Anvil of Fate (Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  “Not possible,” said Paul. “You heard Rantgar explain it. They can’t shift anything into our Arch. The two systems are incompatible.”

  “Well suppose they’ve gotten hold of one of the Order’s Arch complexes in the future. That’s entirely possible, yes?” He looked from one to the other, but was seeing no second to his proposal.

  “And how would they know about the apple?” said Paul. “The Order didn’t even know about it until we told Rantgar, and he seemed to get a kick out of it. No, my guess is that this was back fed on the shift stream using a narrow emission bandwidth before the continuum closed.”

  Deflated, Nordhausen shrugged and steeled himself to the possibility that he would have to make another Time jump. “Very well then,” he said grudgingly. “But you haven’t the slightest inkling of where I’m to go?”

  “I think we may have an answer soon,” said Kelly. “I just discovered that my missing Golems, aren’t really gone. They seem to be very, very busy right now. I did a little hacking and was able to scan the hard drive of an unsecured computer running my Golem software. The program is there, and its running, but in a kind of null state where it will not respond to outside commands. And it’s using quite a bit of the local CPU capacity as well. Whatever it’s doing, it’s working very hard on something.”

  “It must be related to the Battle of Tours somehow,” said Paul. “It’s clear on our monitors that the line of variation has been cured all through the years 705 to 732. But it still hung up at Tours. You say Abdul Rahman remains victorious, so there was something we missed, or were just unable to know at all at our point in the Meridian—something they may be privy to given their vantage point in the future.”

  “Well then they should have the decency to just send us a FAX or something,” Robert complained. “An email would do just as well. Rantgar said they could get information through the Palma Shadow. Why all the drama?”

  “I think this shifted in from the past, Robert. What do you make of this parchment?”

  Paul handed Robert the note, and the professor studied it closely. “Freshly inked, and much too clean, he said. This would be thought of as a fraud if I tried to pass it off as an 8th century artifact today. But then again, this is probably what it looked like freshly written on clean parchment back then. But it still doesn’t answer my question. If they can get information through, why don’t they just ring us up on the telephone?” He folded his arms, frowning.

  “They’re playing it safe,” said Paul. “Any electronic transmission could be intercepted in the resonance. This is a low tech approach that is more secure. It got our attention, didn’t it?”

  “Hello…” Kelly was looking at his console monitors again. “And this is certainly getting my attention. Look here, Pablo. The missing Golems have suddenly reappeared on the network and they are sending a large block of data—“

  “To the breaching module,” Paul finished.

  “And look at this!” Kelly pointed to the screen and saw a chronometer had appeared in a popup window and was displaying a time countdown. It began at ten minutes and the numbers continued to diminish as he pointed.

  “That has to be our launch time,” said Maeve.

  They all looked at Robert.

  The professor was looking over the rim of his reading glasses, from one to another, still looking like a scholarly monk in his cassock, the hood thrown back and drooping on his back. He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Very well,” he sighed. “A few hours ago I was arguing with Maeve that I should be the one to go, but that brief look at the landscape of 8th century Gaul has dampened my enthusiasm for a re-visit to the dark ages. Not to worry,” he said, standing up and fussing with the prayer beads Maeve had slung on his waist sash. “I’m well and good, and… Well I suppose I’d best be getting on down to the Arch.”

  Paul gave him a smile, then a firm hug. “Go with God, professor. I hope you don’t have to murder anyone. I can tell you. It’s a most uncomfortable experience.”

  “Anything in your pockets?” Maeve gave him a suspicious look as she finished her hug. After what Paul has secreted away she was being a little more careful.

  “Not a thing, Madame,” said Robert.

  Kelly got up and embraced him roundly. “Hey, he said I was in the damn sphinx for months on that mission. But you come home soon now. We’ll be right here waiting.”

  They were walking him towards the heavy security door. “You’re certain you have the fuel and all,” he asked sheepishly as he shuffled along with them.

