John Schettler - Anvil of 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 watchingthe 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.