The sun rose brightly with the coming of dawn. Alan stared at the first rays of golden light slowly pushing above the horizon. This was the time of day he treasured most, and had missed far too often in the time before his death, what with the League, and before that - Alan grimaced. He had known, before joining the League, that it would take his life from him. He never dedicated himself to anything without complete devotion and utter determination - the decision, for all it's haste, had not been made lightly.
But problems from before the creation of this newest section of the League had not disappeared. In fact, the threat he had been stalking was now most probably grown strong enough to resist him. He shook his head, remembering with the motion his new youth, and was shocked by it. He was still thinking like an older man - with the wisdom and experience he knew would never leave him, but he was factoring in handicaps for his age that no longer existed. He knew that now, he would be able to defeat the old threat that still menaced his beloved Africa.
Taking a last look at the sunrise, which had now spilled over and lightened the entire sky in shades of ghostly pink, vibrant orange and brilliant red, he turned from the balcony and re-entered his room. Pausing only to pull on his boots and smooth his khaki pants, pulling a white linen shirt haphazardly over his head, Alan silently made his way through the halls, passing the rooms where his friends still slept.
Moving to the lower levels, he continued to a long-closed room in the back of the house, which had been locked for years. Pulling the key from his pocket, where he had placed it after retrieving the small brass object from a discreet box in his former bedroom, he opened the door.
The harsh squeal of hinges cut off abruptly as he froze, halting the door's forward motion. He slipped through the half-open doorway, and began walking around the room carefully. He pulled the heavy drapes aside, letting the early-morning light fall into the room. The dust was thick, and he could see the faint marks he made in his passing.
This room was filled with remnants of his past - and tools of his future, he realized. Going to one locked oak chest, he felt for the hidden catch that would release the lock that was never meant to be opened with a key. A deep clicking sound signified the box's lock disengaging, and he pulled the lid open, revealing light to the items there.
For the first time in years, light shone on several pistols, throwing knives of all sizes, including a dirk, and two slim blades, each one three feet long. These were his own weapons, the tools he'd used himself before branching out his knowledge to include the African bow, spear, and blow-darts, among others.
Lifting the double half-swords reverently, he began to check the metal over, looking for signs of rust and weaknesses in the tempering that, after many years, should be showing. But the blades were pristine - and almost in better condition than when he had so carefully packed them away after his son's death. He gave a brief thought the friend who had continually come here, so long ago it seemed now, and knew that he was the reason for the good condition of the equipment in this room, despite the dust. Sanger had never been much of a one for cleaning, anyhow, Alan thought with a smile. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had been fastidious to the point of being finicky about his weapons. Alan tucked the rising grief away, burying the memory of his friend in his inspection.
Hundreds of throwing knives were mounted in a cabinet across the room, with pistols and ammunition similarly mounted and stacked in a larger cabinet directly next to it. Various spears and swords were mounted on the wall opposite these containers, the original light hue of the wood paneling and cabinets darkened with age and smeared with the dust and grime of disuse. Alan frightened several spiders as he walked the few steps to the first cabinet, his long legs swiftly eating the distance. He opened it and found that the cabinets had done their jobs well - the inside was free from any contaminants, the knives gleaming dangerously in the early-morning light. Smiling, he reached out for a regular, standard-size throwing knife, and picked it up, gently tossing it and catching it, blade to hilt, hilt to blade.
With a sudden movement, the abrupt switch from lazy hunter to dangerous predator, he twisted and threw the blade with exact precision and lightning speed. The knife whistled through the air, taking a small nick out of an in invisible ear, to hit the wood paneling with a loud thunk.
"Ow!" came the startled voice.
Alan said simply, "What have I told you about sneaking around me?"
"You missed," the thief replied cheekily, as he jerked the knife from where it was deeply embedded in the wall, grunting with the effort. He walked across the room and handed the knife to Alan, who simply held up the bade. A tiny smear of red marred the pristine steel, and Alan glanced from the tiny splotch of blood to the invisible man. "I didn't miss," he retorted, turning his back with a small grin as the other man sputtered in indignation.
"So, what is this place?" asked Skinner, after leaving the room and returning a sparse few minutes later with his coat.
But Alan was gone. Spinning around, the hot leather trenchcoat banging against his legs, Skinner frowned in admiration. He's been gone less than three minutes, yet Quatermain had taken - Skinner looked around. Well, there were several knives, and those two pseudo-longsword things, and maybe a spear or two - definitely a bow and quiver, missing. How the elusive hunter had managed that, Skinner for one was completely baffled.
There was nothing to do now but wait for him to show up again, and Skinner realized that he would, in time. After all, it would be nearly three hours before any of the others was ready to greet the day, and all knew that they would be heading out to the Nautilus that afternoon. This morning's planning would be essential. And after all, Alan had just returned from the dead yesterday . . . Shaking off the strangeness of that thought, Skinner settled himself to do more nosing around. This room had been pricking at his curiosity, but there were several other locked doors that still attempted to defy the thief. With an invisible grin, he cast off his coat once more and prowled slowly, silently - though not as silently as Alan, he recalled with chagrin - through the house.
