The Phoenician Falcon (A Chyna Stone Adventure #3)

  THE

  PHOENICIAN FALCON

  A Chyna Stone Adventure

  #3

  by

  K.T. TOMB

  Acclaim for K.T. Tomb:

  “Epic and awesome!”

  —J.T. Cross, bestselling author of Beneath the Deep

  “Now this is what I call adventure. The Lost Garden will leave you breathless!”

  —Summer Lee, bestselling author of Angel Heart

  “The best adventure novel I’ve read in a long time. I can’t wait to read the sequel. Count me a fan. A big fan.”

  —P.J. Day, bestselling author of The Sunset Prophecy

  “K.T. Tomb is a wonderful new voice in adventure fiction. I was enthralled by The Lost Garden...and you will be, too.”

  —Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins

  OTHER BOOKS BY K.T. TOMB

  STANDALONE ADVENTURES

  The Last Crusade

  The Kraken

  The Tempest

  The Adventurers

  The Swashbucklers

  Sasquatch Mountain

  THE CHYNA STONE ADVENTURES

  The Minoan Mask

  The Mummy Codex

  The Phoenician Falcon

  The Babylonian Basilisk

  THE EVAN KNIGHT ADVENTURES

  The Lost Garden

  Keepers of the Lost Garden

  Destroyers of the Lost Garden

  THE PHOENIX QUEST ADVENTURES

  The Hammer of Thor

  The Spear of Destiny

  The Lair of Beowulf

  THE CASH CASSIDY ADVENTURES

  The Holy Grail

  The Lost Continent

  The Lost City of Gold

  THE ALAN QUATERMAIN ADVENTURES

  The Road to Shambala

  The Seal of Solomon

  The Shroud of Turin

  The Phoenician Falcon

  Published by K.T. Tomb

  Copyright © 2014 by K.T. Tomb

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  The author wishes to dedicate this book to the late

  Dick Francis.

  The Phoenician Falcon

  Prologue

  729A.D.

  Sandefjord, Norway

  “It’s cold today,” Svein said.

  “Perhaps,” Jarl Alaric grunted in reply.

  He was in a bad mood and though he wouldn’t admit it, the drizzling rain and incessant cold was not helping his demeanor. His mind was on something his youngest wife had said to him the day he had left Drammen to make his way to Sandefjord.

  “My Jarl,” she had said, quietly. “I have bled again this moon; I am still not with child.”

  “Then you too are now counted among the barren wives of Alaric,” he shouted, pushing her away from him in disgust. Then he announced to the entire court that was gathered in his Great Hall. “I shall take no more wives; it seems that I choose only useless ones but any woman who wishes to warm my bed from this night on only needs to reach it before I do and she will be well comforted that night. Moreover, should any of these women become pregnant with my child then I shall take her as jarlkona of Drammen.”

  His wives were so shamed by Alaric’s speech that they left the Great Hall shortly afterwards and retired to their rooms crying bitterly. Only Freda remained seated in the chair at Alaric’s left hand, quietly sewing as if she had not heard a word he had said. When the meal was finished, Alaric rose from his throne and led the men out into the square to mount their horses. She followed at a distance behind him and watched as he settled into the saddle of his great war horse. He looked directly at her as if he could see into the depths of her soul and fearing nothing, she held his stare. Her handmaiden brought her a basket of various food stuffs and they walked up to the Jarl’s horse. Freda dutifully took each of the items from the basket and placed them into the Jarl’s saddlebag. Each package was significant for the journey to a thing, and as a dutiful, loyal wife, she was expected to pack these items for her husbands’ well being on his journey.

  On his right side, she put the bag of spices: cinnamon, pepper, salt, dried mint leaves, sage and thyme. All things he could use if he were hurt; to stave off infection and dress wounds. Also on his right she placed the dried meats and fruit, the nuts, the cheese and an eating knife. Then she walked to his left side and opened the bag. She took the gloves, woolen socks, and a small blanket from the basket and placed them inside it. With her duties done, she silently stepped back from Alaric’s horse and stood with the crowd that had come to see him and his warriors off.

