Anvil of Fate

Chapter 19

The Bishop was roused from restless sleep by heavy hammering on the door. He had retired soon after matins, but his dreams had been fitful. Now he started awake with fear, a strange presentiment sweeping over him, mixed with the lingering remnant of a dream. There was danger at hand, mortal danger in the night. Men were coming to seek his life! Instinctively, he reached for the sword that lay by his bed, groping for the hilt, reassured to grasp it. Yet he was no fighting man. What could he do?

The sound of knocking at the door grew louder, more insistent, more urgent. Then there came a hard shudder and he heard the door give way, breaking open on failed hinges and crashing to the hard stone floor below. He rushed out of his room, already hearing fearful cries from his family in the lower rooms.

“Landebertus of Tongeren!” A harsh voice echoed in the hall, resounding up the stairs.

The bishop steeled himself, making the sign of the cross and whispering a silent prayer. He looked at the sword in his shaking hand, and realized the folly of it, setting the weapon down, resigned. “I shall not die with the sin of blood on my hands,” he said softly. “No, I shall meet my fate, steadfast in the Lord, and his will be done.”

A swarthy man came rushing up the steps, breathless, eyes wide with urgency. Seeing him, the bishop fell to his knees, eyes upward as if searching the heavens for aid and succor. Yet fear disturbed his prayer, an emotion so strong so as to wrench a cry from his soul, and he wept.

“Take me unto thy bosom, O Lord,” he cried.

“What man? I have come with dire warning!” The stranger stooped, taking hold of the bishop’s nightgown, shaking him. “Asleep in my farm I was, when with fitful dreams I was taken, and behold, a vision came unto me, an angel as it were! And I was told I must ride hither, with all speed to give this warning. Men are on the old Roman road, even as we speak, and bent here with evil hearts, intent upon thy death. Get up, my bishop, and flee now to safe ground while you may! Three horses have I, tethered at the gate, enough to carry you and your domestics safely away from this place. Hurry man! Get up and don warm clothing, I will rouse your household and see that they are safely mounted. Quickly now, ere fell deeds take the lives of all your family as well!”

The bishop stared, dumbfounded, through teary eyes. “Then you are a friend to Christ and servant of the church?” he quavered.

“I am a friend to fate and the one true God, indeed!” said the man quickly. “Come now, I urge you. Take flight to the river, and there you may cross safely at the old ferry site not far from here. Once across there is no other way for your enemies to follow. It is Dodo of Heristal that comes in the night, with fell retainers by his side and hatred in his heart. He boasted that he would avenge the death of his relatives, slain by your command for the desecration of church property, and more, for the slander you have spoken of his sister. All this the angel spake unto me, but said fear not, the Lord’s is with thee this night.” The stranger smiled, helping the bishop to his feet.

“Dodo is nigh at hand, I fear, but by heading east to the river you may yet evade him. I will remain here and tell him you have fled south, away from this place. So may he be deceived and the work of this, thy holy see, preserved with thy life, and the lives of all those well loved by thee in this house.”

It was enough to rouse the bishop from his fretful fit, and he straightened with newfound resolve and strength. By the grace of the Lord, and guided by this stranger, he held fast to a thin coil of hope. Minutes later he was the last to come down from his chambers, to find his family securely huddled on the backs of the waiting horses. “Bless you, bless you,” he said in thanks, making the sign of the cross as he mounted the last of the three horses, a gray mare with sad, sorrowful eyes.

“I had hoped to bring you a mighty steed, father, so that you might fly like the wind this night,” the man said quietly, “but these three are all I could find, and may they prove your salvation.”

“As God wills it,” said the bishop.

“Then go now, quickly! You have labored along the banks of this river many long years, and you know the way well. Flee east, thence north along the river to the ferry. Stay off the road, for Dodo and his retainers will surely come by that route. And may God be with you!”

The bishop rode off on the gray mare, leading his domestics away into the shadows of the night. The stranger watched him go, smiling, relieved, as if a great weight had been taken from his shoulders.

“Go, and live,” he whispered, with just a hint of disdain in his voice now. “Go and preach your creed as you will for the little time that remains to you.”

The story he had told the bishop was true, for it was not long after the serving wench fled with the Arabian that a messenger appeared to him in the firelight while he paced in his home, restlessly trying to decide what he must do. Was the woman truthful? Would she indeed lead Dodo and his men to this place? The messenger came, appearing like the angel he had spoken of, then vanishing in a blue mist. Yet he left behind a scroll, and the farmer had opened it, his dark eyes wide as he read the strange characters there, speaking softly to himself. At once he knew what he must do, and he immediately put the scroll to the fire.

Now he watched the bishop go, and spoke aloud again. “So we fill your cup in this chance, dear bishop, for I am no assassin.” He smiled. “We are gracious, and it is necessary to spare your life so that others might prevail in a time and place you can scarcely imagine. Yes, as God wills it! For there is no God but God, and Allah is his name.”

