The frustration Ian felt about failing to capture the prowler alive so he might question him was soon replaced by irritation with the Campeador's son. When Diego saw Ian was wounded, and the guards mentioned finding a dagger on the floor by the door to the suite, he launched straightaway into a stream of deep apologies and heartfelt thanks. "You saved my life! That would have hit me in the back if you hadn't shoved me aside!"

"You merely stepped in the way; the dagger was meant for me." Ian said through clenched teeth as the guards escorted them back to the Library. Luckily, Diego assumed the half-elf's wound was the cause of the irritability and now expressed concern over its seriousness. It was one of the longest walks in Ian's short life, as he fought to keep on his feet and Diego's voice seemed to echo. But at long last he saw Ferret's face appear in front of him, and capable hands steered him to a chair in the now well-lit Library. Ibrahim pushed his way past the guards blocking the doorway and with a soft `tsk' cut away the shirt from Ian's wound.

"He's lost much blood. This should be cleaned and bound right away, Captain Ferret." He smiled to Ian. "You must stay abed a few days, but you shall be fine."

Ferret's face seemed a bit less grim. "We'll post some guards in case there is another attack. Harold!" He motioned the large axeman closer, but stopped as Ian shook his head.

"He wasn't trying to attack me; if he had been, he would have stayed and fought. He was a thief. All he wanted to do was escape." Ian felt himself grow even more lightheaded and scowled as he struggled to stay clear. "He was after that damn Scroll. Did they find anything on the body?"

Ibrahim asked the head of the guard detail a question in Arabic, then shook his head. "They found nothing. If he was a thief, my young ifrit, he was a most unfortunate one. They will display the head in the zorcander on the morrow with a reward offered for any who can identify him. Perhaps one of the merchants will recognize the face. I'm afraid that is all we can do, my young friend."

"Good. Then he didn't find it. It's in here someplace, Ferret, hidden in plain sight." He tried to stand, Ibrahim murmuring disapproval as he did. "Maybe I can sense it if -" He sat down heavily as the room began to spin and blinked. "Maybe I better do it later."

"Ah, at last, common sense!" Ibrahim looked back at Ferret. "Captain, if you would have some of your men bring him across to his bed, I will attend to the wound there."

"Of course. Harold and Timmons there will help him. Could you ask the guards to tighten the detail here?" He waited as Ibrahim did so, the guard captain answering in what seemed an angry manner. "What did he say?"

The Moorish physician glanced up briefly as he watched Ian being led out garden door. "He said that one of his men just died here. He asked if you expected that he would take that lightly?"

"I'm a fool. Please tell him I share his anger, and I apologize for any offense my words might have caused." He nodded to the man as Ibrahim translated, then he waited as the man replied.

"The guard captain accepts your apology and says it is one thing you and he have in common, the anger when a man dies senselessly." Ibrahim grimaced as he started for the door. "But don't we all?"

*********

"There must have been a second man." Ian sat on the corner of his bed as Ibrahim first bathed the wound clean, applied some powdered herbs and then bound the shoulder tightly with clean linen. "I can't move my shoulder!"

"Good! That's the general idea; if you could move it, the wound will open again. The more you keep still, the faster it will heal. And let me know if it feels hot or it throbs; the blade might have been poisoned, you know." He turned away to a nearby table and added some powder to a cup of juice stirring it as he poured. Ian didn't notice as he was facing Ferret.

"Why do you say that, Ian?" Ferret lit his pipe as he let the boy talk.

"The man I chased didn't have the stomach for a fight. He ran. I doubt he had the nerve to sneak up on a guard and slit a man's throat."

"So you think the other man removed the guard first, then the thief entered the Library?"

He nodded, then winced as the motion caused a twinge in the shoulder. "He most likely thought his accomplice would do for me when I followed him out into the hall, but the killer has already left."

"He was on his own once he got inside the Library. Did you notice there was only one guard? Where was the other?"

Ibrahim handed Ian the juice. "The captain of the guard already reached the same conclusion. The palace is being searched at this moment; if he is still here, they will find him. Drink this, please."

"What is it?"

"Juice." Ibrahim smiled blandly as Ian took a sip, found it was sweet, and then downed the whole cup. "With some sugar, and some juice of the poppy. You should sleep well."

"But I don't want to sleep!" Despite the words, Ian's eyes began to droop.