  “Ride safely to Sandefjord, Husband,” she said, without looking up at him.

  “Wife,” was his only reply, and then he kicked his horse and galloped from the square.

  When he was out of sight and the crowd had dispersed, Freda walked back to the Great Hall and sat in her chair. She took up the shirt she had been sewing and continued with her work. Soon after, the Jarl’s younger brother, Ivor, came in surrounded by his men. He stood at the bottom of the platform and bowed low to Freda. She smiled at him and put the shirt aside, stretching out her hands to him. Ivor rose and went to her taking her hands in his and kissing them as would be customary when greeting the principal wife of the Jarl, whether she was a queen or not.

  “I am taking my leave in the morning, Jarlkona,” he explained. “I am needed at the ship building in Sandvika; there is a fleet of twelve being constructed there and it is going very well.”

  “That is good news, Ivor,” she replied demurely. “Are we still going boar hunting together at the full moon?”

  “Helga will not hear otherwise,” he said, smiling broadly. “They will be in rut and the big boars will get careless and easy to track. She would like to go to the woods near Nottoden.”

  “That will be excellent sport,” Freda said laughing loudly. “Travel safely to Sandvika.”

  “Thank you, Jarlkona,” he said.

  ***

  That night when the hall was finally empty, Freda gathered her skirts up and stood from her chair. She would normally have left Jarl Alaric to the entertaining and been in bed a long time ago but in his absence she had to host their court herself. She stretched and tidied up her sewing box before descending the platform and blowing out the candles. She paused and listened for a moment. There was complete silence; no one had fallen asleep drunk in a dark corner of the hall. All the servants had been dismissed for the night and she was certain that she had been left alone there to retire to her bed. Satisfied, that is exactly what she did. When she reached the heavy wooden door of her bedroom she could see the soft light from the candle within but nothing else. She entered and locked the door behind her.

  He had been waiting for her for a long time. When she entered, he sat up in the bed and watched her close the door. She was careful to place the heavy plank in place, locking it securely before she turned to face him. The candle light shone through the fabric of her dress and the shape of her legs and thighs were as plain to see as if there had been no garment there at all. She unlaced the dress and let it fall to her feet anyway. The breath caught in his throat and before he knew what he was doing he had vaulted to the end of the bed and taken her naked body in his arms. He pulled her to the bed and kissed her passionately, touching every inch of her soft body with his hands. As she yielded to him and they were entwined as one, he moved inside her in a single, smooth motion.

  “Ivor,” she cried softly in
to his ear, “my love!”

  ***

  Freda, first daughter of King Ottir and a princess of Oslo had been married to Jarl Alaric for five years. Alaric had been Ottir’s closest and richest ally, and he had made an excellent match for the princess. They had been happy for a short time, but when Freda did not conceive a child, Alaric became bitter .He accused King Ottir of saddling him with a barren wife and he ridiculed Freda publicly in the Great Hall in front of his warriors and subjects.

  By the third year, Freda became afraid for her life. It was not uncommon for a man of their culture to divorce or even kill a wife who was unable to bear him children. Alaric was too smart to do either; such actions would have brought the wrath of the King on him so he did the acceptable thing and he took a second wife. Her name was Agartha and the king was extremely fond of her. The betrayal of her husbands’ second marriage and the negligence Freda suffered afterwards caused her to resort to spending as much time away from Drammen as possible. She took extensive hunting trips with her brother-in-law, Ivor and sister-in-law, Helga. The three became inseparable and Alaric didn’t seem to mind; he had worries of his own when after a year Agartha could not conceive either. He married Gildi next and Thyri the year after that, but none of his wives would bear any children.

