…to think I could have this one killed with a gesture, he thought. The one in question was an old man, seemingly feeble in body. His blow against him was not so feeble, though. Three grim-faced guards held the man immobile. Ardis held a piece of sheepskin with odd looking, uniform stains on it. They looked something like what he had etched on his sword hilt, but more elaborate.
Tell me, he said, staring at the old man intensely, why do you persist in marking up perfectly good pieces of hide with these stains?
The old man attacked him when he attempted to use the piece of sheepskin as a rag to wipe up a spill of wine.
All you seem to offer for trade are marked up hides? Ardis guffawed aloud at this comment. Yet, you seem to get more in trade for these than the smith gets for weapons? How is this old man?
More waves of laughter this time, at the expense of the old man.
How would the ignorant and unschooled know anything of the value of knowledge? The old man spat back.
That evoked a growl and an upraised sword from one of the warriors. Ardis waved the warrior back.
I am the chieftain of this tribe. I could have you killed for striking me. Yet when I sought to possibly damage this hide, you attacked me with the zeal and fearlessness of a warrior.
What knowledge that has been recorded must be protected from the likes of you! The old man shrilled back. Only those who know what those markings mean can determine its real worth!
An enigma indeed, Ardis thought. These stains meant knowledge?
He laughed aloud, but a non-threatening sort of laugh. I or anyone of my warriors could kill you easily, old man, but even in the grip of three of them, you are defiant and faithful to what you do. He gestured to the guards. Release him and return to him all his stained skins. The guards were in shock. I said release the old man! They did so and returned to him his skins. Ardis thought about the old man's statements for a long time…..
…..It was early evening when he felt it. He was talking to his guards when the tingle first brushed across his consciousness. Another one! There were times when he almost forgot what he was; until something showed him the true reality of things. The babes and woman he had spared were long dead, so were many others. No one questioned the fact that he never aged or got sick. He had grown content here. He was accepted. He would…destroy anything that would endanger this. He arose from his chair. A foe of mine is here and I must meet them in battle, he said. As one, his guards arose begging for the honor to be designated, but Ardis sighed. This foe is one I must meet on my own, or else they may endanger all here. You will guard my chair. If I do not return, choose amongst yourselves who shall replace me. Without another word, Ardis followed the sensation….
…he had never seen a warrior like this. Short , curly hair with skin of midnight. It did not matter though. I am Ardis chieftain of this tribe. He drew his sword. The dark warrior yelled and attacked him. Soon, the warrior's arms and armor were in ruins. Ardis prepared to deliver the killing strike…..
NO! A woman rushed out to cover the dark warrior with her body. I am the one you seek, not him. Spare his life and I shall surrender you mine with no struggle.
After seeing to her guards' wounds, she willing walked before Ardis, then stopped and lowered her head. She had set aside some…marked up hides in a pile away from her. Moments later, she looked up at Ardis. You do not strike? Please spare my guards life!
Ardis looked at her. Why do you carry around marked up sheepskins? Do you not know how to wield a weapon in your defense? I am not so old, but I have heard of you. Many have heard of you. The ones who stay away from here are the ones who live. There are many here who wish to have tomes. I guess my insistence will lead to my death. She once again bowed her head.
Ardis sheathed his sword and crouched down to look at the marked-up hides. These are what? What is a tome?
The woman reached into her dress. Ardis rolled away and made to draw his sword again, wary of a trick, but all that the woman held was a piece of bone and a clay pot. She proceeded to mark up a blank spot of hide with these implements. Ardis was fascinated.
Those marks mean something to you?
Yes, she said, that is your name. She slowly pronounced the runes.
You can not read? He told her about the old man and his accusations. The woman was rather pretty in visage. Ardis had never considered any others of his kind as friends. They either ran away or they died at his hands. She was of his kind, but seemed to be harmless. She would not wither away and die. She would be as unchanging as he was, at least in body. She…..could teach him to read those stains! He looked over at her. She had put away the piece of bone and clay pot and once again extended her head on the ground. He arose and lifted her to her feet. She froze for a second then sighed.
