John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

“So you fear your people are in no condition to assist you further?”

“You saw the message. Did you note the scrawled hand? It was obviously written in great haste. It could be that it originated at one of our Arch complexes, and was hastily sent through just before it failed. Perhaps that explains why I have received nothing further these last few hours.”

Nordhausen nodded, understanding. “I have seen you eying that box for some time. And you have opened it twice. The messages come though at that location?”

“Yes, they shift things into the chest there, but I have had nothing for hours,” said the Abbot. “Well,” he sighed, deciding. “I have nothing else to go on, and this information is most unsettling. I must put men on it immediately. The enemy may come round to this as well, and they could be hatching a new plot against Odo even as we speak.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Robert. “This is all new, you see. I suppose it’s another throw of the dice here after all these interventions. On the Prime Meridian Odo makes his raid, but this is new… Odo must be a what Paul calls a Free Radical. It is his choice that decides this battle, so it could go either way now. What will you do?” he finished.

“I have no real idea yet,” said the Abbot, “but at the very least I can put a watch on Odo and assure his safety tonight. The Assassins got that name for a reason, eh? If they come round to this same line of reasoning, and key on Odo as the Primary Lever, then they may be desperate enough to take bold and direct action. After all, his sons are already living and he does nothing of any further significance in the years ahead. If what you suggest is true, however, eliminating him now could decide the outcome of the battle. This is the consummate moment of his life where this one choice decides all. The stakes are enormous! So I have little time to waste now. I must put every man I have on this.”

He started for the door, tugging at the sleeve of the professor’s cassock. “And your candle is burning low as well.” He pointed a fat finger at the professor, smiling wanly.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re going back soon,” Emmerich gestured to the candle. “See where it burns low? Your retraction scheme will initiate soon. In fact, I think it best we make our way back to the reception room. I will have to carry on here without you, but I must tell you that your intervention here could be absolutely decisive. I am much in your debt, professor.”

“But what will you do?”

“Oh, let me think of something. In the extreme, if I receive no further instructions from Research, I will send monks to Odo where he lies in wait, and have it said that Abdul Rahman has brought the Duke’s Daughter with him to this place, she who was given in marriage to Manuza. We will whisper that she is kept in a harem, with other slaves, violated and shamed in the Saracen camp. If that doesn’t light a fire under the man, and compel him to initiate his raid, then nothing will.”

“Good idea,” said the professor. “And we still have the Arch running, at least I hope we do. We have the computers to sift the history as well. Can you give me the exact space-time coordinates of this place—of that box, for example. And we will do what we can back home. Perhaps we can send through a message that could be of further assistance.”

“You are too kind,” said the Abbot. “But you already have the coordinates—it’s what brought you here, my good man. That spot will do nicely should you discover anything more. In the meantime, I must warn you as well. Be wary! Be stealthy! The enemy is everywhere. Their agents and assassins stalk all the Meridians of Time as well—even in your day. Once safe in a Nexus, you have little to fear, but absent that, you are at grave risk as well.”

“I see,” said Nordhausen when they had returned to the reception hall. He looked for his place on the carpet, arranging his cassock as before to prepare for the retraction shift.” It was not long in coming.

“Go with God,” he heard the Abbot say and the eerie tingling sensation and feather lightness of being swept over him.

A moment later he was gone.

The Emirreined his gray Arabian, standing beside his master the Wali, where he sat on his mount surveying the long columns of horsemen on the road. “We should not come here,” he said pointing to the lay of the land ahead. “It is a narrow place, where these two rivers meet ahead. We have scouted them and, though they are not wide and may be forded, their banks are steep, and grown over with thicket and wood. When battle is joined our horsemen will not be able to cross in a timely manner.”

He was Abdul Samah, who’s name meant ‘Servant of the Eternal,’ but today he was the servant of the new governor and Wali of all these newly conquered lands, commander of this the vast army that moved now on the road, Abdul Rahman.

The Wali did not seem concerned. “We will not be here long,” he said calmly. “It is only a byway to the city beyond. Thither I am bound, to the abbey the Christians dote over, just as you advise.“

You should have taken it yesterday,” the Emir pointed ahead with his leather riding crop.

“What? With the Berbers? Would I let them make off with such a prize? The heavy horse were not yet formed and ready. It was best that we wait until all my five Khamis have answered the call and I may then make the fist that will smash the infidel here, once and for all. Besides,” he pointed to the woodland ahead. “This forest affords us good cover for our encampment.”

The Wali surveyed his tents from where they covered the rolling fields just off the road. The camp occupied a large clearing, on a low rise, surrounded by dense woods and thickets of heather that should give it good protection. He would post a few skirmishers there to keep eyes on the woodland, but now his gaze was drawn further north where a gray mist still hung over the land on the chilled morning airs.

He was Abdul Rahman Ibn Abd al-Ghafiqi, from the proud tribal federation of the Kalbs, and new governor, and protector of al-Andalus, that land called Hispania by the infidels. The guardianship and authority were given unto him, though he gathered his many Emirs, listening to their wise council, and paid them the respect they were due as lords of their tribes.

Yet the grey one, Abdul Samah, had harried him unduly, he thought. The Emir had chafed in the saddle ever since they came to the abbey the heathen clergy had dedicated to their Saint Hilary to the south, wherein they hid much gold and finery. He had bristled under his charcoal brows and insisted that it be burned, even after his soldiers had long since gutted the place, carrying off everything of value they could find. One such prize they wisely brought to the Wali , a gilded chair embedded with gold and many jewels.

“This must be the seat of power,” he said. “Where the wrongly guided saint held forth in his administrations. Send it back,” the Emir had whispered. “Make it tribute to the Sultan of the African realms, and he will look kindly upon you.”

But Abdul Rahman would not hear this counsel. “No,” he said, drawing his sword. “I will not suffer the Sultan to sit where the heathen once took his repose!”

He struck the chair a hard blow, and then, removing his sword, bid his men to shatter it in many pieces, distributing all the jeweled fragments to the many captains of his army. This seemed only fitting.