John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

“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.”

The nameimmediately struck Nordhausen, and he looked at Paul as he spoke. “Rantgar? Impossible!”

“One might think so,” said the visitor. “But we’re getting very clever these days—or perhaps very desperate. I suppose the latter gives rise to the former. Or how is it Plato put things? Ah… Necessity is the mother of invention.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Appearances aside,” he said flatly, “it’s clear you’ve come here from the future.” He knew this was no native of the 8th century. Anyone from that era would have been utterly terrified had they come through the Arch as this man obviously did. His swagger and jaunt, and the relaxed, cool way in which he took in the surroundings immediately spoke of familiarity. “Then you found a way to penetrate Palma’s Shadow?”