  “I’m going to be right on that final backup generator in case we need it,” said Paul. “There’s at least an hour’s worth of gas in that tank now, don’t worry.”

  “What about the quantum fuel,” Nordhausen craned his neck, looking over his shoulder at the quantum matrix station as they passed it. “Will you be taking a double pattern of me as well?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Paul. “But if anything happens you’ll know how to reach us,” he smiled, “because we’ll be scouring the history from the moment you shift. If you can get to a safe place, just drop us a note.”

  “Yeah,” said Kelly with a wink. “Just send us a hieroglyphic or two!”

  “And by all means stay put!” Maeve admonished him. “Don’t go wandering about.” She jabbed him with a firm finger.

  “But what if I manifest in a muddy field?”

  “Surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves?” Maeve had the apple they received, and handed it to him. “Give this to them—and then get yourself to a safe place, OK? Just remember your entry point. You’ll know what to do.”

  “Well I haven’t a clue!” said Nordhausen.

  “It’s an invitation,” she finished. “You’ll probably have company real soon. Fear not.”

  The time was counting down through seven minutes and they let him go, through the great titanium door and down into the bowels of the Berkley Hills to shift into infinity.

  Back at the monitors Paul leaned in to watch Kelly on the shift station. His ears were still ringing from that clanging bell in the chapel tower, and the haunting echo still bothered him. Thoughts of what he had done plagued him, but he pushed them out of his mind, trying to focus on the moment. “Will we be able to see where he goes on these readouts?”

  “It looks like a normal block of breaching data. The checksums are perfect,” said Kelly. “Yes, we should get his target in space-time just after data goes live. I better feed the turbines some gasoline and rev this baby up again. I hope the singularity can take this strain, Paul.”

  He dialed up the power, pleased that everything seemed to be going smoothly. “But Robert had some justification to be worried,” he said. “The quantum fuel is the issue now. The singularity has developed a small wobble. It will still open the continuum, but it’s a sign the process is decaying. I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to hold it steady, and if it disintegrates we won’t be able to bring him home until we regenerate.”

  Paul nodded gravely, fully aware of the situation.

  “Ah!” said Kelly. “The data is going live now.” The countdown was passing through the three minute mark. “I’m taking the power to 100%, just in case he needs a little push for safety’s sake.”

  “What’s the target?”asked Paul, very curious.

  “Well that’s interesting,” said Kelly. “Look at the date on the temporal readout! Here, let me get the spatial coordinates and overlay a map…”

  Part IX

  The Anvil of Fate

  “The anvil of justice is planted firm, and fate who makes the sword does the forging in advance.”

  — Aeschylus

  Chapter 25

  Shift Point, Target Meridian, 5:38 P.M

  Nordhausen appeared in a blue frost, his eyes tightly closed, shoulders hunched and his face and head well shrouded by the hood of his cassock. He wanted to have all his wits about him when he manifested, in doubt as to what he wou
ld encounter. It was unnerving to be shifting into absolute uncertainty like this, without the slightest inkling as to where you would end up. Maeve’s story about the wolves was all too typical of this period, and 8th Century Gaul was a rough, uncultured, wild and dangerous place. He could be shifting anywhere, he thought.

  To his great surprise, however, he found himself in a dimly lit room, facing a stone hearth where a hearty fire immediately chased the frost from the air and comforted with its warmth. He blinked, looking about, noting the smooth stone walls, high ceiling and the thick woolen carpet beneath his feet. Maeve’s last warning still echoed in his mind, and for a moment he seemed riveted to the ground, afraid that a single step would untether him from the world he knew forever. Before he could move, however, a quiet voice spoke from behind.

  “Welcome, Mr. Nordhausen. So good of you to come!”

  The English was perfect, so he immediately surmised that he was speaking with an Agent in Place, wherever he was. He turned, noting a short man, tonsured, but with a thick border of graying hair below his shaved head. His face was well rounded, ruddy cheeked, and his eyes were bright and intelligent.