Ferret walked over and helped Ian lie back in the bed. "I don't think your body agrees. Rest! Do what Ibrahim tells you and let me worry about all this."

In a few minutes, the half -elf was finally asleep, and the two older men left the room.

Red eyes blinked once in the shadows of a far corner, and then vanished.

03/2001


Champion: Part X

"He's a very stubborn young man, Captain Ferret." Ibrahim looked across the table as a servant poured cider for them both. I suspect he would have tried to be up and about at the break of dawn if not for the poppy juice I gave him."

Ferret chuckled. "Aye, he's a most determined type when aroused. I think whoever was behind tonight's misadventure may rue the day Ian came to Toledo." Then, as the two men sat and drank, the mercenary told Ibrahim a bit about Ian's past and how he had been recruited into the Otters. The Moor frowned with dismay as Ferret told what little he knew of how Baron Blackthorn had educated his son, and the fatal outcome.

"You must tell no one else here about this, sir. Al-Qadir would be hard pressed to protect him if the people heard one with such power was among us. Has he done such things since you found him?"

Ferret took a puff on his pipe, then shook his head. "No. He's barely used his "Gifts", as he calls them. The few times he has, I've had to plead my case in order to get him to agree. He's sworn off using whatever they taught him to be a battle mage, and given his stubborn nature, I don't doubt he will hold to that."

"Is this a bad thing? Such a one in your company would make it invincible, would it not?"

"I am just as happy not to make use of them, Ibrahim" Ferret sat quietly for a bit before continuing. "Suppose he did use all that he was taught. Might not some lord, hearing we were among the army opposing him, try to find another such as Ian to counter him? Can you imagine the carnage? Better he stay as he is, until he has matured and has more wisdom and control. The Company will do well enough if I am able to attract good men with a sense of honor and discipline."

"You are a wise man, my friend. Let us hope then that young Ian remains true to his resolve, for all our sakes."

**********

He was standing in front of a large door. Again!

Where he was, or how he had gotten here was something he couldn't say. All he did know was that someone was on the other side of the door, humming a strange song. He reached out a hand and knocked, and an old man answered.

"Come in, come in! It's your place, after all!"

He pushed the door open and found himself in a small room, facing an old man dressed in eastern robes but of a style Ian had never seen. In his hands he held a scroll with writing that Ian recognized. It was the language of the Sithryn, the first tongue he had learned to read and write. In fact, the room was lined with cubbyholes holding other scrolls He turned back to the old man.

"Who are you and where are we?"

The man looked up. "Fascinating. I never would have guessed such journeys as your elven ancestors made were possible. Ah, what was that? Hmmph, yes. You may call me Yussuf. And as I said, all this is yours; these are your memories."

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"Most excellent! Yes!

Ian scowled. "What are you doing here? I did not invite you into my dreams."

"Correct again, Ian Blackthorn. May Allah the Beneficent forgive me for this sin. But this was the only way I could speak with you, please understand me. I assure you I mean you no harm. If I had, you would be dead by now for I have seen your most secret Name, the one given to you by your mother in her heart when you were born, and with that, I could do much damage. But," he held up a hand as Ian took a defensive stance. "I will not"

"And why is that?" Ian crossed his arms across his chest, looking at the old man's face intently"

"Because I need your help. Because I need you to find the Scroll"

"Then you may kill me. If you think I will help you find the Zantaran Scroll, I am afraid you are sadly mistaken!"

The old man smiled, then began making a small hooting sound that Ian slowly realized was laughter. "Of course not! There is more than one Scroll, Ian Blackthorn. The Scroll I need you to find is the one which will stop Zantar."

"You must find the Scroll of Light."

03/2001

Champion: Part XI

"A Scroll of Light? Ibrahim didn't say anything…"

"Your friend Ibrahim is a wise man, but he cannot tell you that which he does not know about himself. When Zantaras was near death he became one with his Scroll; those who had defeated him saw this, and since most were dying as well, they merged with a second scroll, a Scroll of Light, created to act as a counter to the evil Zantaras could cause through his new tool. The lone survivor bore both back to his home, where they stayed until his death and the Zantaras scroll disappeared."

