Ferret led Ian down a flight of wide marble stairs and into a long well-lit corridor lined with a series of columns that were decorated with intricate floral patterns. Two thirds of the way down it, on Ian's left, two massive warriors stood guard by a pair of wide doors. "Is this the throne room?" Ian asked him.

The older man smiled. "Hardly. Our host is indulging himself in one of the pleasures his kingship affords him." He nodded pleasantly to one of the guards who remained emotionless as he stepped aside to let the mercenaries pass, then laughed as he saw the expression on Ian's face." And no, it's not the pleasure you are thinking. If he were, there would be a different sort of guard out here." He leaned closer to Ian and whispered just what sort of guards would be here if this were a harem, and was rewarded by a pained expression on the half-elf's face. Then, with a laugh, Ferret stepped into the room and Ian followed.

Ian had expected a throne room or an audience hall. He found himself instead in a large room lined with racks of scrolls and some leather-bound books; tables and chairs were placed at intervals along a wall by windows facing out into a pleasant looking garden. Ferret motioned out one window that gave a view of a fountain, where Ian could see Ibrahim engaged in conversation with an older man.

"There he is! Come along!" He moved through the room towards a door leading outside, Ian following once more, nodding politely to scholars they passed along the way. They stepped out into the garden, and in a few moments Ian was face to face with their employer.

Al-Qadir, Caliph of Toledo and Commander of the Faithful was a tall, thin man of middle years and had the build and manners of a scholar, not a warrior. A smile lit up his face as he saw the mercenaries approach, and a gesture of his hand stopped them before they could kneel. "So! This is the ifrit you told me about, Ibrahim?" Inquisitive eyes regarded Ian closely as Ibrahim gave Ian an apologetic shrug. A half hour passed as the Caliph questioned this new puzzle about his race, leaving Ian blushing a few times at the nature of some of his queries. When it was over, he smiled, then had a nearby servant bring them goblets of cool water. "I've badgered you enough, young man. You are welcome to the use of the Library. You do read, I trust?"

Ian nodded. "Aye, I do, milord."

"Have you read Aristotle?"

"My tutors were instructed that I was only to read works of history and tactics."

Al-Qadir looked at Ferret. "Is this so? Who ordered such a gross injustice?"

"It was Ian's father, milord. He's only been in my service a few months. But I agree, his education is sorely lacking. Might I prevail on Your Highness and ask that a tutor be provided him to rectify this, as well as for others in my company who wish their knowledge increased, as part of my payment, of course?"

"Of course! Splendid! And I've just the man right here to be the teacher." He grinned at Ibrahim, who smiled and bowed in agreement. "Good. That's settled. I'll leave the details up to the two of you."

Ian saw the Caliph was most likely about to dismiss them, so he threw caution to the winds and spoke before it happened. "Milord, I have a question. Do you know what has been killing people here?"

Al-Qadir paled. "No, I had hoped you and your captain could tell me."

"You've no idea at all?"

The Defender of the Faith stood suddenly, one hand trembling as he set his goblet down. "I suspect it is something to do with the Zantaran Scroll. Ask Ibrahim." And with that, Al-Quadir swept away down the path and disappeared into the Library.

Ian looked at the two older men. "I think His Highness is deathly afraid of this Scroll."

"I suspect that he is, aye." Ibrahim nodded. "When you hear the story, you will understand why."

02/2001


Champion: Part VI

Ibrahim took a long sip from his goblet as Ian and Ferret sat patiently waiting. "The Zantaran Scroll is a legend, but not a pleasant one; rather, it is one of dark sorcery and despair." He set his drink aside, brushed absently at his robe, then looked up and began the story.

"In ancient times, during the days of the Persian Empire, the priests of the god Ahura Mazda were called Magi. They were worshippers of the Light, but were also great scholars and wielders of power, and the word magic comes from the wonders they were able to perform. For centuries the Magi studied the stars and the arts of the mystic, and were a force for Good among their people. Then one night one of them, a man named Zantaras, read the stars and demanded to see the emperor Darius. When at last he was ushered into the emperor's presence, he prostrated himself on the floor."