  “I am Emmerich, the Abbot of this place. And you have arrived safely, of sound mind and body I hope.”

  “Indeed,” said Nordhausen. “And where exactly am I, if I may?”

  “This is Marmoutier, known in your day as the Abbey of St. Martin at Tours, a monastery, actually. It is situated just north of the River Loire, which you may glimpse from the window there.” He gestured warmly, one hand fingering his prayer beads as he pointed. “We find it wise to welcome visitors of your sort after sunset—and oh, yes, this is the year 732, the month of October.”

  “I see,” said the professor. “Well at least I know where my feet are planted. It’s a bit unnerving shifting out like this on a moment’s notice, without any idea of what I’m about.”

  “My humble apologies, but it seems we have a situation on our hands concerning hostilities that will soon be engaged within a shout of this very room. We’ve nothing to worry about for the moment, but the Saracens are ravaging the land and bent on pillaging this place. They’ve burned nearly every church and monastery in Aquitaine and no doubt have their eyes set on this one as well.”

  “You are the Agent in Place for this milieu?” Robert ventured.

  “One such operative. You have made the acquaintance of another.”

  “Rantgar, yes, an interesting fellow. We had every hope his intervention might make an end of this mess, but it seems it needs something more, in spite of Paul’s effort with Grimwald.”

  “Operations informed me Rantgar would not be arriving,” said the Abbot. “There was a mishap. Oh, they tried to regenerate him from the pattern buffers, and did manage to get him back briefly, but he wouldn’t stick. I believe we’ve lost him, though he did manage to tell us enough to make our invitation. I am glad you have come.”

  The Abbot smiled. “Well, not to be impolite, Mr. Nordhausen, but pleasantries aside, we have also learned that you are somewhat of a philologist.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We were told that you possess knowledge of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Is that so?”

  “Yes, I can read and translate that system, and I’m well versed in Greek and Latin as well.”

  “Excellent, just what we hoped!” The Abbot walked to an oaken door, pushing it open. “I’d love to offer you refreshment, but this matter is somewhat urgent, to say the least. Perhaps we’d best get over to the scriptorium.”

  “Then you’ve asked me to come here as a translator?” The professor walked with Abbot Emmerich, their shadows preceding them as they turned their backs on the hearth and started through an arched doorway that opened on a long hallway lit by candlelight. Robert noted the sturdy oak beams imbedded in the stone in the walls.

  “Exactly,” said the Abbot. “A curious scroll has come into our possession, and it appears to be a rubbing on Papyrus, inked with indigo and depicting the old Egyptian writing that has confounded us over the millennia. How is it you can read this language, professor?”

  “I had an interest from an early age, and apparently I was in a Nexus Point when the transformation at Rosetta occurred. My associates have explained it all to me, but I’m afraid the physics escapes me. All I know is that I can still read and decipher the glyphs. I’m surprised you cannot do so as well. Surely there must be someone from your time that has mastered this?”

  “There may have been, but we’re living in the post-Palma world now, and it’s a tad uncomfortable. I’m sorry to say we had no one safe in a Nexus when this transformation occurred. In fact, it was your curiosity about the Rosetta Stone that first put us on to the scheme. Our adversaries can be rather ingenious at times. We’ve learned to respect their resourcefulness the hard way.”

  They reached the scriptorium, a cavernous room off the hallway they were in, with heavy wood tables and chairs and musty racks of scrolls of papyrus and parchment. The tables were scattered with writing implements and old leather bound books, and Nordhausen was immediately curious, his disquiet concerning this mission well quashed by the amiable and erudite manner of the Abbot.

  “So this is one of your bases of operation in this milieu?” The professor was already looking at copies of inked script. “You’re using uncial script. I’ve always had a fondness for it.”