Miles away to the north, Maeve had her own visit from an angel and was back on Kuhaylan. The stallion chafed, sensing the emotion and urgency in her movements. Her mind outpaced her heart, with one question on top of another. What? What am I to do? She went round and round with it, but almost without realizing it she was riding again, south, down the old Roman road.

If Lambert was warned this night, she reasoned, then someone must have gone to the villa. They must be making another attempt at sparing the life of the bishop—this time by direct intervention! Yes, it was risky to so directly affect the behavior of a Prime Mover, but what else could they do if Dodo was not forestalled? Then, if Lambert flees, where would he go? And what does that last bit mean, about the river?

“Think, woman,” she said aloud, urging the Arabian faster yet. There is no way the bishop could come north, she decided, for he would immediately run afoul of Dodo and his men. He could flee south, but that road is 40 miles or more to Namur, and it is likely that Dodo, or at least one of his men, would overtake the bishop and his family, delaying them long enough for the others to catch them up. West lies open land, where they would surely leave tracks that could be followed, and it would be very trying and dangerous to go that way. East lies the river Meuse—then she remembered it with thunderclap surprise. The ferry! He’s going to run east and then turn north along the river to the ferry, just as I did when I fled the farm site!

It was the only scenario that promised a speedy escape. If the bishop could reach the ferry and get safely across the Meuse, he could ground it on the far bank and there would not be another way to get over the river for miles in either direction. The delay would give Lambert just the time he needed to make good an escape.

Her body had already decided this course, but now her weary mind joined it, melded with the flowing rhythm of the horse as she hastened south in the dark. It was clear now that she had to get to the ferry before Lambert did, and set it adrift. It was the only way she could extinguish this last route of escape and seal the bishop’s fate. Dodo and his men would follow the tracks east, and he would know of the ferry site as well, she reasoned. Once he determines where Lambert is headed, he’ll gallop there at full speed on whatever mount he can find. He’ll do everything in his power to get to that ferry, yet what if Lambert arrives first and escapes? It’s a horse race now, she thought. And I have just the horse to win!

“Ride with me, Kuhaylan,” she said aloud. “Ride with me this night and drink the wind!”

“She’s moving,” said Kelly, pointing at the line of latitude and longitude coordinates on the screen. “And from the rate these numbers are changing she’s going at a fairly good clip.”

Paul had returned, elated that Maeve had been right there at the breaching point, waiting for them when he appeared. The Spook Job went off seamlessly, and he was able to toss Maeve the apple with its hidden message.

“Can’t risk just fluttering a piece of paper her way,” Paul had argued earlier. “I’ll need something with some weight that I can throw and aim. I’ll want to get it well away from my manifestation coordinates, but yet close enough to the breaching point so that it might be noticed if she comes upon the scene later. And it can’t be anything modern that could contaminate the Meridian.”

In the end they had found the apples in the kitchen break room, and Paul decided they could slide a folded message neatly into a small slice in one side. Maeve’s close proximity when he appeared was just the icing on the cake. Paul knew she could not fail to see the apple now, and read the note it held.

“What is she supposed to do with it?” said Kelly. “Eat the damn thing?” They had no idea what the altered hieroglyphics might mean now, ‘by the river’s edge,’ but it was all they could do—just pass the information on to Maeve and hope for the best.

“Well, if she can’t make an intervention, then what?” Kelly asked, frustrated.

“Then you can send Paul through again to the villa and he can kill the bishop.” Nordhausen folded his arms and looked smugly at his friend.

“Hey, I just shifted in for the Spook Job, Robert. You’re up next.”

“That won’t matter,” Kelly waved at the two of them. “Lambert won’t even be at the villa. He was warned, remember? You think he’s just going to sit there waiting for Dodo and his men to show up?”

“He was warned, alright, and I would make it well after 9:00P.M. on that Meridian when we first returned,” said Paul. “But he had to be tipped off before midnight when we assume Dodo could arrive with his men from Heristal. Let’s say he flees at eleven then. In that case you’ll have to tell the Golems to reprogram that final worst case mission entry point for some time between ten and eleven. That would put Robert at the villa just before the warning arrives. Then he can break in and assassinate the poor man before he’s warned and makes off with the whole of Christendom and the fate of Western civilization in the night.”

“What?” Robert protested. “We haven’t drawn lots yet. Those little Spook jobs were nothing. You weren’t there but a few seconds, on either Meridian. It’s obvious you still have your wits about you, so take your chances, Paul. We’ll draw lots,” he insisted.

There was a shudder and they heard the telltale descending whine of a turbine. “That’s the setup man dying on the mound,” Kelly said quickly. “Somebody just singled to center field. I’ll have to bring in the closer, Paul.”

Kelly wasted no time getting the number three generator on line, but he had a worried look in his face. “How many outs can we get with this one?” He gave Paul a questioning look. “Cause there’s no one left in the bull pen.”

