Several hours after the three young mercenaries had ridden out with Diego in grim pursuit of Jhalid, another group of riders readied themselves for departure. A tribute train to King Alfonso was to leave the Alcazar and a troop of Twisted Otter riders would accompany it.

Off to one side of the courtyard, Ferret spoke quietly with Harold. The big Saxon was his oldest friend, the only man who had known him before Fate had changed both their lives. Harold had been quiet of late, and it worried Ferret greatly to hear the few words the axeman would say were of his approaching "bane". The smaller man jabbed an angry finger at the other's chest, or at least as close as he could reach to it.

"You listen to me, you dolt! You take this gold to Castile and get back here in one piece! I have too much to do already without worrying about you running about Espana scaring the wits out of people who think they are seeing a giant or ogre or some such. You hear me?"

The Saxon gave a deep-throated laugh, then picked Ferret up and gave him a bear hug. "Harold hears you. I will try, little man." Then he set the mercenary captain down amidst the cheers of his men and walked over to mount up. He gathered his reins into one fist, shrugged his shoulders twice to settle his axe a bit more comfortably across his back, and then looked down at Ferret. The words he spoke were said so softly only the man standing beside the horse could hear them. "You are a good friend, and a true sword-brother, Edric Osricson. What ever the Norns hold for us, I have never forgotten that."

A memory of a road leading away from Hastings and a tall man on a horse offering him a hand up overwhelmed Ferret for a few more seconds. Finally he nodded, his voice rough as he replied. "You just get back here, Harold Long Axe. You still owe me money from that last roll of the dice." Then he reached over, swatted the horse on the rump, and having set the detail in motion, watched as it rode out of Toledo. But as he noticed the shadow of the gate fall over Harold's face, a sudden sorrow filled him. He tried to push away the fear that Harold was right after all, and that he would not see his sword-brother alive again.

********

Diego was as good as his word; Ian and the others were hard pressed to keep up with the nobleman as he thundered over the Alcantara Bridge and down the road leading south from Toledo. But gradually the others urged their own horse on until they had drawn even and the pursuers road four abreast in a steady gallop. They traveled like this for several hours, then Ian called for a halt to rest the horses. Little was said among the four; all were experienced enough to wisely take their sleep while it was available, although Diego seemed impatient to continue on. As soon as an hour had passed, they all remounted and resumed their pursuit.

Three hours later it began to grow dark as the group traveled through a particularly rugged stretch of terrain. The footing was uncertain as they rode over ground strewn with loose stone and gravel, yet Diego had shown no sign of making camp for the night. After exchanging glances with Marcus and Timmons, Ian reached over and tugged at Diego's arm.

"Best we stop now while we have enough light to gather wood for a fire."

The Castilian snarled and pulled his arm free from Ian's grasp. "We can keep going by moonlight. With any luck we'll have him by morning."

"By any luck we'll not have broken all our necks by morning. De Vivar, if we don't kill ourselves, we'll kill the horses. I want him as badly as you do, but if we keep on and the horses are ruined, he'll be free anyway, won't he?" With that, the tall half-elf slid out of his saddle, his companions following suit. Diego gave a disdainful grunt, then urged his horse onward. A few feet further along, rocks shifted underfoot and he suddenly found himself astride a panicked mount. When he finally calmed her with low murmurs, Diego de Vivar dismounted and went back to rejoin the others.

"Perhaps you have the right of it. We can start after him again on the morrow with our horses well rested."

"Aye. In fact, " Ian said as he unfastened his saddlebags from his horse, "I'd not be surprised if he already has stopped for the night himself."

********

In truth, Zantar had already stopped an hour before and some fifteen miles further south of those who sought him. Not only was his horse tired, but the vessel that had once been Captain Jhalid was as well. In order to maintain the his charade, "Jhalid" had hardly slept at all as he played out the farce of searching high and low for the dead thief's accomplice: namely, himself. Lack of sleep had taken its toll and after he felt himself swaying tiredly in the saddle, Zantar had found a sheltered ravine that would give him cover for the night. He'd nearly fallen on his face when his feet hit the ground, but he managed to care for the horse before the last shreds of energy fled entirely.

The body that had once been Jhalid's slept, but after a short time the consciousness that was Zantar's reasserted itself and began sifting through the memories of its vessel. Jhalid's mind had been the blueprint for Zantar's plans, and so he had headed south as the Captain himself would have done if he had been a traitor and been fleeing. Now the Magi's spirit searched for an answer as to why, and after a brief search, a smile formed on the lips of the sleeping body. The Captain had kin in the port city of Malaga; from there he would have taken a short trip across the Straits to the Berber city of Ceuta and refuge. A fine plan, a most well thought-out plan indeed, in Zantar's opinion.