`Divine Lord, I have read the stars, and they foretell thy doom and the fall of our land. Behold, there will come a sword from the West, and it will lay the land low before it.'

"Darius thanked him, gave him a purse of gold as an offering to the God, and prepared his kingdom. The Magi, Zantaras among them, also worked furiously to find a way to avoid the doom he had foreseen, but to no avail. Within two years, Alexander of Macedon had conquered Persia, Darius was killed, and the Magi were scattered. Zantaras went into hiding, and in his grief and hate of the Greeks, he turned to the dark arts, and became a follower of Ahriman, the Evil One. In time his power grew, and rumors spread of a man who had somehow found a way to master shadows. Alexander died of a fever, but some whispered of shadows that seemed to crowd around the dying conqueror's bed. The successors of Alexander were said to have a fear of shadows, keeping their palaces well lit day or night, and rewards were offered for the whereabouts of the man now called the Shadow Master."

"In time, hunted by even his former Magi colleagues, Zantaras fled Persia and in time, it was believed he had died of old age. Then strange tales were told of a city far to the east along the Silk Road, a city where all the living inhabitants vanished in a single night, and where strange shadows were seen even in the brightest day. Once again a group of those who served the Light set out and only one returned, to tell of a great battle against a man who commanded shadows. Once again Zantaras was believed dead, but the survivor brought back with him a scroll of the evil Magi's writings, the Zantaran Scroll."

Ibrahim paused and took some water. A chill wind had arisen and blew down narrow canyon formed by the garden walls, and it seemed as if the skies were growing a bit darker before the Moor resumed the tale.

"The survivor of the expedition kept the Scroll in his possession until his death some twenty years later. Although the Scroll was found near him, none gave it any thought and it passed through the hands of several owners over the years, all of whom lived long lives and died normal deaths. It was later discovered none ever tried to open or read the Scroll. It eventually ended up in the Great Library at Alexandria in Egypt, where the few scholars who asked to view it eventually died horrible deaths, some as soon as they read it, others years later in their own homes. The tales spread, and men seeking it became fewer and fewer as the belief grew the Scroll was somehow cursed. In time, it was nearly forgotten, and as the Library suffered the depradations of war, its volumes destroyed by Romans and then fanatical Christians, it was believed lost."

"Three hundred and fifty years ago, Alexandria fell to the armies of the Prophet. The Great Library was a mere shell of its former glory, and the few volumes left were used to fuel stoves in the city's bathhouses. All were destroyed, except for a few that were smuggled out of the city and taken further west, out among the wild Berber tribes. Fifty years later, when the armies of my people invaded Espana, a man who called himself ibn Zantar was with them and legend says he was a master of the Dark Arts. The legends also say that when Toledo fell, shadows stalked the halls of the Christian king's palace, and all were dead when the Armies of the Faithful finally broke down its doors to enter." Ibrahim held up a hand as Ian started to ask a question.

"Wait. Let me finish; there is only a little more. After the city fell, the tale goes that ibn Zantar presented himself to the Emir and asked for a reward for his aid in the conquest. Instead, it is said that he was executed, and his body interred in the walls of this palace we sit in now. Nothing more was heard of the Scroll of Zantaras."

Now Ian finally asked a question. "So this was the last place it was seen? And these dead men were seeking it?"

Ibrahim stood slowly.

"No. Al-Qadir believes it was seeking them."

02/2001


Champion: Part VII

Ibrahim said nothing more but turned and walked back down the path Al-Qadir had used, leaving Ian and Ferret sitting there silently to wonder at his parting words. The older man drained his drink and set the empty cup down. "So, what do you make of all this?"

