Read Online The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Dietrich
Tags: Historical fiction
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onto the drum and readied my new Bavarian hunting rifle. It’s a pretty piece with a silver patch box, engraved trigger guard, and raised cheek-rest, but the German custom to shorten the barrel for portability crimps its accuracy. I didn’t entirely trust it.
Despite the cold, I was sweating. I checked my watch again. Time! The world already had a grayer cast that rumored dawn. Now I could make out the far end of the treasury building, a barren tree, and even the faint line of the fort’s snowy parapet. Minutes ticked. There was a creak and thud from the church door below. I crawled across the narrow tower to peek out the other direction. A trail of fresh prints marked where priests had filed to the cathedral for the dawn bells.
Time to stopper my ears with cotton.
I began unreeling the rope. At first the balloon bobbed aimlessly, but then the steady Baltic breeze caught the orb and carried it east toward the treasury as planned. Rubberizing the silk had left the balloon a dull red, which helped as I squinted to follow its progress. Onward it danced, to the treasury and then over it, bucking back and forth. I feared a shout, a bugle, or a thunder of alarm drums, but who looks upward in the snowy dark? Maps had given me the precise distance to the far end of the repository, and mathematics the angle downward to its roof, letting me calculate the necessary reach of rope. Silk ribbons marked every fifty feet of line.
If my geometry was off, I was dead.
As each rope ribbon played out, I made chalk marks on the louver sill. Finally the balloon had sailed the necessary eight hundred and fifty feet. The weight of the unreeling line had dragged the sphere lower, toward the far eave of the treasury.
I picked up my rifle and aimed.
Half past seven. True dawn an hour away.
Time to awaken fort and city. There was a faint cry of priests from below, a jerk of bell rope, and the carillon began to move.
Sound exploded.
Church bells are all very well from a mile away, but in my little echo chamber the music sounded like a broadside at Trafalgar. I winced but the clamor would mask my gunshot, so this moment had dictated everything else.
I aimed at the bobbing orb and fired.
Had the balloon jerked?
I reloaded and watched for long, agonizing seconds, waiting for confirmation I’d punctured the bag. The globe wobbled frustratingly aloft. Could I have missed? Was I that rusty? Damn this German gun, I longed for my old Pennsylvania longrifle. I began to hastily aim again. If the carillon stopped, I couldn’t risk shooting in the quiet.
But then the leaking balloon began to sink as planned, until it disappeared beyond the far edge of my target. The rope sagged in a long curve to the brick domes.
On and on the clanging bells pounded, as heavy as a hammer, and then finally stopped. My head throbbed.
With the gong still echoing in my skull, I used the windlass to reel my rope. The slack lariat lifted off the Treasury roof, and I began dragging the emptied balloon back toward me.
Its grappling hook snagged the repository’s eave, far away and far below. I winched tighter. Now a straight line extended from cathedral steeple to treasury roof, like the hypotenuse on a right triangle. I reeled more, stretching the rope until it was taut as a bowstring, and finally hitched it tight. I took out my next invention, a two-foot-long dowel with a metal eye in the middle that I fastened on the line. This would be my trapeze.
When attempting something daring it is advisable to think long and hard when planning, and to stop thinking to do. So I did.
I donned my pack, strapped my rifle, slipped mittens onto my hands, grasped the handle, and rolled out the louvered window to drop, dangle, and gasp. My breath huffed out in a cloud.
Then I began to slide down the rope, snow stinging my face.
Too fast! I wasn’t traveling, I was hurtling.
At least the lariat hasn’t broken,
my brain managed between a mental mix of profanity and prayer.
At
Despite the cold, I was sweating. I checked my watch again. Time! The world already had a grayer cast that rumored dawn. Now I could make out the far end of the treasury building, a barren tree, and even the faint line of the fort’s snowy parapet. Minutes ticked. There was a creak and thud from the church door below. I crawled across the narrow tower to peek out the other direction. A trail of fresh prints marked where priests had filed to the cathedral for the dawn bells.
Time to stopper my ears with cotton.
I began unreeling the rope. At first the balloon bobbed aimlessly, but then the steady Baltic breeze caught the orb and carried it east toward the treasury as planned. Rubberizing the silk had left the balloon a dull red, which helped as I squinted to follow its progress. Onward it danced, to the treasury and then over it, bucking back and forth. I feared a shout, a bugle, or a thunder of alarm drums, but who looks upward in the snowy dark? Maps had given me the precise distance to the far end of the repository, and mathematics the angle downward to its roof, letting me calculate the necessary reach of rope. Silk ribbons marked every fifty feet of line.
If my geometry was off, I was dead.
As each rope ribbon played out, I made chalk marks on the louver sill. Finally the balloon had sailed the necessary eight hundred and fifty feet. The weight of the unreeling line had dragged the sphere lower, toward the far eave of the treasury.
I picked up my rifle and aimed.
Half past seven. True dawn an hour away.
Time to awaken fort and city. There was a faint cry of priests from below, a jerk of bell rope, and the carillon began to move.
Sound exploded.
Church bells are all very well from a mile away, but in my little echo chamber the music sounded like a broadside at Trafalgar. I winced but the clamor would mask my gunshot, so this moment had dictated everything else.
I aimed at the bobbing orb and fired.
Had the balloon jerked?
I reloaded and watched for long, agonizing seconds, waiting for confirmation I’d punctured the bag. The globe wobbled frustratingly aloft. Could I have missed? Was I that rusty? Damn this German gun, I longed for my old Pennsylvania longrifle. I began to hastily aim again. If the carillon stopped, I couldn’t risk shooting in the quiet.
But then the leaking balloon began to sink as planned, until it disappeared beyond the far edge of my target. The rope sagged in a long curve to the brick domes.
On and on the clanging bells pounded, as heavy as a hammer, and then finally stopped. My head throbbed.
With the gong still echoing in my skull, I used the windlass to reel my rope. The slack lariat lifted off the Treasury roof, and I began dragging the emptied balloon back toward me.
Its grappling hook snagged the repository’s eave, far away and far below. I winched tighter. Now a straight line extended from cathedral steeple to treasury roof, like the hypotenuse on a right triangle. I reeled more, stretching the rope until it was taut as a bowstring, and finally hitched it tight. I took out my next invention, a two-foot-long dowel with a metal eye in the middle that I fastened on the line. This would be my trapeze.
When attempting something daring it is advisable to think long and hard when planning, and to stop thinking to do. So I did.
I donned my pack, strapped my rifle, slipped mittens onto my hands, grasped the handle, and rolled out the louvered window to drop, dangle, and gasp. My breath huffed out in a cloud.
Then I began to slide down the rope, snow stinging my face.
Too fast! I wasn’t traveling, I was hurtling.
At least the lariat hasn’t broken,
my brain managed between a mental mix of profanity and prayer.
At
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