“I make it two hours fuel on that generator. That’s plenty of time in the altered Meridian, and I may be able to siphon some additional gas from the cars down in the garage if you can hold the Nexus steady. I could probably get another hour or two for us if I refuel one of the other two backup units.”

“I hope it’s enough time for Maeve to figure something out. As it stands now her retraction scheme is scheduled for midnight in her Meridian. So in… nine minutes now, our time, it’s going to be midnight there. The system is set up to look for her at the retraction point, and if she’s not there we’ll try pulling her out based on the tracking data we have, but it’s going to cost us fuel, both kinds, quantum and plain old petrol. We’re going to have to rev up the Arch to 100% power for a wide area retraction scheme.”

Paul sighed heavily. “So while we’ve been talking here hours have passed for her on the other Meridian. If she figured something out, and we have no idea what, then it’s very likely she would have done it by now.” At the same time the thought that they might pull Maeve out before she could take any decisive action rankled at him.

“Can we get a report from the Golems?”

“Yes, but remember there’s a time lag there. We may not see any variations until well after the deadline.”

“Can we abort at the last minute?”

“I need ninety seconds, minimum, for an abort,” said Kelly. “Otherwise I have to take the Arch up to 100% to be ready for the retraction. Yes, you can abort even then, but we lose the fuel in that instance, and get nothing for it in return. And…” He leaned on that word heavily, “there’s no guarantee I can get her out safely if we burn our candles at midnight as planed and decide to abort. We just may not have the fuel to run that kind of power again, so you can also forget your shift in to the villa to assassinate the damn bishop if I have to do a wide area search and retraction scheme. Neither one of you could do that anyway. You’re wonderful physicists and historians, but not murderers.”

“So it’s all on Maeve,” said Robert. “The whole damn history of Western civilization comes down to Maeve, on a horse, at midnight. She’s got to be the one to seal the bishop’s fate, and God only knows what she has to do, because I surely don’t have a clue…”

Chapter 20

She came upon the riders an hour later. Maeve had been picking herself through the gorse and thistle at the river’s edge, careful to steer wide of the thorns. Where was that damn ferry site? She should have found it by now, but the darkness and thickening clouds overhead confounded her effort. Then she saw a tree ahead, with a low bowed branch that leaned heavily over the river, and it stirred her with a moment of recognition.

She remembered turning south to evade any pursuit by the farmer, then coming upon the ferry shortly thereafter. Then she waded into the shallows and picked her way north, hoping to obscure her tracks. This tree, she knew, was the spot where she had stooped low to avoid the branch and emerged from the water’s edge to head inland again. She was very close now.

A moment later she was startled by a sound, a tinkling of a harness fitting and the neigh of another horse. Her heart leapt, thinking that the farmer had come all this way and was still fitfully searching the river’s edge for her—or worse, that he had managed to follow her tracks after all. Up ahead she saw shadows, perceived movement, glimpsed a brief glint of fleeting moonlight reflected off metal, and heard the muffled sound of horse hooves on the loamy ground. Who was this?

She looked around, thinking to hide herself in the heavy riverside growth, when another sound relieved her fears. It was a child, fussing at the edge of tears, then a woman’s voice speaking in soft, reassuring tones. Something drew her to face the travelers, and she nudged Kuhaylan slowly forward, singing to herself as she went so as to give the other party easy warning of her close proximity. Another part of her mind screamed at her. Why? What in the world are you doing? Be on your way and leave these poor people alone! Yet she felt herself pulled, as if by some strange magnetism that was more than idle curiosity or any desire to satisfy herself that there was no danger at hand. It was as if she simply had to go to them, greet them in the night, an appointment that was fated to happen long before she was born.

“Who is there?” The voice of a man quavered. “We are well armed!” he warned.

“Fear not,” she said in her best Latin. “Just another weary traveler in the night.” She drew closer, seeing a man and two women mounted on three horses. The women each held a child, one barely a toddler, the other a young yellow haired boy, eyes wide with apprehension as he looked at her. She instinctively smiled, throwing back her hood so as not to appear so mysteriously imposing. She recognized the man’s mount, the same old gray mare she had first purchased from the blacksmith and his livery, and it seemed to her the horse knew her as well, snorting quietly, its breath fogging the still, cold air.

“A woman alone at such an hour of the night?” said the man. Then his eyes searched about, with obvious uneasiness, a look of foreboding fear plain on his face.

Maeve knew exactly who this man was, for she caught a glimpse of his robe beneath the woolen brown riding cloak, and saw also the string of beads at his waist. She knew it was foolish to say anything more. Every instinct told her to turn and get as far away from these people as she possibly could, but she stared at him, transfixed for a moment, and somewhat breathless. “Landebertus?” she breathed.

The man started, as if he had hoped not to be recognized. “From whence have you come, woman? Have you seen other riders by the river this night?”