If you wish to pleasure yourself with me first, I am in no position to refuse.
She began to remove her dress, but Ardis stopped her. You are the first of my kind who does not seem to mean me any harm. I will not take your head, but you must show me what these stains mean. Agreed?...
…her name was Blaenwys and she had been true to her word. Ardis had her live in his tent; this stopped the endless parade of women trying to foist their daughters off on him. He had a sword made for her, and despite her protests, made her learn how to use it. Eventually, her word was accepted in place of his own on many matters. And eventually, she willingly came to him and shared his bed. He caught on fast to the reading; even she was astounded at his quick mastery. His guards shook their heads, but still remained loyal to him. Those around them changed and passed on, but they did not. He was happy…
Brother Timothy awoke. He had slept on his robe on the floor. When had he fallen asleep? And why was he thinking about that time of his life? It must have been those women talking to me…while I used the forge! He scrambled erect and stalked over to the forge, but it was barely warm to the touch. He remembered now. He had lost track of time for a moment. He checked a clock on the wall. He had been in here for nearly 24 hours! He had honed his sword then…he had recast the greave!
He quickly looked around. There it was resting on the stone. He must have finished it, and then slept; he only vaguely remembered its finer points. It looked nothing like the old greave. Already the sky metal was oxidizing in the air; soon it would be as black as the sword. This time, there was no crude piece of iron with bars of sky metal on top; as he had thought in his head, he needed to adapt as well to the modern times. The lower part was smoothly banded, the lines flowing at an angle that was left to upper right. The forearm piece was one whole piece, the heavier banding in the wrist area was the second piece, and the part shielding his left hand comprised the third, fourth and fifth parts. He had even managed to work more flexibility into that part! The upper part was smooth metal in two separate pieces: One piece went from the elbow joint up to the shoulder while the other piece covered the shoulder while overlapping the preceding piece. Even the hinging and riveting were of sky metal, worked as intricately as he was able to do. He wrapped his arm in a piece of sheepskin he had brought, and then tried on the greave.
The greave was still warm from its creation, but it felt cool and soothing on his arm. There were three catches for the upper section and five for the lower; the hand assembly fit perfectly around his left hand, completely sheathing the top of it while allowing maximum movement possible. The hand cover was well protected by not only an extra band of metal that circled his wrist, but extra metal as well on the outside edge of his hand casement. It was here that he had made a deadly modification to the piece. When his hand was curled, the extra metal looked like sharp peaks in the metal that could easily break or deflect a sword, but when the fingers were extended, the extra metal formed in a distinct line with a cutting edge! The outside area of his left hand was now a cutting weapon in its own right, powered by his strength alone. He had found something called graphite; it lubricated better than the oil he used to use; he made sure that he sealed the places where he had used the lubricant. The greave was actually lighter than the older ones; at least it was no heavier since the amount of sky metal used was no where near the amount of iron used before. He still had a piece of sky metal left! He wrapped it securely in the lead cloth then restored it to its box. He was filthy from his exertions, though. After he removed the greave, he found a shower that he put to immediate use. Then after putting on clean underclothing, he tried on his new robe. He knew it would fit; he had sent one of his old robes to be retrofitted and retrofitted it was. It was not as pliant as it was before, but it was lighter; it still had a brown sort of color, but now that color was a bit muted. A portion of the woolen fibers had been painstakingly extracted; in their place were strands of the highest grade of Kevlar that could be found. More had been emplaced in the hood and upper body areas; less in the lower areas. His crossbow disappeared into the new robes right pocket; so did the plastic card and phone the Monsignor had given to him. Something else was in the pocket besides the card. It was the gold colored necklace and pendant. He put that in his new robe's left pocket for the moment. He removed the robe again only to mount the scabbard on his back with the sword. Once he put the robe back on and adjusted its deliberately baggy folds, the top part of the sword was only visible with abrupt movement or if he purposefully chose to draw it. He tried a draw of the sword. It tangled in the robes. The price of not practicing. He laughed, but continued his refresher course. In a very short period of time, millennia of acquired knowledge came back to him. Rest position then block, strike, parry, strike, retreat and reave, recover. Soon, he was nothing but a dancing blur of brown accompanied by a deadly whistling as his sword cleaved the air. I am as ready as I will ever be, he thought. First, I must get back the stolen items…..then I will deal with the murderer….perhaps some of them as well... He laughed aloud again, but it was the laugh of the icy winter wind….He quickly packed up the dirty underclothing and old robe. It took no more than a few moments to turn the old greave remnants into slag. He formed it into crude ingots and left it. He turned off the forge before he left. Dawn now paled the sky.