"I think His Majesty, were he a Christian, would be most happy as a scholarly monk." Ian rose smoothly from his seat with an ease that made Ferret feel old. " As for the other, if it is not mere legend, then he has a right to fear this scroll. Although it does not threaten him directly."

Ferret stood and looked at the boy. "Our quarters are across the garden. This way." They took a path that led towards the wall on the far side and continued the conversation as they walked. "Why do you say that?"

"Because His Majesty does not have what it wants. He has no Gift. I think the Scroll is seeking a new Master, or someone that can be mastered."

"Are you saying this ..this book is alive?" Ferret stopped and looked at Ian with sheer astonishment.

"Possibly. My tutors did not spend much time discussing such matters, but I think it might be the same principle as with some maged swords. This man, this Zantaras, had obviously bespelled the Scroll." He stopped to look back across the garden at the entrance to the Library. Over the doorway two crossed scrolls of stone were framed by an inscription in both Arabic and Latin, but the words were too far to read from where the two mercenaries now stood. "It has a purpose, and it needs a human to accomplish it. Perhaps these dead mens' abilities were tested and found wanting?" He shrugged and resumed walking. "It's hard to know until it happens again."

Ferret frowned. "You say humans; would a half-elf do as well?"

Ian's lips twitched. " A half-elf would be even better. But I don't intend to give it a chance to choose me." He opened the door to the troop's rooms and the two men stepped in out of the garden.

Behind them, a wisp of shadow shredded on the wind.

*********

Despite Ian's assurances, Ferret took no chances. First he had his protégé pick out the few others in the Otters who had even the slightest trace of magic in their auras; these Ferret straightaway assigned to a post on the far edge of Toledo's borders, at a smaller city where the supply trains stopped to rest. He couldn't send Blackthorn away entirely, but he did keep him so busy with his duties that he only spent three nights a week sleeping in the barracks. The other four, Ian was commanding the guard escorts for the caravans.

"There's been quite a few raids lately, and the merchants are not pleased with al-Qadir. This was the reason we were supposedly hired, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, and if you can show some results, it may keep him on his throne awhile longer."

So Ian, along with Marcus and Timmons, spent most nights sleeping around a campfire in the open. But on the other three days and nights, Ferret saw to it that the young men spent time with Ibrahim, reading and discussing what they were learning. Ian enjoyed it. Marcus had the advantage of being tutored by his father all his life, but Timmons was a revelation. It turned out he had been a monastery foundling and had quite an extensive knowledge of the works that had been available to him as a child. Ian was hard pressed to hold his own against the other two in the sessions in the garden twilight, so he took to borrowing some books from the Library and returning them late at night.

One evening a month after their arrival, he walked across the garden, still mulling over what he had read from the book he was intending to return. Something creaked, and as he drew closer to the Library entrance, he saw it was one of the double doors, slightly ajar and moving shut. "Hello?" He reached out and as he pulled the door all the way open, a dagger slammed into the wood inches from his head.

"Halt!" Ian tossed the book on a nearby table, then drew Deathkiss and moved so he was not outlined against the open doorway. He stood silently, listening, and then halfway down the length of the room there was the barest flicker as steel flashed in the dim light from the window. He barely flung himself to the floor in time as a second dagger sped over head and the sound of running footsteps told him his attacker was in full flight. He pushed himself to his feet and with a shout for guards began to follow. The intruder crashed into something in the dark, and Ian smiled grimly to himself, his half-elven sight making it easier for him to avoid obstacles in the deeper shadows away from the window.

By the time the prowler had reached the far door Ian had halved the distance between them, and was closing in fast.

03/2001


Champion: Part VIII

Despite Ian's gain, the attacker reached the far door to the corridor and shut it behind him before Ian could reach it. Ian cursed softly. Whoever this was could be waiting with another knife in the corridor. He turned the handle, leaned into the door, and found there was something leaning against it outside. There was nothing for it but to take a few steps back, rush forward, and slam his shoulder into the wood. It gave and opened enough for Ian to slip cautiously out.

