Anvil of Fate (Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  “That was awesome!” Nordhausen exclaimed. “The colors are amazing. I’ll never get tired of it.”

  “Don’t you get nauseous?” said Paul. “I keep my eyes shut as tight as I can.”

  “You miss everything then,” said Robert, hugging himself with the cold. The icy fog from the shift had dissipated, and they were standing in a green field, behind a stand of low hedges.

  “Come on then,” said Maeve. “We’ve little time to lose here. The city should be north,” she pointed. “We’ll most likely find something I can ride there, and the sooner the better. Memorize this location. That stump there should be a good reminder.”

  Paul took in the lay of the land. The river Meuse was to their east, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The sky was clouding over, with a darkening front off to the west. Green fields formed a patchwork all around them, spaced by dark, sodden ground that had been freshly tilled. They were in the farmland just south of the city where the predominant crop was barley, but much of it had long since been harvested, and they could see remnants scattered over the cleared fields.

  The road was tiled with well placed stone, well weathered by the elements and heavy use over the long years since Roman cohorts once marched briskly along its track, the red caped life blood in the veins of an empire that encompassed all of the known world, as far north as Hadrian’s old wall in Britain. Now it was overgrown with tufts of grass and invading weeds in places, and fringed by stands of trees and thorn scrub. In its day it had carried the commerce of war and Medieval society, Rome’s legions, traders, horsemen, stolid oxen hauling in the harvest of the land on heavy wooden carts. And it connected the emerging cities and settlements of Gaul, small hamlets, farms, and old Roman Villas that once stood as resting spots for citizens and soldiers alike, and now served as stone walled estates for the wealthy, or privileged clerics of the region.

  Cities did not amount to much more than a scatter of squat wooden buildings at this time, with wood post walls and thatched roofs, with an occasional stone tower or walled area, mostly ruins from an earlier time when Rome ruled the land here. Rutted earthen roads stretched out to the immediate vicinity, connecting farms and hovelled homesteads where people sought the protection of the city garrisons.

  As they walked they could just make out a few outlying shacks now, and what looked like a low stone wall off in the distance. They walked, breathless for a time, their eyes keen for any signs of other people. It was not long before they spied a stable and blacksmith on the southern outskirts of the town. The sharp ring of his hammer resounded through the clear, cold air.

  “Now let me do the talking,” said Maeve.

  “In Old Frankish?” Robert chided.

  “Most likely Latin will do,” said Maeve. “It was my language elective when I got my history degree. It tended to come in handy throughout this period. The common tongue was a derivative of the old Roman Latin.”

  They approached the livery, seeing that there were several horses tied up there, like autos in the lot of a contemporary auto shop, probably waiting to be shoed. Maeve gave them a careful inspection, before approaching the smith and pointing.

  She spoke, haltingly at first, but Robert could pick up a little of the Latin she used. The word ‘equus’ was obvious, and she pointed to a grey mare tied up behind the main livery. The Smith gave her an odd look, glancing at Paul and Robert from time to time.

  Paul stood up straight, trying to look somewhat haughty, though the only costuming the men could put together on such short notice had been a pair of long monk’s cassocks. They reasoned that churchmen held as much power as landed gentry at the time, and thought that Maeve might present herself as a nun in similar garb. Nordhausen went bare headed, having long since lost most of his hair. Paul balked at shaving his head, but the hood on his cassock provided enough cover. He had to swap out his eyeglasses for a pair of contact lenses, but other than the fact that they were a little too clean shaven, they could blend in easily enough, posing as missionaries from the holy see of St. Hubert, on the road to spread the gospel. It was also hoped that their affiliation with the church would afford them some protection and a measure of consideration.

  In time Maeve seemed to reach an accommodation with the smith, and went over to Robert to retrieve a small nugget of gold.

  “We are poor, but the church has given us at least this to offer in payment,” she said in Latin.

  The man, tall and dark, with a swarthy look and round odor, squinted at the nugget she offered, hefting it in the palm of his hand to assess its weight, then giving it a bite before nodding his agreement. He handed her the tether and she bowed, graciously, leading the horse away.