“No others,” said Maeve. “I was riding south seeking aid. My party was fallen upon by strangers and I alone escaped. Brigands and thieves they were. They have taken everything!” She had no idea where that story had come from, but it seemed convincing enough. “I was hoping to find the road again to seek lodging. It is very cold.”

The man smiled, noting the fine stature and well muscled lines of her mount. “You must be well off to afford such a horse as that one,” he pointed. “We are very near the river ferry, journeying east. Why not ride with us, my child, it is just south now, another mile further along the river. Then you may cross over with us, and we will lead you to safe quarters—see that you are fed and given to warm yourself by the fire.“ His voice was soft and reassuring. “It is not safe here, yes, other brigands are about this night, and they may be very near. You are certain you saw no other riders?”

“No one, your grace,” Maeve said, her voice breaking slightly. She looked at the women, one obviously a sister or perhaps even the bishop’s wife, who smiled, gently rocking her youngest where the child slept at her bosom. The other was a serving maid, her plump arms wrapped tightly around the waist of the young boy. These were the people she had come here to kill. Here they met death’s prophet on her white Arabian steed, and yet could think only of offering her safe passage and comfort. She looked at their faces, speechless for a moment, her mind and heart tormented by what she must now do.

“Most gracious thanks, father,” she whispered, “yet I must go south—to the main road. My companions will be seeking me out there in the morning. I cannot cross over with you…”

“Are you certain? It is very dark, a dangerous road at night for a woman alone.” Lambert extended an open hand. “Come with us, and you may return here in the morning; thence ride safely to meet those who wait for you.”

Tears began to well in Maeve’s eyes, and she could barely speak, throwing her riding hood up and over her honey red hair, hiding herself. “I cannot…” it was all she could say, as she pulled on the reins, turning Kuhaylan about. “Go with God, my bishop,” she said softly. “And may you rest in peace this night.”

She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and he leapt away, easing up to a canter as Maeve road swiftly south. Just a mile, she thought. The ferry was very near, and she must get to it in plenty of time to do what she had come here to do. She must get there before Lambert drew nigh, where darkness and silence would be her only companions, and the river would slip quietly by, unconcerned, unaware of her inner torment, and the yawning maw of guilt that opened to consume her heart.

Maeve reached the ferry, just north of the place where she had come upon the farm. It was still tethered to the low tree stump she had seen before. The Arabian had raced south like a banshee, eating up the last mile with a steady, powerful gait, but she had little time to spare. She slipped off the horse, throwing off the encumbering gown she wore to stand there in plain trousers, with a light leather jerkin top over a simple white shirt. Better, she thought, still holding the reins as she cautiously approached the edge of the river. The pale moonlight gleamed on the waters of the Meuse, and she was struck with the thought that this was not the same river she had seen here just a few hours ago, nor was she the same person.

Then she had been thrilled to have escaped safely from the farm, with the Arabian under her, running hard, with a clear path home. The thought of what she had done never entered her mind. By simply taking this horse and riding off in the night she was changing every moment yet to come in the long river of Time. Though she knew in her bones that there were going to be major consequences for what she had done, that thought was not so easily connected to Lambert’s death as she rushed to make good her escape from the farmer. The surge of adrenalin chased those fearful thoughts from her mind. She was simply focused on getting away with the Arabian, and finding her way back to their entry point; back to the Arch complex in Berkeley; back to Kelly.

Now, however, as she stood by the low tree stump and stared at the ferry, she could clearly see the meaning of the riddle in the hieroglyphics the professor had translated. Here she stood, with the restless Kuhaylan at her side, hardly winded from the brisk ride and eager to run again. Her eyes were still glassy wet with emotion as she remembered the faces of the people she had fled from minutes ago. They were innocent, unblemished, and yet they must die this night. Each second that passed brought that moment ever closer. The man, the woman, the maid and the two children… five souls that she held now in the palm of her hand, in the hollow of her breaking heart.

Off in the distance she could already hear other riders approaching, their voices carrying in the cold night air, urgent and harried. A distant peal of thunder warned of a coming storm, drowning out the voices in the night, but she looked and spied three other horses, laden with several riders. One came in front, leading the others on with hushed encouraging whispers.

That would be Bishop Lambert, she knew. The cry of the young boy scored her heart again. They were obviously in fear for their lives, for behind them she could now discern another mounted group in the distance as they crested a hillock. Something gleamed in the moonlight, perhaps the glimmer of drawn swords, she thought. All these riders were converging on this one spot, a Nexus Point in the flow of Time that would now decide the future course of history for thousands of years to come.

So here was the place, where the horses were brought to gather, here by the river, she thought. And there before her she could clearly see the thin, weathered rope coiled about the tree stump. The barge that served as a ferry was already well floated in the shallows. She had only to loosen the twine to set the barge free and give it a strong push. The river would do the rest, heedless, unconcerned.