It would serve, for a start. The rulers of the Moors, the Almoravids, would not serve Zantar's purpose. They could fight, yes, but they treated all their subjects fairly, Moor, Christian or Jew. For the chaos he desired, a much more warlike people were needed, and the Berbers of the desert with their more austere interpretation of the Koran would be more useful. He dug deeper, making sure he found the names and faces of Jhalid's relatives so that he might more easily maintain his masquerade. Then he turned to another matter he had pondered since the events at the palace gates that morning. When he had struck down the Christian nobleman in the green and gold clothes, Jhalid's memories had screamed that he was a fool, that he had made a fatal error. A name had briefly emerged before all Zantar's attention had turned to just managing his escape. Now he had time to examine that name at his leisure.

Who was this Roderigo Diaz de Vivar, that Jhalid had known as El Campeador?

Zantar sent out tendrils of power to find out for himself.

09/2001

Champion: Part XVI

"Roderigo! `Rigo, wake up!"

Ximena's voice beside him: Where was he?

"`Rigo, it's only a dream! What troubles you so, husband? Wake up!" Her hand caressed his cheek, his eyes opened, and Roderigo Diaz de Vivar reached out to gather her hand in his and bring it to his lips to kiss.

"A nightmare. I was being tempted."

"Tempted? Roderigo Diaz! I thought you loved only me!" She tapped his lip with a finger and then raised herself slightly on her right elbow to look at him. The teasing smile on her face faded away as she got a closer look at the expression on his. "Jesu, you are as pale as a ghost! What did you dream?"

"I dreamt of a man, who dressed strangely and who spoke fair words to me. He offered me all of Espana to rule. He was quite…persuasive."

Ximena' s gaze never flinched from his. The king had thought to bind him closer by giving Roderigo his niece's hand in marriage, never dreaming Ximena would be just as ambitious as her new husband. "Well? Did you say yes?"

"What do you think?" He held her eyes with his until she threw her head back and roared with laughter. He drew her closer, and when the messenger burst without warning into the room, he found El Campeador being ruthlessly tickled by his wife.

********

Harold caught himself thinking more and more of England these days. It wasn't as if he'd not been back since the Normans had defeated the last Saxon king. The Otters had hired themselves out several times there, the most recent ending when Ferret had brought the half-elf Blackthorn into the mercenary company. But as his conviction that he would die here in Espana grew stronger, so did the yearning to set foot once more on the land of his birth. Some of his men had fallen in love with Castile and spoke of perhaps settling down some place where warm winds blew off the Mediterranean. The big axe man dreamt of green hills and cool rains instead.

He growled angrily at himself and forced his maudlin thoughts aside as the road the caravan followed dipped down into a small valley. Another day or so would see them in Castile and the tribute from Toledo safely delivered to King Alfonso. He glanced back along the trail. The rearguard was lagging, no doubt exchanging tales among themselves of some dark-haired beauties. "Close up, you lazy louts, or I'll come back there and box some ears!" One of the men called back something that seemed to amuse the others. Harold cursed softly, then dug his heels into his horse and started back there to teach the fool some manners.

He was nearly halfway along the length of the caravan when he heard the shouts of alarm behind him. Ahead, the joker in the rearguard fell out of his saddle as arrows struck his chest. "Ambush!" Harold whirled his horse around towards the head of the column. Riders were streaming out of a ravine hidden on the right of the road, the men riding point already overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The mercenary cursed himself for a fool; he hadn't seen his advance scout since they'd broken camp this morning. If he'd been paying attention to his duty instead of letting his mind wander, Harold told himself, he'd have known that something was wrong. He drew his sword and hurried to join his men.

The next few minutes were a chaos of screams and blood before he found himself next to a small dark Irishman named Lonan. Harold leaned closer from the saddle so he could be heard. "Spread the word. Break off and ride for Castile. One of us has to get through and tell Alfonso what's happened." Lonan nodded, turned his mount and was lost from view. Harold nodded grimly to himself, then began to try to fight his own way clear. The caravan was lost; all they could do was to try to live to fight another day. Then his horse screamed, fell forwards, and Harold was flung to the ground.

He scrambled to his feet, hands reaching now for his axe strapped to his back. The noise of battle seemed to subside as he swung it free and turned to face the raiders. In fact, the fighting was over, the few guards who had survived already riding away to Castile as he'd ordered them. "Good lads," he murmured, then planted his feet squarely in the road, blocking pursuit. One rider tried to force his way at the Saxon, only to have his horse's legs severed with a swing of the ax. Harold roared defiance. "Come on! How many curs will it take to bring down a house carle of King Harald Godwinson?" He laughed as he motioned them forward, eyes narrowing as he looked closer at his opponents.

It was his time. But he'd hold as long as he could, to give his riders as much of a lead as possible, and perhaps have his vengeance in the bargain. He loosened his shoulders with a wave of his weapon, grinning madly at the expressions on some of those he faced. "Come along. The Raven is singing!"