  “That went rather well,” she said softly as she returned to Paul and Robert. “Here, you lead the horse, Robert. I’ll get on if you could give me a boost up for good show, Paul. I told him I was weary and that we had many hours travel ahead of us.”

  A moment later they were beating a hasty retreat, back down the road and away from the town. The smith had watched them go, but simply shook his head and returned to his work. The sound of his hammer was comforting, slowly receding as they distanced themselves. They were elated that the first part of their plan had worked out without a hitch.

  “A proverbial old gray mare,” said Paul.

  “Yes,” said Maeve. “And let’s hope she has a few miles in her. I’ll need the rest of the gold, Robert.”

  “What? Oh yes, of course.” He handed her a small felt bag that they had used to carry the few chunks of gold they had managed to separate off with a rock hammer.

  “I make it nigh on to 5:00 in the afternoon,” said Maeve. “So I had best get a move on.”

  “Right,” said Paul. “Kelly should be pulling Robert and me out in an hour or so. We’ll leave the road and work our way back to the entry point to make his work a little easier.”

  They had set up the shift to give the two men about three hours time. Maeve’s shift pattern would be sustained in the new milieu for much longer, but was also timed to expire at midnight. At that point they would use a good portion of the quantum fuel to initiate an area search and locate her mass signature. The Arch was keeping a hold on her, tenuous as it was, and they hoped they would not have any complications. It was a new program Kelly had written and it was about to get its first real test. Hopefully it would allow the Arch to maintain a micro-tunnel in Time between the lab complex and Maeve’s pattern signature. Failing that she would try to be at the entry point by midnight, and they would sweep that area for her signature to hopefully bring her home.

  The two men couldn’t keep up with her, and so could afford her no further protection. While they could probably walk the sixteen miles to the villa in six to eight hours, considering rest time, there was no point in putting them both at risk. That would put them near the villa near the decisive hour of midnight, probably exhausted and hungry as well. So it was decided to pull them home and shift back in if, and only if, they determined Maeve had failed. Until then, she was on her own. And the two men wished her well with a hearty wave before turning and heading off the road to remain as inconspicuous as possible while they returned to the breaching point.

  Maeve sighed, then leaned down to stroke the neck and mane of her newfound companion. “It’s just you and me now, old girl,” she whispered.

  She shifted into position, loosening her garb to allow her to better use her legs to control the horse. There were no stirrups, but being a very experienced rider, she eased the horse on down the road with a light nudge of her heel. It wasn’t long before she had the feel of the animal, and the mare seemed to sense that she knew what she was about, perceiving the confidence she clearly had in her ability. In due course she had the mare up in a nice even trot, and had vanished down the long, stony byway.

  Nordhausen, paused near a hewn tree stump by the old Roman road watching her go.

  “Brave lady,” he said.

  “Not to be trifled with,” said Paul. But there wa
s a note of sadness in their voices, and they were both very tired. They had been awake all night, with just a few hours rest while the Arion system crunched the numbers they needed for the difficult retraction scheme that recovered Kelly.

  “Do you think you could do it?” Paul asked as they walked.

  “What? Ride the damn horse? Not me,” said Robert.

  “No, I mean Lambert. If Maeve fails for any reason in this intervention…”

  “Nordhausen pursed his lips. “Kill him? I must say the notion has been somewhat unnerving these last hours. What would we do?”

  “Kelly could probably put us within a few meters of the villa. That’s where the cathedral ended up being built in Liège, and the GPS coordinates are easy to find. But that said…How would we do it?”

  Nordhausen cleared his throat, trying to sound like he was just reasoning out a history problem, but it was clear that he was uncomfortable. “I suppose we’d have to bring some kind of a weapon,” he said. “Or else find one here.”

  “Maeve would have a fit if we brought a modern weapon through with us. Can you imagine the impact if we were to bring in a Glock pistol and lose the damn thing here?”