…she had awakened from such a beautiful dream. She was back where she belonged, back with her siblings and cousins, back before that DESTROYER….she sat up and then focused on her surroundings. Her whole body was covered in matted filth. What clothes she had worn were shreds. She arose from her resting place. Even as filth-encrusted as she was, the stench down here made her wrinkle her nose. What on earth was she doing here? Why….then a torrent of memories flooded her being. She staggered and cradled her head. Soon she knew what she needed to know. This time she jerked fully erect. A set of mesmerizing green eyes focused on what little illumination there was down here in the catacombs. She knew where she needed to go; it was only a matter of retracing her steps. Her memory had not failed her. Soon she was walking up a flight of stairs and knocking at a door. The one who opened it paid her condition of nudity no mind, despite being male. A shower and a pile of womanly accoutrements awaited her…..she smiled. Her incisors were filed to points. It had been so long…..but no longer. As the filth was scrubbed away in the shower, she began to make plans….
Brother Timothy walked out into the lobby of the building; by his estimation, it was in the early morning. He was tired, but well-rested enough to function at least regarding the matters at hand. To his amusing surprise, Faustus was at his counter while a somewhat bleary-eyed Nathan sat at a table with what looked like leavings of an earlier repast. Percy and the one called Edward were there as well, animatedly discussing something. When Faustus looked up and saw the monk though, he made a slight hissing sound and chopped his hand through the air. The conversation at the table as abruptly stopped. Brother Timothy was on edge from the events last night, so he raked a glance over the table's occupants, to find them all staring at him! He was simply going to leave the establishment, but it was not like he had any idea where he had to go. With a sigh, he turned to the men.
"What?"
Percy spoke first. "Nathan was wondering what in hell you forged in there last night and why you had the temperature so high on the forge."
Just then, the door opened and Marion. Caroline and Lydia showed up with what looked like morning provender. "Here you are, boys, fresh from the shop over the way. Has he left—"
Marion's voice froze as she saw Brother Timothy standing there; her eyes grew wide.
"I was in process of doing so, but your compatriots seem to have their own questions, milady." Brother Timothy pulled his left sleeve back to show the thing he had forged; the shininess was already fading; in a short time, it would be as black as the sword. "It is a greave I have used since shortly after making the sword. It functions as does a shield would."
Brother Timothy sat down on a chair with a sigh. "I also apologize for my abruptness yesterday as well, Caroline." The monk tipped his head in respect.
Nathan finally let go what was on his mind. "Ye had the forge up to over 4000 degrees Celsius; there's no way that metal could have been worked even 200 years ago, let alone 6000."
"I had the assistance of a lightning storm at the time I forged it, and even then, I barely knew what I was doing. I did, however, speak the truth, as discomfiting as it might seem."
"What sort of metal is that?"
"That I also do not really know, except it is more dense and stronger than steel. It fell from the sky." Brother Timothy was thinking while he spoke. What do I do with the rest of this metal? I assuredly cannot send it by post, not with their new rules of paranoia. Brother Timothy had made up his mind. As ridiculous as he thought their game was, some of them were a lot more pragmatic than the others. Nathan had never raised a hand against him; actually, he was more curious than dangerous in his opinion. "In this case, Nathan, I have a bit more of the metal I recovered. As you have seen, it is a bit harder to work with then the average metallic compounds, but perhaps you can better solve its mysteries than I. You will need to keep it in this box, though, because it still has some radioactivity."
