Iron Zulu Read online

  IRON ZULU

  A NOVEL

  BRAD R. COOK

  Copyright © 2015 by Brad R. Cook

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Treehouse Publishing Group, an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  www.bradrcook.com

  @bradrcook

  Cover design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Illustration background and Graphics: Shutterstock

  Steampunk frame: Illustrator Georgie Retzer

  https://www.facebook.com/Illustrator.Georgie

  Interior layout by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954537

  ISBN: 9780989207973

  For my family

  IRON ZULU

  “I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep;

  I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.”

  ~ Alexander the Great

  CHAPTER 1

  A STRANGER ON THE AIRDOCKS

  London 1882

  Second chances are rare. I know this—when they arise, seize them. So, unlike before, when my nerves were rattled or my emotions got the better of me, this time, I intended to make the most of my second chance.

  As I stood beside my father, the wind whipping around me, pinning my overcoat to my sides, we waited for Genevieve and Baron Kensington to arrive. I hadn’t seen her or her father, since they’d left for his convalescence in Egypt.

  An overnight dusting of snow covered the cobblestones and blanketed a couple of airships that had docked sometime in the night. I shuffled back and forth trying to stay warm. I should have a gift, I thought. Like flowers, or candy, or an overcoat. The London weather would be an adjustment, I’m sure, for both of them. But no, they probably knew that already. So what? Jewelry. A gentleman would have jewelry. I sighed. Maybe I could get a third chance.

  “Alexander, stop fidgeting.” My father pressed his hand against the back of my arm. “You look like your being attacked by bugs.”

  A tremor rumbled inside, and I closed my eyes. Instantly, it was as if a swarm of insects—every vile thing that crawled or flew—surrounded me. As they twitched their legs and beat their wings, scurrying over every inch of me, last year’s Battle of the Thames resurfaced. Some of the events of that day had stayed with me, filling my nights and haunting the lonely moments of my days. The buzzing intensified, drowning out all other sounds. Instinctively, I grabbed my arms, swatting the bugs as they nipped their way inside.

  I opened my eyes. No bugs. Nothing surrounded me but the cold wind. I sighed and let the tension slip away.

  “Alexander?” my father asked with concern.

  “I’m just cold,” I said, and hoping to warm my heart, I thought back to when Genevieve and I were in Gibraltar, the sun shining off the white stucco and Spanish tile roofs.

  Father squeezed my shoulder. “We shouldn’t be here much longer.” He let go and shaded his eyes. “But you have to be on your best behavior.”

  “I promise I won’t say anything to upset the baron.”

  “He’s not returning today,” he said, as if this as if I should have known this.

  I cocked my head sideways and glowered at him. That might have been something you could have mentioned before making me stand in the cold for an hour. Sensing my disapproval, my father added, “Baron Kensington decided to stay in Egypt for the winter. I recently sent him a cable suggesting several archeological sites to see while he’s there.”

  Then why was I standing here? And why did it not occur to him that I might have even had something to say in the cable—to Genevieve? And if we weren’t here to greet her and the baron, who was on this airship? I tried not to think about Genevieve’s absence. I shouldn’t think of her at all. She was betrothed—to the Duke’s son, no less. I was nothing more than a penniless sitar player. Why couldn’t life be fair? Just once.

  What if Genevieve’s stuck in the desert, longing to get back London? Yeah right. To cold and dreary London. She was having a blast in the beautiful summery weather of the Mediterranean, while I was stuck here in a bitter cold and perpetually gray world.

  Before I could ask my father who we were waiting for, he returned his gaze toward the sky and pointed as an imperial airship gently slipped through the clouds. “There they are.” The vibrant blue canvas hull trimmed in gleaming gold stood in stark contrast to the dirty, snow-dusted London streets. Even the snow was not pristine in this city.

  As the airship landed. My father ignored my question and strode briskly toward the gangplank. I scampered to keep up. Just as the door opened, the Duke, dressed in a long, red jacket with gold buttons, stood out against the dreary landscape.

  The Duke glided along the walkway with ease. Did all nobles go to some tutor to learn to move with effortless grace? Had I somehow missed that class at Eton College? He did not even shiver as the cold wind whipped around him. I tugged the stiff collar of my jacket, wanting nothing more than to leave, until my father jerked my arm back down.

  As the Duke arrived on the dock, he stopped, abruptly forcing everyone behind him to stop as well. He thwapped his swagger stick against his palm. “Why, Professor,” he said, “whatever are you doing here?”

  My father stepped forward and whipped his hat off. “I was sent to welcome our guest.”

  “Ah yes, the savages. How nice of you, but all you need do is pass them off to the queen’s ministers.”

  Savages? Savages was a word the nobles used to mean anyone not from the brick-laden civilized world. He’d probably call me a savage, too, for my outbursts.

  The Duke glanced down his nose at me and said, “I see you brought the pup. Still as insolent as before?”

  “Wh…?” Furious, I balled my hands into tight fists. My father checked my outburst with a tight squeeze of his hand on my shoulder. My face hardened as I clenched my jaw and gnashed my teeth, and my nails cut into the palms of my hands.

