The Malvue property was partly conveniently covered by a thick wood. Felicity and Oliver could now and then leave Abelard with an assignment and slip away into the small forest to walk and talk about his progress and future. It was now six months since they had found him and his headway had been remarkable. His language skills, apart from an unrecognizable accent, were excellent. He had hoovered up the history of Western Civilization, learned how to use a computer and no longer brought up his medieval memories. At 85 kg he was fully fit. He remembered some useful stuff from his past, like basic numeric skills, writing and reading. The groundwork was well laid for more formal education, an absolute necessity if he was to at some point qualify for a useful degree at a university.
Felicity kept on walking, not wanting to stand idle in the cold damp January air as Oliver stopped for a moment to tie his bootlaces and to luxuriate in the crisp early spring air. The sky was overcast and gigantic blackbirds were circling high above perhaps, like the Valkyrie, in search of carrion. They distracted her and she wandered further ahead than she had intended. The terrain was textured with regular rises and dips, so that Felicity would regularly pop in and out of sight. When he looked up, he saw her head dip below one of the wave-like rises, about 50 meters on. As he approached he was a bit surprised not to see her reappear. Then he heard the muffled scream. He ran towards her and before he could cover the last few meters a gravelly voice filled the air. Oliver crawled up the rise where he had seen Felicity disappear and cautiously peeked over the crest. She was being held by one man while another pointed a gun at her. Their faces were completely hidden by balaclavas, and they were very big.
The gunman had probably observed their habits and had only to wait in one of the deep dips for them to show up. Oliver guessed that they simply assumed Felicity had come out for a walk alone and did not suspect that Oliver had simply fallen behind. They spoke French and to Oliver’s ear seemed as polite as could be expected under the circumstances. From the largely unintelligible flow, in a very calm, but definitely meaningful tone, Oliver was able to make out that this had somehow to do with Abelard. His name was mentioned twice, rolling off the gunman’s tongue as Ah Bey Lard. This unfolding drama put Oliver in a bit of a dilemma. Should he rush back and warn Abelard; should he try and rescue Felicity; should he do nothing, let them have Abelard, guessing that with their faces hidden they intended not to kill anyone except, perhaps, Abelard.
Felicity did not respond and the three began moving back towards the main dirt track that led to the house. It was on a rise and fairly flat, about three meters wide, enough for a motor vehicle. Tackling the two large, heavily armed and evidently experienced thugs he assessed as the absolute highest risk alternative, with zero options if he failed. They were nearing the farmhouse and he would soon also lose the alternative to run and warn Abelard. It looked like his strategy would default to the do-nothing-and-wait-for-an-opportunity one.
Then he heard it; a regular pounding sound, getting louder with rapidly increasing cadence. Felicity and the thugs had also taken notice of the rhythmic beat, slowing their progress to better prepare for whatever was approaching. Although the horizon was far into the distance along the very straight track, a rather wide dip, some 100 meters on, obscured a good portion. They could see the tops of the leafless trees that lined the invisible part of the gravel way. Their branches, shimmering in the slight breeze, seemed to be trembling in sympathetic harmony with the pounding. A moment on and the regular rumble had unmistakably morphed into horses’ hooves beating the frozen ground.
First it was only a feathery bouquet, fluttering into existence. It seemed endless, growing to improbable length, until a bobbing blade appeared at its side. The sword lengthened and the metal point morphed into a helmet, which both Felicity and Oliver quite quickly recognized as the one in which Abelard had been found. Neither imagined that the evil twins had decided to come to their rescue. Their suspicions were confirmed when the rider yelled, this time in good English, “Death to all.” The horse was now approaching at a full run and the crest, just where the track dipped out of sight, was soon filled with the complete regalia of a medieval knight. There was a comical make-do air about the equipment, particularly the cloth covering where a coat of arms appeared and the words McGill University writ large across the top. But there was no mistaking the intent of the rider, his large sword held at a menacing angle before him.
The unusual site did not seem to greatly fuss the two thugs. They exchanged a few words and, it seemed to Oliver, a little joke about the idiot on the dray horse, which he recognized as the Danish nag the twins kept in a spare room of their hovel. The thug with the drawn gun, which now loomed to Oliver like a small artillery piece, took careful aim at the horseman and fired. The bullet fell short, sending up a small plume where it hit in front of the horse’s front hooves. As this shot across the bow did not seem to deter the rider, who was now almost upon them, he again took aim, but did not have the time to fire before Oliver was upon him. Despite his misgivings, Oliver was unable to just stand by and watch Abelard callously murdered.
Oliver had contrived to close the gap between him and the thugs under cover of the noise from the pounding hooves and was near enough to jump in front of the gunman to deflect his aim and, at the same time land several effective blows that deftly sent the thug to the ground. Oliver’s heretofore useless years of grueling training had finally paid off. The thug holding Felicity now released her and swiftly drew his own weapon, which he never got to use. By then the horseman was upon him and the very last sound he heard was a swish as the broadsword cut the air, sliced his balaclava and cleaved into the soft tissue of his neck. His head gracefully traced a perfect arch before landing with a satisfying thud some ten meters on, well before the body finally crumpled to the sooty ice and gravel.
Abelard dismounted and removed his helmet, beaming a grand smile at Felicity. Her thoughts had remained frozen in the instant just before Abelard’s bloody intervention, causing her quite incongruously to blurt out what she at that moment already gone by had wanted very much to say, “so, that’s why you needed my old university blanket.” She then proceeded to vomit.
Abelard desired nothing so much as to comfort Felicity but needed more urgently to give his attention to the thug Oliver had pummeled into submission. He prodded him with his sword and made the usual small talk reserved for such occasions, “who are you, why are you here, remove the mask.”
Since his arm was quite obviously useless, bent the wrong way at the elbow, Abelard kindly helped by grabbing the balaclava, as well as a sizable chunk of hair. The man, his face a mask of defiance, did not respond and Abelard, noticing a chain about his neck, deftly used his sword point to expose it and its pendant. It was a small deformed cross, with one arm pointing up and longer than the other, like the thumb and first two fingers of a hand when they are splayed. Abelard’s face showed all the signs of recognition and the thug seemed to grow alarmed. Almost at once, and to the utter horror of Oliver and Felicity, Abelard pushed the sword deep into the thug’s chest. This time Oliver, all his years slicing up bodies notwithstanding, joined Felicity for a good retch.
*
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 27