But now there was no doubt in her mind as to the consequences of her action. This was Lambert’s last hope of escape, and the men riding hard behind him would surely cut him down, slaying everyone they found here.

If I let slip this twine, I become an accessory to murder, she thought darkly. It was as if I held the sword myself and plunged it into that good man’s heart. But then one last thought asserted itself, pulsing hard at her temples as the seconds ticked away and the riders drew ever closer. She would most certainly become a victim here as well. Dodo would kill everyone, wanting no witness to his crime, and she would easily be perceived as just another servant of the bishop’s household.

Fear now joined the recrimination roiling in her mind, and the reflex to fight or flee hung in the suspense of this long distended moment. What should she do, remain unblemished in her own soul and accept death, yet another martyr slain on this dark night at the edge of a coming storm? Or should she loosen the twine and alter the stream of this river, and be forever changed herself by that single selfish act? She could simply flee if she wished, washing her hands of the whole matter, leaving Lambert and his family to their own fate…

What time was it? The retraction had been programmed for Midnight, though now she was miles away from the original entry point. Could Kelly and the others even find her here? Would she be doomed to live out the rest of her life in this milieu as a serving wench, a seer, a sage who claimed to know the course of fate itself, scorned as a witch when she darkly predicted all the days to come?

God’s will, she thought heavily, and decided.

Kelly was watching the time chronometer closely. “She’s moving again!” he shouted to Nordhausen. “Anything on the Golem alerts yet?”

“Nothing I can see,” said the professor.

Kelly watched the numbers change, seeing the latitude coordinates spinning away, and indicating Maeve was moving north. She had clearly reversed her course, and was now heading back towards the entry point. He called up a window and selected those original coordinates, then told the system to account for the distance between her current plotted position and the rate of change. Seconds later he had a reading that indicated her estimated time of arrival on the home coordinates.

“It’s going to be close,” he whispered. “It’s going to be very, very close.” Yet he was heartened by the thought that each moment he waited, Maeve drew nearer to a place where he could get a firm and sure hold on her, and bring her home. The closer she came to the home coordinates, the less strain it would put on the Arch as it tried to pry open the doors of eternity and bring her home.

Paul had been down in the garage, and returned, smiling with the news that he had managed to partially fill the number one backup generator with the last of the fuel from their autos.

“I lost suction on the Honda, so there’s probably another gallon or two in that tank, but the other vehicles bought us another hour if we need it.”

Robert looked up from the Alert Module, bleary eyed, and obviously needing sleep. He had a deflated look on his face, clearly unhappy.

“What?” asked Paul.

“I suppose we had better think about drawing those lots then,” he said. “Nothing seems to have changed. Maeve has reversed course. She’s heading north again, but I see no variation in the history.”

“There could be a lag in that system,” said Kelly, still watching the time closely.

“Right,” said Paul. “And remember—as long as Maeve is at large in that milieu, she’s a Free Radical. Time may be waiting on the final outcome of this mission before we see any definite effects in the data stream.”

“Well we’d better draw lots in any case,” said Nordhausen. “Just to be ready.” He looked in a desk drawer and found a box of new pencils. A moment later he had taken five out and began snapping them into various lengths. He closed his eyes, and rearranged them in his hand, extending a fist full of pencils to Paul. “Be my guest,” he said.

“Short man goes to the villa.” Paul reached out and pulled away one of the pencils, pleased to see it was a good length.

Robert still had his eyes closed, and was reaching for a pencil when a single tone sounded on Kelly’s board. He opened his eyes and saw Kelly shifting from one monitor to another, his hands adjusting systems in a blur. The low thrum of the Arch turbines began to build up strength.

“I’m taking the power up to 90%” Kelly shouted. You two put those silly pencils down and get busy. Maeve’s coming home!”

Paul moved quickly to take a seat next to Kelly. Robert cast a furtive glance and selected the longest pencil in his hand, tucking it into his pocket before dropping the others into a cup on the desk. Some things just should not be left to chance, he thought.

She stood in the shadows, breathless, heartbroken, tears streaking her face as she watched in agony. The cries of the bishop and his family clawed at her, and she could dimly perceive the gleam of swords in the moonlight.

Moments earlier she had set her hand upon the rope that tethered the barge, and gently loosened the twine. It had been the slightest touch, pulling at a knot that held all Time in its tortuous weave, and then letting it go. The barge had been drifting in and out with a gentle swell, held in place by this single coil of rope. Now, when the river pulled at it, there was no longer any resistance to tether it in place. She saw the knot fall away and the rope slip, falling to the sodden ground. At once the river had hold of the barge, easing it slightly away from the shore.

Would it be enough, she wondered? The ferry bumped a post set a few feet out in the river to keep it in alignment, but with the rope untethered it began to turn, and started to drift. There was another long rope, extending across the river to some unseen post on the far shore. It would be used to guide the barge and help prevent it from being swept away in the flow during the crossing, and there were several wooden poles on the weathered deck that could be pushed into the silted river bottom to assist. But the ferry was empty now, with no human hands to hold the rope or use the poles.