Alan, meanwhile, caught his breath as he took a short break in running. It had been almost ten minutes since he had left the house, and he was a mile and three-quarters from the house. He stopped in his favorite spot, on a hill that was only just out of sight of the small village, close enough that he could concentrate without distractions, and far enough that none would find him without a search. He stretched slightly and divested himself of the two spears and swords he was carrying.
Picking up the bow and quiver, he sighted in on a tree several hundred meters away, and hoped he still remembered this art. It had been nearly two years since he had picked up this weapon, never mind using it.
The arrow flew from his grasp, and Alan frowned. His skill was admittedly rusty, but although he had hit the tree, his aim was off - too low by about a foot. He had forgotten to factor in the arc of the arrow from gravity, he realized a moment later. Though this affect was seen in shooting, it was much less due to the incredible velocity of the bullets. Chewing his lip for a moment, and remembering the half-forgotten weapon, Alan closed his eyes. Africa spoke to him, in the air around him, the vitality of the country vibrating under his feet in a rhythmic, soothing pulse. He opened his eyes, took a breath, and released the arrow.
Alan smiled. Not perfect, perhaps a few inches off his intended target, but much better. Now he was no longer in as much danger of harming his comrades as his intended prey. As he continued to practice on his aim, improving gradually, he grew aware that his senses seemed hyper-alert and much stronger than he remembered. He knew, before he heard, the herd of antelope travelling five hundred yards away scatter as the cheetah rampaged in their midst. He could almost smell the fragrance of small flowers through the thick grass not far from the grove toward which he was shooting. He could see the insects buzzing near the stems of the flowers. It was almost as if Africa spoke to him, showed him, and revitalized him, he thought with wonder. It was incredible.
After quickly jogging to the grove to retrieve his arrows, Alan picked up the double blades he had not used since his son's death. Hefting them, he noted that they did not feel strange in his long-fingered hands. How could they, after so many years of familiarity? But he was not completely comfortable with them, either.
Closing his eyes, he lifted the blades in front of him in a defensive posture and began to move in a pattern-dance, slowly working his way through a complex series of cuts, parries, attacks and blows, all of which his mind, rather than the muscles of his body, remembered.
He sensed someone nearby and his eyes flew open just as the blade in his left hand impacted with something.
Alan took a step back and smiled. "Nemo," he said. He glanced at the sun. "It is early to be out on the plains," he said, asking a roundabout question, and pointedly ignoring the long blade crossed with his own.
"I always rise early," Nemo commented, his gaze never leaving Alan's. "I learned from our friend Skinner that you had taken a walk, and wondered if you would like a bit of company."
Alan appraised Nemo for a moment - the man was dressed in loose-fitting crème colored robes, lacking in any type of decoration and easy to move in. He inclined his head slightly, and Nemo attacked.
The two traded a flurry of blows, each testing out the strength and speed of his opponent as they circled, looking for quirks, reactions, repeated responses to different moves. With a sudden twist, Nemo took a slash out of Alan's shirt, without touching the skin. Recognizing the vulnerability within the impressive attack, Alan carried on the sweep on the blade, sliding his own sword like a snake around Nemo's and with a gentle touch, took first blood.
The battle continued with renewed vigor, and the two were soon both nicked, blood slowly seeping from various shallow cuts. As they circled, Alan was careful to keep his back to the sun, while Nemo tried several times to switch their positions. Moving backward, Alan felt something catch at his foot, and he stumbled slightly. Nemo pressed him suddenly, and with several swift moves, Alan found himself on his back. Nemo's face, mere inches from his own, relaxed. "It was good speaking with you this morning, Mr. Quatermain," he said politely, his blade at Alan's throat.
"Indeed. A most intriguing conversation," Alan replied, moving ever so slightly. Nemo stiffened as he felt the tip of a knife prodding gently at his vulnerable abdomen. "It seems we have reached a stalemate," said Alan. "Would you like to return to the house for breakfast? The others should be awake."
"Thank you," Nemo responded with a rare smile. He stepped back and Alan rolled over and up onto his feet in one smooth motion. He fingered the holes in his shirt that were dotted with blood, and grinned. The youthful expression was something he had lost years ago, and Nemo was startled to see it. Alan probed under the cloth for the cut, waiting for the inevitable small spark of pain, but felt nothing. Confused, he rolled up his sleeve to see the skin underneath, site of the deepest bloody slash he had received. The arm was whole, as if it had never been marked. Alan frowned, and checked the other wounds, which were similarly healed.
Glancing at Nemo, who had raised a brow with surprise, he shrugged. "Perhaps Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Harker would be interested to know of this new development," Nemo suggested, carefully voicing his concern.
"Perhaps not," Alan responded, thinking hard. No more was said on the subject, although Nemo kept the incident locked firmly in the back of his mind, just in case.