  “It’s an engineered weapon, and they would probably discover how to use it the hard way—by pulling the trigger. You mean to say you have a Glock?”

  “Of course not. But I do have a .22 Caliber hunting rifle in the storage closet of the garage. I stowed it there after that trip to Alaska last year, and haven’t thought of it since.”

  “A .22, eh? My God, you’d need to hit something vital right off with that. Otherwise you’d have to pepper the poor man to death with it.”

  “A sword then?”

  “You have a sword?”

  “No, we’d have to find one after we shifted back in—a sword or a javelin, or something similar.”

  “Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding Lambert’s death?” Robert gave him a stern look.

  “Something tells me I’m about to be made aware,” said Paul.

  “Well, you ought to know. Some sources claim Lambert had simply taken action to punish two rogues, Gallus and Rivaldus, for pilfering church property. That account has it that associates of the bishop had these men killed, and that they were kinsmen of Dodo, a highly appointed officer in Pippin’s court at the palace. In this light Dodo was just avenging the murder of his relatives. The story about Alpaida’s appeal to avenge her honor came later, perhaps many decades later. Some think the church put a little spin on the event to suit the coronation of Lambert as a saint, who was martyred because of his defense of marital fidelity. In any case, Lambert will have family there, two nephews and other domestics. Four men came to the villa in the middle of the night. Hearing the intruders entering his home, Lambert first reached for his sword, then decided not to oppose his assailants and accept martyrdom instead.”

  Paul was silent for a moment. “Two nephews?”

  “That’s what the account said when I read it before we left. Apparently they were put to the sword as well. I wonder how old they were?”

  “We won’t have to do that,” Paul said quickly. Then he gave the professor a sheepish look. “I guess we won’t have to bring the .22 rifle along either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sword,” said Paul softly. “Lambert had a sword by his bed. There’s a weapon right there….”

  The two men just looked at one another, but neither one spoke for a while until Nordhausen voiced the obvious next question.

  “Who does it?” His voice was a near whisper.

  “Be my guest,” said Paul.

  “I think’ we’d better draw lots,” said Robert.

  They reached the place where they had manifested, and said nothing more on the matter. Paul was studying the ground, and could even see the imprint of their footprints in the grass when they arrived. There was a wilted edge around each one, he noted, as if the plants had been damaged by severe cold.

  “Here are my footprints,” he said. “You were over there.”

  “And Maeve was right between us,” said Robert. But as they stepped into their footprints the professor pointed at the ground a few feet away. “But who was there?” he asked darkly.

  Paul looked where he was pointing and clearly saw another set of tracks in the ground, facing in toward the spot where they had appeared. He followed them back toward the hedge that had screened them from the road, an uneasy feeling rising in his gut.

  “Looks like someone is curious,” he said quietly.

  Chapter 17

  The Old Roman Road, September 16, 705 ~ 5:50 P.M.

  “Damn,” said Nordhausen, “We’ve been discovered! Our cover’s blown already!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Robert.” Paul tried to calm him down.

  “Looks like just one person,” said the professor, going over to peer at the tracks left in the wet grass.

  “Get back over here and stand in your tracks again,” said Paul in a controlled whisper, excited himself now. “Someone is on the road, and heading this way.”

  Robert looked to see horsemen on the road, apparently riding at a good clip given the dust they were leaving. It looked like two, then four men, hastening towards them.

  Nordhausen stepped quickly back into his footprints. “Someone was probably passing by when we manifested, and they obviously hid in that hedge there. God, they may have seen us appear! They would have thought we were spirits, angels.”

  “Or demons,” Paul took the down side of the argument. “And in either case they would have been scared out of their wits.”

  “Ya think?” Nordhausen squinted at the oncoming riders. “Or they would have hastened back to Heristal to raise the alarm and get a posse up after us.”