The barge glided by the shore. Oh, take it, she seemed to plead inwardly to the river. Take it and be done with this! But it lingered near its mooring site, and she finally knew she would not get off so easily. Her complicity would be complete, undeniable, unforgivable, for she now had to give it one more strong push to nudge it out into the stream and set it free.

“In for a penny, in for a pound…” She remembered Paul quipping about the mission and realized she had to finish the job. Then she placed her foot on the edge, and pushed hard. It was enough force to ease the ferry out into the river, and now the current began to grasp at it, pulling it away from the shore.

She moved slowly, as though numbed with some powerful drug, listless and forlorn, backing away from the tree stump as she watched the mooring rope slide off into the water. Then, still holding the reins of her horse, she turned and walked slowly away, heading for a shadowed glen not far from the water’s edge.

So it was that she saw the frantic arrival of the Bishop, riding the old gray mare and witnessed his desperate effort to get down off the horse and wade out into the shallows. But the ferry had been taken by the powerful stream of the river and was long gone by the time he reached the shoreline.

She heard the cries of lamentation, the frightened weeping in the night. A thought passed that she could go to them, to offer aid at the last extreme, returning the gentle kindness they had extended to her just moments before. At the very least, she could save the children. Yet a stern voice within her would not permit it. Her own steely logic told her that these were all meant to perish, and their death, though painful and cruel, was an absolute necessity. Leaving even one alive would introduce changes in the stream of the flow that could have dramatic repercussions.

So she watched in horror as Dodo came riding with his men at arms, full of bluster and harsh throated words. She did not labor to translate, for the hard edge in his voice was enough to make his meaning plain. Here now is death; heed now my vengeance; here I am satisfied that payment has been made for the wrong you have brought upon my family.

The rasp of swords flashed in the moonlight, and thunder rumbled in the distance. There, on that dark and muddied shore, Time fell in a swoon when silence finally enfolded the scene again. Lambert had been slain, along with all his household. The cry of the boy, his voice cut suddenly short, was the last thing she heard.

Maeve stood, forcing herself to witness the crime she had made possible, wanting to turn and flee, but riveted to the spot, dogged with reproach and remorse. Then one of the assailants turned, his eyes still wild with violence, and pointed to the place where she lingered in the shadows.

“Quisnam est illic?” The man turned, squaring off, as he peered in her direction, his sword at the ready.

Then something in her mind snapped and her body moved. She leapt up, barely able to mount the skittish steed again, and her pulse raced as she saw two, then three men start towards her, stopping when they saw she had mounted.

“Ad Equos!” One man shouted, and they ran to secure their horses, preparing to mount and give chase.

Maeve was up, finally shifted into riding position as the rush of adrenaline chased the emotion from her mind with pulsing fear. Her sudden movement caused the Arabian to rear up, turning its head to cast a wide eyed glance at the oncoming soldiers. At that moment she heard a taught snap and the leather rein gave way, suddenly slack in her hands. The tumult of the horse’s movement almost threw her free, but she leaned forward to hold on to the horses neck and mane. Kuhaylan regained his balance, came down, and thundered away, gaining speed even as he ran up the low embankment of the river, a silvered blur in the night.

It took all her skill, but she was able to steer him west across a grassy field towards the old Roman road by using her legs and reinforcing every desired direction with her voice. She could hear the sound of riders behind her, laboring up the embankment to give chase, but no horse in the land was the equal of Kuhaylan that night, and he ran full out, galloping away, drinking the wind as his powerful body carried her out onto the road. The clatter of his hooves and the wind in her ears was all she could hear now, and she rode north, a cold rippling wave of chaos in the night.

Chapter 21

“I think we’ve got her!” Kelly was jubilant as he completed the retraction sequence. “Let’s get down to the Arch. I want to make certain she phased in properly. Come on!”

The three of them rushed to open the heavy metal door and make their way down to the Arch. When they arrived they found Maeve sitting there, legs crossed, though her hooded outer cloak and robe were missing.

Kelly was the first to her side, extending a hand to help her up with a warm smile. She seemed somewhat disoriented, and her eyes were swollen and red, as though she had been crying. He put his arms around her, guiding her back across the thick yellow event horizon to the safety of the inner chamber where the others waited.

She blinked at them, and Paul was the first to speak. “I know we asked a great deal of you, Maeve,” he said.

“Thank God,” she sighed with obvious relief. “You got me out just in time. I made it to the entry point well enough, with Dodo and his men in hot pursuit, though they were well behind me. But I was about to have company! There were also men waiting there, out on the road, and a cleric as well. It was all I could do to steal up and get close to that tree stump, but they saw me and one of the men came running at me just as I felt the shift begin. I slapped the Arabian’s rump as hard as I could, and the horse bolted. That bought me just enough time I suppose…”

She nodded sullenly, still taking comfort in the warmth of Kelly’s arm. “That apple was a good idea,” she said at last. “I fed it to the horse.”

