John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

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…”

Nordhausen appearedin 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 would 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.