The weight against the door was a dead guard. Down the corridor, running footsteps beat loudly on the tiled floor, and Ian once more gave chase. Behind him, coming from the opposite direction, shouts heralded the arrival of the guards that had heard the noise and his cries. "He went this way!" The half-elf waved the others on, but didn't stop. He kept a firm grip on Deathkiss and pushed himself harder, a wild exhilaration in this grim chase fueling him as he ran on. Up ahead, his quarry reached a corner, stopped to look back at his pursuer, and spat a loud curse in Arabic as he saw how close Ian was now. Then he vanished from view.

When Ian reached that same turn in the corridor, he swerved wide before he reached the corner and held his blade ready for defense. He need not have. The other man was still running, and had Ian been fully human, he might not have seen the figure moving in the darker corridor. He smiled grimly. This corridor held the suites of the members of the Caliph's court as well as important guests, and led directly to the entrance to the women's quarters. In short, it was a dead end. He once more gave a call and resumed the pursuit.

His attacker must have realized his own predicament, for his pace slowed slightly as he seemed to look for another avenue of escape. By now, Ian was close enough to see the other man's face as he looked frantically from side to side at the doors lining the walls. "Surrender! There's no way out for you!" He came to a stop, sword at the ready, as the other searched for an unlocked door in vain. The shouts of the pursuing guards grew louder and the man drew yet another dagger.

And then, just in front of Ian, a door opened. A man stepped out to confront him, not seeing the other figure behind him past his own doorway.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Get down!" Blackthorn shoved his questioner back into the shelter of the opened doorway as the runner drew back his arm and flung the dagger, then twisted to dodge the knife himself. A sharp pain in his right shoulder told him he'd not been entirely successful. Meanwhile, seeing his pursuer still standing, the fugitive turned and ran once more. Ian started off after him, but the man in the doorway had regained his footing, and grabbed hold of the wounded shoulder. He turned, brought the hilt of his sword down on the other's wrist, and pulled free. As he ran off, a loud curse and sandals slapping on tile told him the bystander had joined the chase, but more than likely he didn't even realize that Ian was running after someone himself. They were rapidly approaching the harem entrance, and Ian slowed a bit, the pain in his shoulder taking its toll. He called out to the running man, hoping to persuade him to surrender, then was sent flying as the man from the room tackled him to the floor.

"Get off me, you fool!" He twisted, but the other man atop him kept a firm grip and kept him down.

"We'll just wait for those guards back there to catch up, and then we'll sort you out. You can't just run through the castle with a naked blade in your hand. Why were you running?"

A clash of blades ahead of them told Ian the attacker had reached the harem doors. "I was trying to catch someone alive."

His captor laughed. "A likely tale. Who?"

There was a scream, a loud thud, and something rolled out of the darkness to a stop by the pair. Ian swore. A few feet away, the intruder's head rolled to a stop, a last angry snarl frozen in death. "Him. But I think it's a moot point now, don't you? Will you let me up now, or must I call the harem guards to do it?" The other made no immediate reply, no doubt trying to deal with the sight of the severed head but loosened his hold, then rolled off Ian and helped him stand.

"If I am mistaken, you have my apologies." He was only a few years older than Ian, and as his features became clearer in the light cast by the torches of the approaching guards, the half-elf thought he looked familiar. Dark eyes and an aquiline nose nagged at Ian's memory.

"I'm Ian Blackthorn, a member of Captain Ferret's company. And you are…?"

The Castilian gave a formal bow. "I am Diego Rodriguez Diaz De Vivar."

Now aware that the dagger had cut open his shoulder in passing, Ian stared at the nobleman as the pain took hold and he grew light-headed. "Perfect. Does your family intend to keep getting in my way the whole time I am here?" Then he set his back to the wall and slid down to sit and wait for the guards as the dead man's eyes stared at him accusingly.

03/2001