  For three years, Freda enjoyed her immense freedom. She had been discarded by Alaric, wholly forgotten and left to her own devices. When Helga was married to one of Freda’s younger brothers and had moved to Oslo, Freda and Ivor were left to keep each other’s company. It wasn’t long before they became enraptured with each other. It was a love story fit for the sagas; a spurned princess and her lover, an unimportant second son. They spent weeks together locked up in one after another of Ivor’s hunting lodges; venturing as far West as Hardangervidda, ensuring to stay with the animals that were in season. When the hunting was poor, they journeyed east to King Ottir’s fishing lodges on the lakes near Arvika. The food stores and the tables in the Great Hall at Drammen were never without meat and fish.

  It wasn’t long before Freda found that she was pregnant with Ivor’s child. When she told him she had tears in her eyes.

  “What will we do, Ivor?” she asked.

  “We will have to make a plan, Freda,” he replied. “Alaric has come to realize that he is impotent, he expects that his wives will remain barren.”

  “He will surely execute me now,” she wailed, throwing herself to the ground.

  Ivor rushed to her side. He took her in his arms and pulled her up to her feet.

  “Remember who you are,” he whispered to her, “Princess Freda.”

  “I will be a headless Princess soon if we cannot fix this. Should I go to see the völva?”

  “What would you do, Freda? Have her kill our baby inside your womb? Our baby has harmed no one; it is Alaric who has caused harm. He has harmed you, his other wives and he harmed me as well.”

  “What will you do, Ivor?”

  “I will do something that I should have done a long time ago and the less you know of it the better.”

  ***

  “Make sure the falcons are majestic,” Ivor told the goldsmith. “They should have their wings spread wide and the feathers must be prominent just as the feathers of Freyja’s cloak. Make their legs spread wide so they stand like birds that are prepared to take flight. One must be looking to the right, while the other looks left.”

  “Yes, Master,” the goldsmith replied.

  “When will the two finials be ready?”

  “I shall have them in four days.”

  “That will do.”

  Ivor had dug up the hoard of gold he had been collecting from their raids for ten years. When he took it all to the goldsmith, he had smiled and handed back a good portion of it to Ivor.

  “This will be enough to make both birds, Master,” he had said.

  The finials were ready when the four days had passed and Ivor had them mounted on freshly carved flag poles. At the half moon, he presented the flagpoles to Jarl Alaric as a crop festival present to congratulate him on another successful year of raiding and harvest. In his vanity, Alaric accepted the extravagant gift unquestioningly. He knew that his brother must have sacrificed a huge portion of his hoard of raided gold.

  “Look,” he called out to the guests in the Great Hall. “My brother honors me for the grand year we have had in Drammen. He had brought me the images of the Falcons of Freyja.”

  There was a loud cheer at the mention of the beloved goddess’s name.

  “They are stunningly beautiful, aren’t they?” Ivor asked. “I would like to congratulate you, my Jarl, on your tenth harvest as chieftain of Drammen. It has been ten years of undoubted success and I wish you many more years to govern us, brother.”

  Alaric had the standards of Drammen placed on the flagpoles immediately and his standard bearers stood on either side of his chair holding them for everyone to see.

  “Brother, I am honored by your gift,” Alaric said.

  “I am pleased, brother,” Ivor replied. “I thought they would be splendid at the head of your retinue when you attend the thing next month at Sandefjord.

  “That is a magnificent idea. I will certainly take them with me,” Alaric said proudly. “I am certain that there will be no other jarl there who will carry such a formidable sigil at the front of their retinue. I doubt that even King Ottir can claim that his men are led forth by the ‘Falcons of Freyja’.”

  ***

  The forests outside of Sandefjord were indeed cold that morning and though Alaric would not admit it, he wanted nothing more than to arrive at the Great Hall and sit in front of the fire there. He looked up the line and caught sight of his flag bearers proudly carrying their golden falcons above their heads with the standards of his station flowing in the wind. He smiled broadly. The pride he felt over the two golden finials was so immense it was enough to make him forget about the bitter cold for a moment or two.