He set the box down near Nathan. Nathan raised his eyebrows at the proffered gift. He offered Brother Timothy some sausage and biscuits from his meal. The monk did not realize he was even hungry until he started eating. Now what in hell do I do? Brother Timothy had no idea where to go next; his plan only had coalesced up until the point of repairing his weapons. The door opened up again and a police officer entered the room. It was the younger of the two that had rousted him yesterday.
"Good morning to all of you! How are things? I see ye found your wayward member there." He gestured at the monk.
"I was not exactly wayward. But I found what I sought. I guess I am not a freak this morning like I was yesterday?" The Monks tone was not quite friendly.
"My partner is not the most congenial sort at times; for that I apologize. If ye had to go home every day to his harridan of a wife, it would not put you in the best sorts either!" At the monk's frosty smile, the policeman added. "Begging yer forgiveness, Father, I hope you understand—"
"I do. I am married to the Church. And at times, she can be a harsh mistress."
After the constable left, Brother Timothy took out the chain and pendant he had taken earlier. Nathan turned to him as he spoke. "Where will you be going from here?"
"I have no idea at this time. I have this thing, but that is about all." Nathan looked at the chain and pendant. "This is good quality gold; I would say at least 14K if not higher. Did you know there is writing on it?"
Brother Timothy shrugged. "What does it say?"
"Well, there is a name on the front, and another upon the back. One second." Nathan quickly appeared with a loupe in hand. "It looks like 'Lyonal' or something on the front. On the back it says from G. Hyvern, then 14K and a hallmark."
"What sort of name is that?"
Marion spoke up. "That is Welsh I think."
Brother Timothy snorted. "Welsh? That doesn't sound like Welsh to me; they precede their names with a 'from' designation."
Percy suddenly brightened. "They have not done that for a long time. Why not just look it up in a phone book?"
Brother Timothy saw a phone book upon the counter and reached for it, but Percy just laughed.
"I doubt it would be in there! Use the internet phonebook."
Brother Timothy gave him a rather confused expression. Nathan rescued the awkward moment though. He opened up a search engine and typed the name into the box. It generated numerous hits, so he tried 'G Hyvern' next. This drastically reduced the number of hits and placed several information laden ones at the top.
"See, here are several: Gail Hyvern and a George and a Gwyneth. All of them are in Wales."
Brother Timothy was puzzled for only a moment. He knew how to click on links and read. He copied down the contact information for a total of 15 possible names. All of them were located in the Wales area. How do you know that the owner of this is the culprit? The truth was he had only this pendant to lead him where he possibly needed to go. This location was also a straight shot from the monastery. There was a train depot not too far from here. He thanked Nathan and the others and then left the forge. He had a train to catch, and after a few more hours had passed some numbers to call. I will find you…and then you will pay…. Soon, he was on a train to someplace called Carmarthen.
Lyonal felt a sense of relief. Finally we can conclude our business. He had gotten a short phone call stating where to be at what time. Noon, he would be shut of these items and able to make future plans. He had actually inspected the items he had stolen. The tomes had locking clasps, but they also had something else he had been lucky to see earlier before it was too late: A plethora of deadly poisons soaked into the page edges. He wisely decided to leave those alone. The old piece of parchment was printed in Latin. It was calligraphy rather than printing, though. He had deciphered enough of it to know that it was an excommunication order against the Monastery from where he had stolen it. The cross with the parchment was to enforce the validity of the edict. The circlet was the most intriguing of the items if the most plain. Sterling silver it was, thirty-six ounces in weight. Its only mark was a rune in its center. He had poked through Gwyneth's research as clandestinely as possible, but could find no rune of such that even came close to it. He had replaced the items in the sack. All that remained was to wait until the appointed time. Gwyneth worried him, though. These last few days she had looked rather drawn out and haggard, as if she was not sleeping well. Her usual cheerful demeanor was also subdued. It never occurred to him that part of her worry was because of him. Whether it was less or more, thieves were a self-centered lot….
