obviously some sort of conflict in progress, but the main fighting is somewhere else, at least for now. None of us are from this time and place, and the only thing we all have in common is that we're trained in some sort of combat skill. I think we all agree we're not supposed to be fighting each other"—Xanghua gave Raphael a look that was half admonishment, half teasing—"so I can only assume we're here to work together."
"But for what purpose?" Mitsurugi asked.
"I suspect it's something to do with that town over there," I replied. "Even if it isn't, it's probably a good idea to go over that way and look around." I glanced up at the overcast. "Plus, if the weather turns bad, we might want to be someplace a little more sheltered than this." I looked down at Talim. "We ought to find you some warmer clothing while we're at it; you're a little under-dressed for this climate." I paused for a moment; I really didn't want to be making all the decisions for everyone. "That is, unless you guys want to do something else."
"No," Xanghua said, "we should go into the town."
"Well, then," Raphael said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to Talim. "Let the dance begin."
There was a wide path from the church to the town; about halfway across the field between them, the path crossed a shallow stream on a rough wooden bridge. We were nearly to the bridge when we saw the first body.
The guy was laying halfway under the bridge, and to judge from the condition of the body—I've gained some experience in judging these things after two years in Afghanistan—he'd been dead for two or three days. He was dressed in crude, military-style clothing. There were blackish bloodstains on his shirt and trousers. It looked as though he'd crawled under there after being shot.
Did he die alone, or did someone stay with him to the end? Was he one of the defenders? Or one of the attackers? Had he crawled in here to hide after his compatriots retreated? Or were his buddies so busy looting the town they'd forgotten to come back for him? For that matter, if we found ourselves between the two contending armies, who were the good guys and who were the bad guys? I had no way of knowing.
"May his soul find peace," Mitsurugi said quietly.
"Poor devil," Raphael muttered.
Mitsrugi climbed down the stream bank to get a better look. He picked up a long gun that was laying in the weeds nearby. "It is a musket," he declared, "but I do not know its kind."
He handed it up to me. It was heavy, with a huge bore, bigger than a fifty-cal. Instead of the usual flintlock, it had a small steel disc with a flint held against it. "An old wheel-lock," Raphael said.
"Define 'old,'" I asked him.
"Muskets like that have not been made in almost a hundred years," he answered, "ah, . . . at least where I come from, that is."
The French Revolution was 1789 . . . minus a hundred and a bit more for a fudge factor . . . made it the seventeenth century, sixteen-hundred-and-something, local time.
"How can it work without a match?" Mitsurugi asked.
"When you pull the trigger," Raphael explains, "a clockwork spins the wheel, which strikes sparks off a piece of flint, and that ignites your powder charge."
"You know how to handle one of these?" I asked him. He nodded. "Good, we could use the firepower." I handed it to him. "You're hired." I looked down at Mitsurugi. "See if you can find some powder and shot."
Talim was looking at us, a worried expression on her face. Raphael noticed it too. "Well," he said, "it's not as though that poor fellow will be using it any longer."
We found the dead guy's ammunition pouch, Mitsurugi climbed back up, and we started across the bridge. Talim was still acting like she had the creeping willies. I suppose that if I'd been fourteen or fifteen or sixteen and come across something like that for the first time, I'd be a little rattled, too. After a few days up in the mountains of Afghanistan, it's amazing how fast you get used to seeing some pretty ugly things. They still bother you, but you learn not to let the fact that it bothers you bother you. Sounds crazy, I know, but that's life in the back country.
"Talim, come on," Xanghua said, trying to sound reassuring.
Talim pointed off in the distance. "Something is coming."
"I don't see anything," Raphael said.
"No, wait," Mitsurugi said quietly. "Horses."
I heard it, too. The sound of horses moving at a good clip. Lots of them. Coming our way.
. . . to be continued . . .