  “Ah yes, I suppose some pups just need a stronger hand,” he sighed.

  As he turned my father said, “Good day, Your Grace.” The Duke paused at my father’s harsh tone.

  A voice broke through the crowd backed up on the gangplank. Then, working his way through the crowd, I saw a young man flanked by two other young nobles. From his annoyed expression at the slow moving attendants, I assumed he was someone of importance, too. He stood taller than me, though not by much. And his poufy hair added an inch or two.

  When the young man approached the Duke, he quipped, “What is the hold up, Father?”

  The Duke rolled his eyes and said, “Patience my son; patience.”

  My eyes bulged. Son? Genevieve’s betrothed. Prince Charming. In all his finery. And here I am in my school uniform. Perfect. Well, he may be charming, but at least I didn’t have a long thin nose like a mosquito.

  With this, our first meeting, I wanted—had to—make an impression. Or at least not totally screw it up—so I could at least make a much better second impression. I sure didn’t want him to see me as a ‘pup’, too.

  Be bold, I told myself, like Captain Baldrich. Have the presence of the Templar Grand Master Sinclair. So, I puffed up my chest and stood as straight as possible waiting for the Duke to introduce us. But he didn’t.<
br />
  Instead, he sidestepped us and walked briskly toward a waiting carriage, and said “Richard, hurry along.”

  Richard, I snarled. Probably named after Richard the Lionheart. Like being named after somebody important meant something. Then I paused—I was named after Alexander the Great.

  As Richard approached me, I stuck out my hand to welcome him, but he just whooshed by. He didn’t even look my way. Just like when I’d first arrived at Eton College. I was invisible then, too.

  In moments, the entire entourage was gone. Still, we stood there as my father bowed to several other dignitaries disembarking from the airship. Another young man, about my age, appeared at the airship’s doors. Dressed in a fine suit, he walked down the gangplank. Behind him, stood a rather large-bellied man, his western suit snug around the middle They were African.

  Excited and intrigued, I smiled. Even though I’d never been to Africa, the Dark Continent fascinated me. Tales of exotic animals—lions, giraffes, massive herds of zebras, and especially, the ancient cultures filled me with wonderment.

  My father, too, shifted with excitement. “Chief Zwelethu! Welcome to London. I’m John Armitage, a professor at Eton College and a friend of Baron Kensington.”

  The chief, whose dark skin, nearly identical to the rich fertile soil of the Earth, gently prodded the young man to the end of the gangplank. “Thank you. We are excited to be in your … wait, your accent, are you American?”

  “Yes sir, we are.”

  “Ah, how exciting. I have always wanted to meet one from your country. We will have to speak of your tribe while I am here.” He then motioned to the young man in front of him. “Allow me to introduce my seventh son, Owethu.”

  Owethu bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, sir,” he said to my father, while he eyed me with a questioning gaze. When I continued to grin, his smile grew wide, too.

  My father gestured to me. “And this is my son, Alexander.”

  They both bowed to me and I returned the gesture, for once, feeling like a noble myself.

  Looking past them at the airship, I said, “Did you enjoy your flight? It’s my favorite.”

  Chief Zwelethu turned and glanced at the airship. “It was an interesting way to travel.”

  “I really liked it,” Owethu added. More and more, he didn’t seem like a noble. I nodded, and grinned. His expression held the unrestrained joy of one who had burst through the clouds and wouldn’t come down for weeks. I knew the feeling well, all I’d ever dreamed of was gliding along the air currents, and soaring through a starry sky. .

  My father escorted us over to the steamcarriage where Finn waited. Running his fingers through his bright orange hair, he opened the door to the steamcarriage and said, “Lord Marbury will be your host while in London. I’ve been asked to take you there.”

  Chief Zwelethu nodded and we all climbed inside. Finn closed the door and jumped up to the driver’s perch. He pulled the lever releasing the brake and grabbed the steering column connected to a series of gears. The steamcarriage lurched as the engine at the back belched white smoke.

  Chief Zwelethu, with concern etched on his face, glanced over his shoulder at the steam engine as we chugged through the streets of London. Owethu, however, couldn’t hide his excitement. And neither could I.

  CHAPTER 2

  A MEETING BEFORE DINNER

  The steam carriage rolled onto the lane leading to Lord Marbury’s sprawling country estate, which was nestled among the forests outside London.

  My father pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Lord Marbury and his staff will assist in your meetings with her majesty’s ministers, and arrangements have been made for your son to participate at Eton.”

  “Excellent,” Chief Zwelethu said with a nod. “I am eager to speak with them. Especially Lord Sinclair.”

  “I’m certain he’ll be in attendance,” my father replied and nodded. “If there is anything I can do, Chief, please let me know. And as Alexander attends Eton, if your son has any questions, myself or Alexander would be happy to answer them.”

  I nodded. I had a ton of questions about Africa all of which Owethu could answer, or at least I hoped he could.