“And the note?” Paul asked, still not certain she had been able to decipher the message and take any decisive action.

“Oh, I got the note,” she eyed him sternly. “I read it and then ate the damn thing. Couldn’t risk a piece of that nice lined paper floating off into the 8th century in a careless moment. But that was the least of my worries. Alright… I killed the bishop, saved the realm, and rode off to glory. What’s next?” She smiled wanly, but they could see she was still shaken with emotion.

“Sounds like a good game of Darkspawn Chronicles,” said Kelly smiling. “Let’s get you upstairs and get some coffee. Then we can check the Golems and see if you actually did save the realm.”

Nordhausen was too impatient to wait. “What did you decide, Maeve? What did you do? Anything?”

She told them the story of her encounter at the farm and all that happened afterwards as they rode the elevator up and made their way back along the long corridor. The incident with the wolves seemed to register with Paul. He recalled his own harrowing encounter with a wolf outside the hidden archive when he had fallen through the Well of Souls and was lost in the land of the Assassins.

Robert was amazed at how the hieroglyphics had so clearly sketched out the imperatives in that last wild scene where Dodo and his men came upon the bishop.

“A loose twine!” he said, amazed. “So it had nothing to do with a corral in the Arab camp, or even the rein on that Arabian, eh?”

“Well…” Maeve hesitated a moment. “Now that you mention it, thank God that rein snapped when it did. It loosened the pressure on the horse’s mouth and stopped him from rearing even more at a critical moment. I was able to get him down and into a run, and that saved me. I owe that horse my life a few times over.”

Robert was suddenly energized, and was the first to rush to a History Module when they reached the lab, eager to see if anything had changed.

“Believe me,” said Maeve. “It was hell to stand there and watch that. I really don’t know if I could do that again.”

“Well, I know its small consolation, “ said Paul, “but Robert and I are grateful we won’t have to shift in and murder Lambert ourselves!”

“No, I made certain someone else got the job,” she said flippantly, but he could see she was still deeply troubled.

Paul gave her a reassuring touch on her shoulder. “You were the only one who could have done it, Maeve. Just riding the damn horses would have been beyond any of the rest of us. You did what you had to do, in the heat of the moment and with great clarity, in spite of how frightening it must have been. Well done!” he finished with a smile.

Nordhausen shouted at them from the History Module. “Get over here, people! We’ve got variations!”

The Golems were churning and sifting and sampling the Meridians, and Robert was the first to see that the colors were already changing. “Look,” he pointed. These years are all turning from yellow to green now.”

Paul looked and saw the colors changing all through the cells marking the early 8th century. The year 705 was now a solid green, as were all the years after until the line reached the year 714. There it remained stubbornly amber. “That’s odd,” he said. “Kelly, should we give this more time?”

“I’d love to say we had plenty to give,” said Kelly, but we’ve got about ninety minutes fuel left on the number three generator. Our closer got us through the eighth inning here, but I’m not sure he can get us those last three outs.” He was at their side, now, still holding Maeve’s hand. “What’s the problem?”

“We’re seeing no changes beyond this year,” said Paul. “714… Wasn’t that the year Pippin dies?”

“It’s also the year Grimwald was supposed to have been killed at Lambert’s chapel,” said Maeve.

“Right,” said Paul. “But the variations seem stuck on that point in the continuum. Lambert’s death looks like it was not entirely decisive.”

“He wasn’t killed at the villa!” Robert pointed excitedly. “He was killed at the ferry by the river this time. The Bishop Hubert was the one who ordered the chapel to be built at the site of Lambert’s death, and that chapel became the center of the future city of Liège. Has it moved?”

Paul called up a map from the Golem data. “Hard to tell when you look at the city in contemporary times,” he said.

“No,” said Maeve. “I was there. The ferry site was not that far from Lambert’s villa at Leodium. It would not have affected the location of the city that much, but it may have had some impact on the assassination of Grimwald.”

“Yes,” said Robert. “He dies in the chapel, and it must have been built at the ferry site now, not the villa.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a difference,” said Paul.

“Oh, but it is,” Robert argued. “The site of Lambert’s death was the location where he left this earthly existence and his soul ascended into heaven. The place of a martyr’s death was very important considering the future development of the cult to his sainthood.”

“Well, he may be correct,” said Kelly, “Because I scrolled forward to check the impact of Maeve’s intervention on the outcome of Tours, and Abdul Rahman and his Saracen legions are still victorious…”

There was a thick silence after that. The weariness of the hour and the stress of all they had been through weighed heavily on them. Paul looked fitfully at the time, rubbing the strain from the back of his neck.

“Crap,” he said. “Speaking of horses, this one isn’t dead yet. We need to give it another kick! Tell me, Kelly, who was leading the Franks at the battle as the Golems read it now?”