  “Indeed,” said the Abbot. “These monasteries and abbeys have been safe harbors for culture and history through many stormy seas, and perfect locations for our people operating on the Meridian here. But we’re losing them now. The Saracens are burning them to the ground as they come north. They have already ransacked the basilica of Saint Hilary outside Poitiers, though we got our people out safely before they arrived. The city itself they spared, probably because they lack proper engines of war, but they are surely bent on coming here as soon as they might.

  “I’m afraid most of my flock here is busy packing away our most vital scrolls and manuscripts. We sent two of our agents, Gratien and Aventinus, with a band of pilgrims heading for Rome, but they were waylaid by Saracen raiders on the road and slain.”

  “You are speaking of Saints Gratien and Aventinus… Your Agents?” said Nordhausen.

  “Indeed, who do you think the saints are, man? Most of them are our people, working out of the abbeys and monasteries to stand a watch on the history, and record it as well.”

  Nordhausen raised an eyebrow, coming to a new appreciation of what ‘the Order’ was about in their war against the Assassins.

  “Well,” the Abbot continued, “we got most of the important work safely off to the keeping of the Bishop at Maastricht. What you see here are the inconsequential remains. This Abbey has already stood for 360 years since it was built by St. Martin. It wasn’t supposed to suffer any serious threat until the year 853 when the Normans sacked it, a pox upon them. That’s over 480 years where it stands as a bulwark of Christendom, a growing cultural treasure, and a perfect base of operations here. Then this business took a sudden turn for the worst and it seems we could have a problem now, if we don’t get it sorted out. In a matter of hours.”

  “I see,” said Nordhausen. “Then you’ve found the final Pushpoint? You know what needs to be done?”

  “We have some ideas, but here,” the Abbot gestured to an open scroll lying on a table. “This is the item we’ve secured, and we believe it may hold the key to unraveling the remainder of this mystery.”

  Nordhausen leaned in, moving a candle to get better light on the scroll. “I should have brought along my reading glasses,” he said quietly. “Ms. Linford would not hear if it. That woman can be insufferable at times, but I’m afraid we are much in her debt this time around.”

  “The intervention she effected on St. Lambert was regrettable, but nonetheless astounding,” said Emmerich. “How did she manage it, we wonder?”

  Robert immediately recognized the writing on the scroll. “Well it all seems to revolve around t
hese lines here,” Nordhausen pointed at the scroll. “This is a rubbing from the stone that was uncovered at Rosetta—the altered stela. We believe it contains instructions concerning the events surrounding this battle. You see these characters? They are at times phonetic, and at other times symbolic. You may get an obvious correlation of a pictogram with some object, but they can also be used phonetically in combinations and with specific determinatives and rules. It’s this bit here…”

  He ran his finger along a line of hieroglyphics, reading: “The weave undone… A loose twine… where horses were brought to gather…by the water’s edge.” That last phrase was not on the stela until Maeve began her intervention. Mr. Dorland and I returned to discover this, and sent the information on to Maeve.”

  “The apple!” said the Abbot, smiling.

  “Which reminds me…” Robert reached in his pocket and fished out the apple Maeve had handed him just before he left. “Compliments of Ms. Linford,” he said. “Yes. Our Maeve managed to sort it all out. That last line led her to the ferry site by the river where Lambert was slain. The riders gathered there by the river’s edge, and it was the simple act of loosening the twine that held the ferry in place that prevented Lambert’s safe escape over the Meuse. How she managed it amazes me as well.”

  The Abbot was listening carefully, his brow knit with thought. “And this segment?”

  “Let me see…Ah, it reads: ‘Hold them fast… those who drink the wind… lest they trample thy endeavor and the host is made to flee…’ We first believed this to be a reference to the horses the Arabs took while pillaging their way to the site of the battle. In fact, we had an intervention planned and reconnoitered the location we suspected these animals might be located. Our thought was that some sort of stampede or other commotion in Arab camp was instrumental in deciding the outcome of this battle. Yet, when Paul shifted in, there was no sign of a battle at all! Could we have selected the wrong date? Was it October 25 of this year?”