  Curling up the circle drive to the manor, we stopped under large stone archway, and two of Lord Marbury’s footmen rushed up to greet us. They opened the steamcarriage’s door and bowed as the chief stepped out first. Trumpets blared. Not expecting it, I jumped and grabbed my chest. A lively ditty followed and might have been a little out of place, but then, Lord Marbury always tended toward the dramatic.

  Owethu stepped out next and joined his father. I slid out ahead of my father and servants lined themselves down alongside the front steps, while Lord Marbury stood stiff and regal at the large double doors.

  Chief Zwelethu marched forward, inspecting the staff on either side as if he were an air-captain inspecting his crew. My father and I followed behind Owethu, and all of us—except the chief—bowed when we reached Lord Marbury.

  Lord Marbury nodded and ushered us inside to a long, narrow, stately room, exquisitely furnished. He, Chief Zwelethu, and my father took their places in chairs and began to discuss the protocol and schedule for his visit with the queen’s dignitaries. But my brain numbed until their voices became nothing more than mumbling. I was intrigued by all the paintings.

  Paintings covered every inch of the walls. Most were portraits, but a huge painting of Lord Marbury’s manor hung above the fireplace. I walked over to study it. Stretching from the left edge of the canvas, a king sitting atop his stead, and followed by his entourage traveled toward the house. . Frozen in a whipping wind, he flags atop the manor caught my eye. Below the Marbury family banner lay the white flag with the distinctive red cross at its center. The Templar flag.

  Owethu joined me in front of the painting. He looked up, and then to me. “Is that one of your grandfathers?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not of royal blood.” I pointed to the estate in the painting. “That’s this house, though.”

  “I see this. The spires are the same.” Owethu pointed to the king’s entourage. “The lord of this estate must be important if the king comes to him.”

  “It was tradition. The king would travel around the country visiting the estates of his noblemen and force them to host him. It was very prestigious.”

  “In America, too, the president travels to greet the people—when it’s time to get elected.”

  “In my country, it is different. The people travel for days to see the chieftains.” Owethu

  smiled. “Your land is strange.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Zululand.”

  I spun on my heel and faced Owethu. “You’re a Zulu?”

  Owethu eyes hardened. “Do you have a problem with this, too?”

  “No. I think it’s fascinating! Why, Shaka was the greatest African king since the pharaohs.”

  His stance eased. “How do you know of the Zulu?”

  “I study a lot. If my father isn’t making me study some old, dead language, then he’s making me read about another culture—for which I will have to study their language shortly after.”

  “I heard that,” my father said from the other side of the room.

  “It’s true,” I chuckled. I moved on to another painting, and joined Owethu in front of the painting of one of the former ladies of the manor. Templar crosses of gold hung around the necks of many people in the portraits. In fact, over half of the art in this room had a Templar cross somewhere within.

  Seeing all the Templar crosses brought back a flood of images, sounds, and smells from last year’s battles between the Order and the Knights of the Golden Circle. The memories of the labyrinth on Malta, the horrors of the fire, and the Horsemen hearts, all threatened to consume me. I could still taste the sulfur burning the back of my throat, still hear the cracking rock as it crashed down around Genevieve and I. Her scream as Hendrix smashed the antidote to the baron’s poison remained like the return of a dista
nt echo.

  To push back the nightmares from my adventure, I turned to Owethu, “Tell me about your homeland. Are you on the great savanna or do you live in the desert lands?”

  “My home sits high on the rolling plains.”

  Thoughts of lying around the grassy English moors brought pleasant memories, and eased my anxiety. Realizing Owethu was staring at me, I said, “That would be the relaxing on a sunny day.”

  “No,” Owethu smiled and shook his head. ”there are lions nearby.”

  “Oh.” I’d forgotten about the predators who also made the savannas their home. England didn’t have any exotic animals to fear. They barely had any snakes. All I really had to worry about were bugs.

  My father crossed the room. “You boys need to get changed for dinner. Finn has a suit for you, Alexander.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said, and started toward Finn who stood in the doorway carrying a bag. As I passed Lord Marbury, I noticed him wringing his hands together and staring off into the distance. He shifted nervously, and his agitation was never a good sign.

  Lords, dressed in fine suits, and ladies, adorned in elaborate gowns, paraded into the house in a regal precession, just as the lord and his attendants did in the painting. Leaning against the polished wooden railing, I watched from the top of a grand staircase as they filed through the foyer into the ballroom, and gestured to their friends and the other important guests they were here to impress.

  Grand Master Sinclair, head of the Templar Order, entered using his cane to aid him. I hoped the baron, and Genevieve, would walk in behind him, but I knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Sinclair handed off his top hat and cloak to a waiting attendant, but instead of entering the ballroom, he turned and entered a small chamber at the base of the stairs. I wondered what that could mean. A secret Templar meeting, maybe? Perhaps the Knights of the Golden Circle had returned.

  I knew one thing for certain, though; this presented the perfect lurking opportunity. If Genevieve were here, she’d agree. I slipped down the stairs, staying close to the banister. Then I rushed to the door and pressed myself against the wall. The door opened into the room, so I peered around the edge of the doorway. Noblemen and women were still arriving in the ballroom, but a large blue and white porcelain vase blocked me from their view.