  They soon passed into the valley within the wood that marked the halfway point through the forest. There were rocky cliffs to both sides on which gigantic trees grew, towering over them like the gods themselves. It was always dark in this section of the forest, no matter how high the sun was in the sky. The men kept a steady pace being careful not to rush the horses through in fear of losing a shoe or, even worse, having a horse break a leg on loose stones.

  There wasn’t a sound as the archer took his stand and drew back his bow. He had heard the sound of the approaching hoof beats and had made himself ready to take his shot. He saw the marker; two flagpoles at the head of the riding party whose poles were topped by giant golden falcons with wide spread wings. He watched carefully, waiting for Jarl Alaric to come into view. When he saw the white of the wolf fur on the shoulders of the riding cloak, he stood and drew the bow taunt. He was sure to stay well within the tree line; out of sight and far enough for the twang of the bowstring to echo, disguising the direction from which the sound came. When Alaric was in full view, he let the arrow fly. It was true to its mark as it went straight through the jarl’s neck and out the other side falling to the ground. Waiting only long enough to see him fall from his horse, the archer gathered his things from the spot, turned and walked deeper into the forest.

  Svein commanded the group to stop and jumped from his horse. He examined Alaric’s body and quickly found where the blood was flowing from. It came in spurts from the wound in his neck until it no longer flowed. Right there in the thick snow on the road to Sandefjord, the jarl slipped away to Valhalla in his captain’s arms. The men spread out all over the ridge in search of who had fired the arrow, but they found nothing and no one in the forest above them. As they stood there, wondering what to do next, there was not a sound in the forest except for the unmistakable calls of the wild falcons high in the ancient trees.

  Chapter One

  Chyna walked into the New York offices of Found History at 9 a.m. on Monday morning feeling conflicted about their new assignment. She knew she had to go; she had
already committed their services to the Syrian government but there just seemed to be so many obstacles stacked against their departure. They had returned three months ago from two back to back adventures that had gone on for nearly a year. It just didn’t feel right to be dragging her assistant investigator, Lana and their technical engineer, Oscar on another engagement so soon. In addition to all that, there was recent civil unrest brewing in Syria and she wasn’t too keen on being caught in the middle of political strife so far away from home. All things considered, Damascus was a modern city and easy to get out of if things took a turn for the worst, but there were also rumors that the U.S. Embassy there was considering closing if things escalated. Thinking about it, Chyna couldn’t shake scenes from the movie Argo from her mind, especially when the crowd stormed the embassy gates and broke into the compound.

  From Greece to Egypt to Turkey, the last trip to the Middle East had been taxing on all of them. They had been betrayed by a colleague, kidnapped by treasure hunters and put in mortal danger. In Egypt, confronting the rogue members of two Egyptian secret societies; the Watchers and the Guardsmen, had been more than a little overwhelming for the three. Chyna had killed the leader of that little incursion, the Northman, a newspaper tycoon from Sweden, who had masterminded the theft of an ancient Egyptian relic, the Mummy Codex.

  Since the recovery of the book, the entire field of Egyptology had been turned upside down. It contained a detailed, complete record of the names and life of every Egyptian Pharaoh from Djoser Netjeriket of the third dynasty all the way to King Tutankhamun of the eighteenth dynasty. But the Book had revealed new information about the names many scholars had associated with possible relatives of Akhenaten who had ruled in Tutankhamun’s infancy. They now had proof of who those persons were and it turned out that they had been women of the royal household. The new evidence had sent them scurrying back to analyze theories involving the ‘Pharaoh Queens’ of the Amarna Period. According to the records, Nefertiti had indeed ruled Egypt in her own right as a pharaoh, so had her daughters Meritaten, Meketaten and Ankesenamun after her. These new discoveries had caused upheaval in the archeological community, sending experts back to their labs, the tombs, the mummies and the records they had compiled to verify and re-categorize the records they had spent years compiling.