The Pythagoras Curse Part XII

Australia Bound

I suppose the band of outlaws encircling Johannes and I outside the cabin thought it a strange spectacle indeed.

Standing opposite each other, dressed in tunics of our order we both fitted our great helms on our heads and raised our swords in salute.

“It does not have to be this way Johannes. I care not for how you live your life, but I do not wish to take it.”

“Ah Petra, we shall see whose life is taken.”

With that, Johannes rushed forward, his long sword perpendicular to the ground. He thrust it in the direction of my chest and I parried his blade then stepped to my left intent to swing my blade around and catch him in the flank.

But he was quick, and prepared.

Pivoting off his right foot he spun, chopping his sword against my blade driving the tip of my sword into the ground. At the same time he plucked a Quillion from a scabbard at his hip and slashed at my chest.

The pain of the cut seared its way across my chest and I stepped back offering myself a momentary inspection of a deep crimson line staining my tunic.

Although I knew it was the last thing I should have done.

Johannes was on me the next second, his long blade glinting against the afternoon sun as he swung it down with full intent of cleaving my body in two at the neck.

I only had enough time to grasp my sword with both hands and shield his onslaught with the flat of my blade. An action which staved off his initial attack but sliced the palms of both of my hands.

He stepped back then pressed forward again, this time swinging low at my legs.

Had it not been for the pommel of my sword I would have dropped it. The blood seeping from both hands made the grip slippery, almost impossible to hold.

And yet, somehow I did, barely managing to drop the blade low enough to parry his sweeping attack and spin away.

Again he charged at me, this time sweeping his long sword in chopping attacks against my left side then my right. Cruel, punishing blows against the flat of my blade the force of which caused me to stumble back each time. He knew as I did these blows were meant more to tire me than strike flesh or bone.

And they were working. Sweat was pouring into my eyes beneath my great helm, burning, stinging, making it almost impossible to see. The sword grew heavy in my hands.

And yet he continued, pressing forward, slashing, hacking, constantly battering against the protection of my sword.

At times during his attack, the only thing which saved me was the flat of my sword against my own chest, a thin metal barrier between the fine edge of his blade and my body.

When I fell back against the wall of the log cabin I realized I could only move in three directions. Directly at him, or try to move away from his barrage of slashing attacks by sidestepping left or right.

Johannes knew it as well.

At first, he pressed his attack with a high sweeping arc of his blade at my head. Though I wore my helm, even if the blade didn’t pierce it the contact would have knocked me senseless.

I ducked beneath his attempt and swung my blade at his unprotected side, but he was again too quick, on guard that I would strike him there. He parried my thrust and when I attempted to move to my right drove the tip of his sword toward the place he imagined I would be.

I knew it would be his next action and although I feinted in that direction I leaned back just as his blade passed by me lodging his sword in the mud between the logs.

It was the opening I needed.

I swept my blade against his exposed arm, cleaving it off at the elbow.

With a howl of pain Johannes stepped back, leaving his severed arm and hand still gripping his sword.

Then I spun, holding my blade with both hands, channeling the full force of my weight into the swing.

The blade met with Johannes’ neck just below the edge of his helm and sliced completely through, severing his head from the rest of his body.

As his body toppled over it began to shrivel, shaking as if experiencing a fit of some kind. I stood in silence as the man’s skin began to blacken, seeming to rot from the inside out. When the stench floated up from his corpse we all turned away and held our noses.

In seconds, Johannes became nothing more than a pile of clothing filled with black dust. Even his helm contained the same odorous blackened sand heaped in tiny piles.

Perhaps this is the death the old man spoke of. I had never gone back inside that cave to see what had become of him.

Now I understood why the old man wanted me to kill him that night.

“Well mister, ya done killed the bastard now what?”

“Tom is it?”

“Yessir.”

“Tom, I believe you heard the agreement did you not?”

“Yessir.”

“Then you know the boy and I are to have safe passage away from here.”

“That’s what the Dutchman said boys. Ifn this man won we were to let ’em pass free and clear.”

The young cowboy named Lonny walked up to the reeking pile of clothing and kicked it in disgust.

“Hell. Never did like that man anyway. Far as I’m concerned y’all can git.”

“Thank you son. Now if you don’t mind I’m going to fetch Long Feather, we’re going saddle up and take our leave.”

“Suits us mister. Shit, we’ll be expecting some of Butch’s gang to be riding in pretty soon any how. We’ll just carry on with them for awhile.”

I walked into the cabin and retrieved our bed rolls, my Peacemaker and saddlebags then hurried to the barn to release Long Feather. As I was saddling my mare Tom O’day stepped into the barn. In his hands he held a saddle bag.

“Mister I don’t know if this is going to help you but this here’s the Dutchman’s saddlebag.”

“I am already equipped, but thank you sir.”

“No it’s what inside. The Dutchman. He wasn’t entirely truthful with ya sir.”

I tossed up the left stirrup and fender across the seat of my saddle and tended to the flank strap, then cinched the front rigging dee as my mare puffed up. Satisfied, I turned my attention to Tom.

“What do you mean?”

“Well he told ya he didn’t know ‘bout that other one like ya.”

“Gerung?”

“Yeah. But he did. That other man’s name is on this here news clipping.”

The cowboy handed me a piece of paper, creased and worn, the ink faded and blurred. I squinted as I read, barely able to make out the words.

It was a short item dated four years ago from the Irish Examiner. I couldn’t make out much except a band of rebels rose up against the British sovereignty. They were defeated and banned to some British penal colony in Australia. The leader of this band’s name was Gerung Brandt. He often went by the nickname of “Templar”.

“This is very helpful sir, thank you.”

“Don’t reckon none of us know what that means to ya, but I spect you do right mister?”

I pulled the stirrup away from my saddle seat then mounted. Long Feather was on his pony waiting.

“It means there is a brother of mine who may still be alive and now I know where I might be able to find him.”

Long Feather nudged the flanks of his pony as my mare trotted past and we headed for the stone wall pass which would lead us to the canyon trails.

“I am sorry your warrior brother had to die.”

“I am not. He was evil when I knew him first and even more vile now. He would have killed us both if given the chance.”

“What now Shaman?”

“Australia.”

“Ausrala? I not know of this place.”

“Nor do I boy. We shall discover it together.”

READ ON — THE PYTHAGORAS CURSE PART XIII

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part VIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII Part XXIII, Conclusion

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