"I suppose it would have been too obvious to just destroy it after they defeated him the first time?" Ian asked

"The Light and Darkness are in Balance. To destroy one is to destroy both." The old man held up his hand before Ian could comment. "Please, we don't have much time. The descendants of that first Holder of the Scroll have sought out Zantaras's scroll for centuries, often thwarting its plans. At last the last Holder caught up with him here, in Toledo, after the Night of Shadows when Zantaras killed so many. It was the Holder who advised the Emir to inter the Zantaran scroll and the man it controlled in the walls of Alcazar. And then died himself, without an heir nearby to take his place, and no means to reach any of his line. All he could do was set his soul here to guard and wait, and hope one would come here in time before Zantaras broke free once more."

"I am that Holder."

"I have chosen you to stop Zantaras."

"I don't suppose," Ian murmured, "I could respectfully decline?"

"There's no time, Ian Blackthorn. The Zantaran Scroll is gone. It was already stolen before you began chasing your thief, and taken from his body."

It was possible; the body had been lying in the shadows for a minute before all the confusion had been sorted out; time enough for someone to take the Scroll. "What will it do next?"

The old man sighed. "Create Chaos. It hates the West because of the Greek and Romans. And the very last king of Persia fell to the Armies of the Prophet. It will cause a blood bath between Christians and Moors, avenging the fall of Zantaras's homeland on all."

"So. How do I find this other scroll?"

"Look where your chase began. Look for where the dark has vanished."

"What?" Things began to fade. "I don't understand…"

"Use your brain, young man!"

"Use your brain!"………

Gradually, he started to regain consciousness. Something was on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He forced his eyes open.

A large rat stared into his face. .

********

Timmons and Harold had arrived earlier to take their turn guarding the door to the room and the older man told some stories of past campaigns to help pass the time. The Saxon was describing a skirmish from the first time he and Ferret had been in Spain, when Timmons suddenly turned to look at the closed door.

"Did you hear that?" He frowned as Harold shook his head. "I could have sworn Ian just called my name."

"I didn't hear anything."

Timmons nodded, but he still put his hand on the door and turned the handle.

**********

Ian didn't make a sound. He watched as time seemed to slow down and the rat reared back on its hind legs, bared its teeth, and then was sent flying by a large black object.

"Got it!" Timmons yelled, and then he and Harold rushed past the foot of the bed to hack at something with their swords. Ian threw back his covers and jumped to his feet, craning his neck to watch the two men as they dispatched the cornered rat. There was an angry squeal, and then the two mercenaries stepped back and looked at him. "Are you alright?"

Ian nodded. "Good work! I think he could have killed me!"

Timmons bent down and retrieved what had hit the rat. It was one of Ian's boots that the attendant had left over by the doorway, Timmons having grabbed the nearest thing to hand that would not have hurt his friend if he missed.

"I bet you couldn't do THAT again," laughed Harold.

"I don't bet." He handed the boot back to Ian apologetically. " We'll get the carcass out of here. Get back to bed."

"Not now. Hand me by clothes, would you?" Ian pointed to them, then just walked across and got them himself as neither of the other two seemed willing to help.

"Ian, you should be resting!" Timmons looked to Harold for support, but the axeman shook his head.

"If he is too weak to be up he'll find out when he falls over."

"Fine! Get all stoic on me now."

"He is a man. I would not stay abed anymore than I must, either."

"If we're through exchanging opinions, could you help me with this?" Hampered by his wound, Ian sat with his head stuck in the collar of his tunic. A tug by Timmons freed him and he motioned to his boots. "Those, too. Thanks! Where's Ferret now?"

"In bed. Ian, do you realize how late it is? Even if you weren't wounded, you should be asleep."

"Oh, aye, with you two cherubs floating above my head." He stood, stamped his boots on the floor and nodded. "Well, grab that rat and let's go wake up Ferret. We have to search the library."

"Wonderful. Wake up the Captain to tell him we have to go rat-hunting in the stacks." Timmons rounded the bed and bent down to pick the dead rat up by the tail. "He'll just love having us wave this in his face." He started over towards the door, then gave a startled yelp.

The rat's body had started to dissolve, not in decay, but rather fading like smoke and shadows, unraveling and dissolving in thin air. Timmons let go of the tail, but before a body could hit the floor, the whole rat was gone. The young mercenary turned pale.

Harold spat on the floor. "Magic, I betcha."

Ian nodded. "A good thing you two came in when you did."

Timmons looked at Ian strangely. "You called me, Ian."

"Didn't you?"

05/2001