“Our old friend Grimwald,” said Kelly.

“But we restored the place of his death when we assured his martyrdom,” said Maeve.

“Yes, but we moved it,” said Paul. “It may not sound like much but it’s all we have to go on now.”

“I don’t see how a few miles difference would matter,” said Robert. “He was going to visit the shrine, in one location or another. That’s where he was to be killed.”

“There’s an infinity of possibilities at work now,” said Paul frustrated. “Anything could have happened to prevent Grimwald’s death, but we don’t seem to have a single clue in the history sources at our disposal here.”

“Could the Assassins still be operating?” Robert suggested with a question. “It could be that they figured a way to prevent the death of Grimwald, or at least to preserve their earlier intervention to spare the man. With him alive, Plectrude’s side of the family must have prevailed in the power struggle for succession. Look here…”

He called up some supporting documentation, using his recollection of the history to search for just the right documents. “I read a good PhD thesis on this,” he said. “Let’s have a look at some of Bishop Lambert’s hagiographers. It seems that there was a raft of vengeance that fell upon Dodo and his followers for the murder of Lambert. Look at this passage. The bishop is said to have haunted Dodo and his cohorts in the years after the bishop’s death. This is supposed to be Lambert’s spirit speaking…”

He began reading a translation of the chronicle: “we have harassed our friend Dodo and his companions. It is time, that they should pay their debt, and receive their just and deserved reward… Then Dodo, who was the first and leader in the death of the bishop, was struck by divine vengeance. After all his hidden parts were made rotten and stinking they were cast forth through his mouth, and his unhappy and wicked present life ended… Others were tormented by demons, wailing and crying out in the voices of diverse kinds… and within the year only a few from among them remained, those who were in league and conspired to bring about the death of the Saint.”

“Sounds like Dodo was poisoned,” said Maeve. “Well one of the conspirators is still alive and well,” she said uneasily, obviously referring to herself.

“Someone was taking out all the remaining opposition in Alpaida’s side of the family,” said Paul, images of the Godfather returning to his mind. “They got to Dodo and his followers, eliminating Alpaida’s brother, and they must have also found a way to stop Grimwald’s assassination.”

A loud warning claxon went off, and Kelly jumped with a start. He saw nothing at the Golem Alert Station, but the breaching indicators were all lit up again.

“Didn’t I close that breach effectively?” he said aloud. “Damn it! What the hell’s going on? I’ve got a residual signature in the matter stream!”

“What?” Paul was at his side in an instant. “A residual signature?”

“The Arch has hold of someone else! Hell, I’d better feed this baby some additional power.” Then he remembered what Maeve had told them about the men on the road close by the site of the retraction point.

“Maeve? You say men were waiting for you at the entry coordinates?”

“At least three men and a cleric, on the road, perhaps twenty yards off. By that time I was well off the road and approaching from the river side. I was able to squeak in close to the tree stump we used as a marker and dismount, but that hedge wasn’t much cover. They saw me, and one of them came running at me.”

Kelly looked at Paul. “Well someone is still in the matter stream, and coming through the Arch. You suppose this guy lunged at her and fell into the retraction? Doesn’t make sense. I would have no signature on him. How would the system know what to pull through?”

Paul nodded agreement. “It’s not an open portal,” he said to Kelly. “You’re right, the system has to have a secure mass pattern to move anything. Another person could be standing right next to you, right in the shift zone, and they wouldn’t move a millisecond in Time.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“One way to find out,” said Paul flatly. “Let’s get down there. You and Maeve better stay here and keep an eye on things. Robert? Care to join me?”

A moment later, the two men were rushing along the long tunnel, heading down to the Arch again.

“So who’s the uninvited dinner guest this time?” said Robert. “LeGrand? Graves? I thought you said they couldn’t get through the penumbra cast by Palma? That their machines were largely wiped out after that?”

“Kelly said it was a residual on Maeve’s retraction stream, Robert. That means they have to be shifting in from the 8th century… but I’ve been wrong before,” said Paul.

They reached the Arch, peering into the haze as the lights subsided and the power turbine wound down again. Both of them started when a man stepped out of the bluish fog and strode boldly into the central chamber. He was wearing Medieval clothing, burgundy felt cap, a dark cape over a brunia leather jerkin, flannel trousers laced tight on the calves and brown stained leather boots. Paul noted the short sword at his side, and a barbed javelin slung on his back.

“Who the hell are you?” Paul said, almost reflexively.

The man had been gazing up at the walls and ceiling, following the last of the glimmering lights as the Arch shift subsided, now he looked at them square on, his deep set eyes bright with fascination and obvious elation.

“Forgive me!” he said in perfect English. “And allow me to introduce myself.” He bent his tall, angular frame to make a respectful bow. “You may call me Rantgar,” he said. “Rantgar of Friesia.”