  “A posse? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then who is that?” Nordhausen pointed. “Four riders. Dodo and his men?” He pointed at the horsemen, who reined in sharply and came to a halt. The lead man was dressed all in black, tugging at the fit of his leather gloves as he spoke to them. Robert listened, trying to shift his brain into Latin to pick up what the man was saying, but the emotion in his voice was plain to hear, a derisive tone that paid them no respect at all, in spite of their monk’s robes.

  Robert gaped at the horsemen, obviously flustered. Paul had the good sense to keep his mouth completely shut. Then the lead man, the one Robert took to be Dodo, gave them a dismissive wave and spurred his horse on. As they passed a fat man in a thick leather jerkin leaned over and spat at them, laughing as he rode off.

  “Damn!” said Robert when the riders had passed well out of earshot. “That was Dodo and his retainers or I’m a frog!”

  “Ornery cuss, isn’t he,” said Paul. “What did he say?”

  “I was too startled to catch it all,” said Robert. “Something about pigs and a warm fire. Then that other fat slob spit at us! So much for consideration shown to clergymen.” As he finished Robert felt a shudder, and a wave of nausea sweep over him.

  Paul felt it too. “Robert?”

  “Close your eyes,” said the Professor. “Looks like Kelly is on time and we’re going home.”

  They stared at the riders, who seemed to fade away in the gathering shadows on the road. The hedge blurred into a smudge and then the lights appeared around them in a thick frost. Nordhausen wanted to watch again, but as he needed his wits about him for a possible second shift, he closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer for Maeve, and hoping they would not see the 8th century again anytime soon.

  At least not tonight.

  Maeve rode at a good speed for well over an hour before she eased off the road under an apple tree for a much needed bite to eat. Most of the low hanging fruit was gone, picked away by passersby, but from her perch on the mare she could reach high enough to pick several well ripened apples, plenty for herself and the horse.

  The sun was down and the evening sky was darkening fast behind a wall of gray clouds, their tops tinged with vermillion
and violet as the last light faded in the west. She had seen no one on the road thus far, but now had come down a low rise to a cultivated area that led her to believe there may be a farmer’s shack nearby. She could smell roast mutton on the wind, which seemed odd, but nonetheless inviting at his hour.

  Around the next bend she saw a cluster of three buildings, an old barn, and what looked like a weathered silo. The farm house was well lit from within, the wavering glow of firelight emanating from every window. The barn was some ways off, and there were bales of recently harvested hay stacked against one wall. She rode silently towards the scene, masking her approach by skirting a line of tall hedge and thistle. When she had come up on the barn she dismounted, leading her horse by the rein. The scent of hay, horses, and leather was thick in the air. She tied of her mare to a low post, and ventured to peek inside the half open door of the barn.

  It was dark and musty inside as she eased through the entrance into a small enclosure that passed for a tack room. It opened onto the main barn, where a bale of hay lay next to several canvas feed bags. The scent of oats and molasses was obvious, and she could hear the stirring of several horses inside.

  She wanted to get a look at the animals without startling them, so she began to sing softly, whisper quiet at first, as she edged around the corner. One of the horses chafed and whinnied, but then grew still when Maeve drew near, still whispering her quiet song.

  There were two steeds, one a milk white stallion and the other a chocolate brown plow horse, from the look of him. One glance at the stance of the stallion, and the telltale circle around the eye told her she had found the horse she wanted—Kuhaylan. He had proud bearing with well chiseled features and a long well muscled neck with a graceful arch. But more than this, the deep chest, and strong legs with large joints, told her this was a horse that could run like the wind. Elated she padded quickly back to the tack room to find a suitable rein and approached the horse again.

  He was a bit skittish at first, but she stroked his neck and mane, speaking softly until he grew calm, accepting the rein with a steady eye meeting hers. She untethered the stallion and led him quietly through the barn door. The farm house was on the other side of the barn, and the smell of wood smoke and roasted meat was thick on the cool night air. She led the Arabian to the place she had tethered her mare, feeling guilty to be stealing off with such a prime steed. So she took out the small felt pouch and tied it neatly to the rein of her older mare. Small compensation, she thought, for this was a horse worth his weight in gold, but it would have to do.