Iron Horsemen by Brad R. Cook

walked down the mountain road as Rodin flew aboveus chasing the seagulls. I gawked at every detail. White buildings topped with terra cotta Spanish tiled roofs, brightly lit by the sun. The sweet smell of the salty sea, the narrow streets filled with every race of the world, the docks holding ships from every harbor—it was beautiful.
    We passed through the market where the strong aroma of Moroccan spices drew me closer. Golden trinkets from North Africa and ceramic relics from the holy land lined every shop. I stopped at a man selling blades from Toledo, Spain, as Genevieve drifted over to the Italian silver jewelry. We passed stands with food I had never seen before. I smiled at Genevieve and swiped a pomegranate from a distracted vendor. Ducking into an alleyway between two buildings, I split the fruit in two and handed her half. She grinned and bit into the fruit. Its juices ran down her fingers and chin. I took a bite and laughed using my cuff to wipe off the juice. I felt free, free from responsibility and free from my burdens.
    And then a sandy-brown fuzz ball, a Barbary macaque, leapt down from above and swiped my fruit. Genevieve laughed as I chased the monkey around the alley. It screeched at me and then sprang to a window sill on the second floor.
    â€œWait,” she said. “You can’t hurt them. A legend says if the monkeys ever leave so will the British, much like the ravens of the Tower of London.” She handed me the remainder of her half. “Here, have a bite of mine.”
    â€œI wasn’t going to hurt him, just scare him. Thanks.”
    We shared her fruit and watched the macaque, which was quickly joined by several others. Genevieve and I laughed at the antics, as all tried to sneak a bit of pomegranate from the first monkey. Bounding around the alley and up the building, they sprang from one spot to the next, screeching and calling as they tried to get some fruit. Rodin dove and scattered the troop. The little bronze dragon delighted inchasing them, but Genevieve called Rodin to her shoulder so he’d stop annoying the monkeys.
    â€œWe should keep an eye out for any leads on my father,” I said, bringing us back to the reality of why we were in Gibraltar in the first place.
    â€œAgreed, Gibraltar was where my father was to start looking,” she said.
    Slipping between two buildings, we stayed off the main road, hoping to avoid any problems with the city’s inhabitants. We walked beneath a stone archway, a strange circular arch that didn’t appear as old as the stone buildings on either side. Symbols etched on the back of the stone caught my eye, a mix of several languages and symbols.
    A door at the end of the alley started to open and Genevieve pulled me into a nearby doorway. A tattooed man with dots covering his face in a lined pattern and a thin, lanky frame stepped into the alley. He wore a black vest and pants with a dirty white button down underneath. A sickle blade sat on the belt at his left side, while a club with a chained-cord hung from the other. He wore a flat, wide brimmed hat and coughed, a deep repetitive hacking that had settled in his lungs. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the blood from the corner of his mouth.
    The man headed out through the back of the alley and missed us huddled in the doorway. He was no gentleman, more likely a pirate, and I wondered about his tattoos and what he was doing here. Knowing that the Knights of the Golden Circle were interested in Gibraltar, I also wondered if he could be involved with them. He was dressed in black, after all.
    We slipped over to the door but it had no handle and couldn’t be pushed open.
    I studied it while Genevieve and Rodin watched the street. I looked for a hidden switch or another way throughthe thick wooden door. And then I noticed it. Above me, in the corner of the doorway, a small golden circle had been screwed into the stone. Genevieve looked at me with a