Considering how he was dressed, Brother Timothy was paid little attention to on the train. He had purchased a compartment for himself; the extra cost was worth the solitude that accompanied it. His outward demeanor was calm, but inside his mind roiled with all sorts of questions. He mentally pressed down on the turmoil, blocking most of it out. Instead, he centered on hard, cold facts. If this was simply a happenstance theft, I retrieve the items; deal with the murderer, then return. But what if it is not? Then I prepare for slaughter since they will be after me and whoever is left that sided with me. He smiled a cold grimace at that thought. They assuredly have the numbers, but none save maybe one of them could stand against me. He turned his mind to the work he had cut out for him. The first four numbers were not what he sought. By the fifth number, he had his story down pat. That made going through the rest of them far easier. Within two hours, he had eliminated all but two of the names.
Duncan was not sure he wanted to read the paper that arrived. Dawson and his colleagues had done their best to soothe ruffled feathers, but things were anything but tranquil. Four more watchers and three more immortals were dead in addition to the ones already noted. One immortal had been shot with a crossbow of all things before being beheaded. One watcher had been hacked apart into multiple pieces and some of those were missing. New York and London were where the latest deaths occurred. Methos was nowhere to be found, and he couldn't reach Amanda. He needed to ask Amanda some questions, but Methos concerned him the most. He had told Dawson about their conversation; even now, he had several watchers researching the origin of the rules. Others were researching an even more serious matter: They now had five unknown immortals. It was not to say that their group was perfect by any means, but they were pretty efficient in discovering what immortal was where. Still, others had researched any manifestation of what Methos had said, but so far, nothing. That Monastery where the theft occurred, it was of no real significance. Any trail they found seemed to lead to a dead end. Except Amanda is the one who said she was researching that question, he thought. Maybe it is coincidence, but all this seems to flow from that point. He scowled as his visage grew grim for a moment. That bastard Methos is hiding somewhere. He probably has some of the answers! What in hell could have scared him so much besides being attacked by two immortals? It was as if he had expected that to happen! But why, though? Maybe some answers could be found at the Monastery. He would wait to see if Dawson found Methos first. Or if I find Amanda first! He had an ungodly amount of patience regarding her, but he feared one day his patience would come to an end. If her borrowing partners of yore did not force him into battle, it was some psychopath after parts of a legendary necklace which thankfully was at the bottom of a deep river now. Sighing deeply, he once again attempted to contact Amanda.
Tara Hill ca. 4000 B.C.
…He thought he could not ever be happier or more content. Under his rule, his tribe grew and prospered. They had come into contact with other tribes in their area and even heard about more tribes that lay beyond the water south of here. Learning to read the stained sheepskins called tomes was a delight to Ardis. His guards shook their heads at his wonderment. What good was reading for a warrior or a king? He had learned that the druids were cheating him in trade and tribute. The error was rectified after he picked one up by the neck and rattled them until their bowels emptied in fear. Unlike the smaller tribes, he now welcomed scribes and scholars from anywhere. His queen was largely responsible for this, but he was in agreement. Then one day a messenger arrived. A summons was made to all the Celtic chieftains throughout the land to appear at Temair. This was a place across the Western water; a place that was held sacred by all. Ardis did not know why he was summoned, but he knew it would be in bad order to ignore it. He did not mind the traveling part. He did mind the druid advisors fussing over his clothes and raiment. A ridiculous crown to wear? No way. His mark of leadership was etched into his sword hilt. Ridiculous clothes to proclaim his importance? Why? He did wear his best furs , though. Blaenwys put on a decent quality dress. Finally, the day arrived for travel to the holy place. Ardis had with him fifteen of his guards; four others he told to guard his and Blaenwys' chairs. His only other agreed upon company was a young boy as a chore runner and a druid to advise. Blaenwys had with her four women to tend to her needs. And so the twenty-five of them traveled a relatively short distance to the Western water. The passage across was of no consequence, except Blaenwys and a few others being queasy. They finally arrived at their destination. Ardis had never seen so many people in one place before. And there were Daoine Na Sidhe!