A voice spoke coolly. "Dismount, elsewise he'll cripple the horses! He's only one man, you fools! Take him!"

"That's right, little men! Come feed my axe!"

They swung down from their saddles, and Harold Long-Axe swung his axe, and began to chant.

It was awhile before he fell silent forever.

03/2002

Champion: Part XVII

"Wake up! You must wake!"

Vaguely, Ian wondered why people were always waking him up with that note of calamity in their voices. Couldn't he get a full night's sleep without the whole world going to hell in a basket?

"Rather full of yourself, aren't you? Do you really think the world's safety depends on one young half-elf?"

It was the old man, the one from his dream. What had he called himself? Yussuf, that was it. Ian pulled his blanket up higher over his neck.

"Leave me alone. We've ridden all day."

"You can't sleep! He's been busy. He tried to take over some warrior and failed, and now he's begun moving again. If you don't get up, he'll get away. You must hurry and wake the others."

"I thought the fate of the world doesn't depend on me?" he thought back at the voice in his head.

"Alright, perhaps this half of the world does. But the longer we argue about this, the further away Zantar will have gone."

Ian opened his eyes, groaned, then tossed off his blanket and climbed stiffly to his feet. "I don't suppose you could wake the others for me?"

But the voice in his head had vanished, and he was left to weather the protests of his friends alone. Marcus and de Vivar were appropriately angry at being woken so early, but Timmons, who was notorious in the Otters for being difficult to waken, opened his eyes at once. Ian couldn't be sure in the dim light of dawn, but he thought his friend looked pale. "Are you ill, Timmons?"

"Just had a bad dream, is all. I saw a battle somewhere, and a huge crow. That's all I can remember of it." He turned away to tighten the cinch of his saddle. Blackthorn watched his friend with concern. Timmons seemed to put a lot of stock into dreams, which was something he himself had never done. But then again, he reminded himself as he set foot in cinch and mounted, he'd never had old men talking to him in his own before this.

He hoped there was nothing to Timmons' dream, but he felt uneasy about it as they rode away from camp.

********

Diego led them through a maze of ravines and dried up stream beds as the day grew slightly brighter. But the sky was overcast, and a fine misty rain began to fall. The Castilian swore furiously, urging them all on before the trail was lost. A half an hour later, they found where Zantar had camped. "No fire. We're lucky we spotted where he tied the horse." Diego gave an exasperated curse and looked at the others. "I've no way of telling how much we missed him by."

"Yes, we do." Ian crouched by the hoof prints left by their quarry's mount. The tracks are still mostly dry. Rain hasn't had time to fill them in yet. I think he's no more than an hour ahead of us. " He glanced at the noble's expression and grinned. "It's an elven thing. They start us off tracking field mice as toddlers. At five, we move to squirrels. " He remounted as Timmons and Marcus chuckled, and then looked at the sky." But if we don't catch him quickly, he's going to get away. This rain is going to fall harder, and soon. Come on!"

And so the four rode on in grim silence, Ian now in the lead, leaning over in the saddle to look for tracks, listening as Diego murmured of what possible routes the demon using Jhalid's body might take to throw off their pursuit. The heavens made the half-elf's prediction fact within a quarter hour as a more steady rain began to fall. The riders picked up their pace, but soon it was a downpour, and Diego reached out and grabbed Ian's arm, leaning in closer so his words could be heard over the wind and rain. "We need to get to higher ground. These creek beds will fill quickly!"

Ian looked to either side. The banks on either side were too high for their horses to clear easily. "Is there someplace nearby?"

"Up ahead, about two miles, there's a spot where the banks are lower. It's a crossing when it runs high in the rainy season."

"This isn't rainy season?" Marcus quipped. But they let Diego take the point and urged their horses on, all thought of spotting Zantar's trail aside until they reached safety. Although it was becoming readily apparent as the storm continued they might have lost the trail for good. Marcus cursed as rain got under his collar and ran down his back, but Timmons rode on silently, not making his usual jokes. Blackthorn and Marcus exchanged worried looks. This wasn't like their friend at all.

Diego pointed to a bend in the ravine up ahead. "There it is! And just in time, if that sound behind us is what I think." They road on, ducking their heads down against the wind streaming into their faces, now seeing the water beginning to pool around the horses' hooves. That, more than Diego's warning, brought home the danger of their situation now. And yet they could not go too quickly; to do so risked a misstep on a wet rock and an injured beast. They went on as best they could.

They reached the lower embankment, and Ian swung down to grab the reins and lead his mount up to higher ground. The others were right behind him, but it was hard to see past a few yards in all this now. They'd have to find shelter somewhere.

Then a hand clamped over his mouth, and cold steel was at his throat.
"Hello, ifrit"
In their concern to reach this exit from the creek bed, they'd forgotten Zantar had to deal with the same problem.
He'd reached the crossing first.
And then he had waited.

05/2002