With delight he tried to engage them in conversation, but to his disappointment he found them standoffish and almost cold. There were days of festivities and celebration. Ardis participated somewhat, but he was extremely wary. There were others of his kind here. Many of them. Some were even in groups. He cautioned Blaenwys about this as soon as possible. He really had no desire to fight; he was happy in his existence. He knew that his long existence had created the happiness, though. As sunset approached on the fifth day, he was handed another summons for him and him alone. He instructed his guards to protect Blaenwys while he was gone, then he went to the appointed place. There were a few score of people here it seemed. Some of them were Daoine even. It was only afterwards when they all were seated in a rough circle and silent that a snow-haired female Daoine spoke in their singsong Olden Tongue.
We were those who came before you, and you will remain when we are gone. There are those among you that know us and respect us, but that is no longer enough. You forge for yourselves the black metal that is a bane to our being; we can no longer freely walk amongst you. You are fecund and have swelled greatly in numbers. It is time that we and you choose from amongst ourselves one to lead us all, a King of all the tribes!
This brought shouts and cheers from near all present. It also brought some immediate attempts to establish rank and pecking order; some turned physical. But soon all were quiet again as they were led to a stone resting in the center of a stone circle. One by one, the chieftains were instructed to touch the stone. Nothing happened; none of the Daoine or humans affected the stone in any way. Soon only a very few were left. One of them was an older man with grey streaking his flaming red hair. He approached the stone, but the four Daoine guards hissed at him and blocked his path with their spears. One of the others got a faint glow out of the rock, but nothing more. Only Ardis and the red-haired man stood untried.
Will you not touch the Stone of Destiny?
It was the snow-haired female who had originally spoken.
Maybe I will, maybe not. Why is the red-haired one barred from the stone?
That is not your concern. You are commanded to touch the stone to see if you are the chosen one.
He was about to reply to her impertinence, but he was now standing close enough to the red-haired man to sense him. An immortal like himself!
It may be of my concern, since he and I share at least one common trait.
As do even some of us also share, human. Why will you not touch the stone?
Why would I want all that power over my fellow man? Power is a means to an end; the end of which is improving the status and welfare of those you rule. Power is not a means unto itself. And for one who knows your race so well and your culture, why do you treat me so coldly?
As much as a Daoine could do, she became exasperated with Ardis.
While she was conversing with another Male Daoine away from where the stone was, Ardis stepped forward and touched the stone. It was warm and alive! It felt like living flesh in his hands! It rumbled aloud as Ardis felt its tremor through the ground…..it did so two more times then was silent.
The glade was silent. So were the Daoine and the other Chieftains. The red-haired man strode up to the stone and placed his hands on it. It glowed red for a moment, then what seemed like a bolt of lightning erupted from it, casting him on the ground. The man's expression was terrible to behold as he first glared at the Daoine, then at Ardis. His green eyes were almost luminescent. Ardis did not care about the stones rumbling. He knew an enemy when he saw one though. Both of his hands went to his sword hilt as he prepared to draw.
Stay your hand, Ardis. There will be no battle here. The Stone has spoken. You now speak for all of us.
The snow-haired female proffered a silver half-circlet towards Ardis.
So shall you wear this as a mark of your status amongst the Celtic tribes. How are you addressed?
I am …Ardis…that is all.
Have you no clan name or surname?
None that I use. My tribe knows who I am. Why should I have more than Ardis? It suits me well.
It is a common sort of designation, though, she said. You are no longer so common.
My tribe is called Ap Anon; or Clan Anon. ArdisAnon would be my full name I suppose.
The Daoine turned to the group.
All hail ArdisAnon, King of the Celtic Tribes!
The sound of the cheering was deafening. What he actually had not wanted or needed now was his. Even the red-haired one was cheering though. Ardis had not forgotten his look of malevolence before….