He had fled to the very edge of Arda and still it was not far enough.
In this desolate place, where Arda still struggled to form its shape, he who was Feanor’s son, Maedhros, had found at last wisdom. However his understanding did not bring him peace but instead deepened the well of his despair. With hot winds assailing him and jets of flame escaping the earth in powerful columns of ash and liquid fire, he knew at last that his doom did not await him in Aman but rather here. It was an apt place as any for an elf of the Noldor tainted as much as he, to find his end. He no longer feared the doom of men but his heart was heavy indeed with what had led him here.
His life had been a series of choices, some good and some bad. He had chosen to leave Valinor with his father in pursuit of Morgoth but he had refused to participate in the betrayal of Fingolfin. It was a pity that his conscience did not allow him to stop the burning of ships that would have borne Fingolfin to Arda, instead of stranding him on the Grinding Ice and causing so much suffering. He had lived and breathed his father’s vengeance, allowing it to poison him as irrevocably as it had changed Feanor. His father in better days had been a craftsman, a creator of beautiful things but when he had died in Ard-Galen, Maedhros had seen a man twisted by vengeance, far removed from his earlier nobility.
Feanor’s death should have taught him the folly of vengeance but Maedhros was already assailed by another kind of fever, one as potent as the need for vengeance. Like the rest of his brothers and his father before him, Maedhros was obsessed with the possession of the Silmarils. His mind had been unable to see any other path than the one that would allow him to acquire it. He thought of the choices he made, the hand that had been sacrificed and all the Kinslaying he had been party to because of the jewels forged by his father. His existence had been bathed in blood and treachery because of the Silmarils but still he could not desist in his need to acquire it.
Even when the Valar had destroyed Morgoth in the War of Wrath, Maedhros could not escape his obsession and to his greatest shame, he convinced his brother Maglor to join him in his deceit. Maedhros wondered if Manwe’s agent, Eonwe had known what his alternative would be after he was refused the return of the jewels. Eonwe had looked upon him with a sad resignation and now Maedhros had understood that his words were ominous with meaning because Eonwe knew that it was beyond the sons of Feanor to let go of the Silmarils, that they would pursue it to their utter ruin.
Once again, Maedhros had proved his willingness to kill for the Silmarils and the poor guardians of the jewel bore the unfortunate brunt of his greed. Killing them had extinguished the last flame of nobility inside of him and yet Maedhros had barely noted its passing. All he cared about now was the satisfied knowledge that at last, the Silmarils were in the hands of its rightful owners. Eonwe’s words to him that the deeds of his family had relinquished their right to make such a claim was hardly a concern. Not so for Maglor whose apprehension remained throughout their act of treachery, despite Maedhros’ best efforts to calm his troubled spirit.
In the end, it appeared that Eonwe was correct after all.
The moment he clenched his fist around his father’s greatest creation, Maedhros felt an agony coursing through him unmatched since he was forced to sacrifice his hand during Fingon’s attempt at rescue. The burning, searing pain that gripped his body, drew from him a scream of agony. The Silmarils had no wish to be ferried about by one who had lost its favour. Maedhros had retched at the scent of his burning flesh, doubling over in pain as he soiled himself and the jewel fell out of his grasp, traces of burnt skin still clinging to its flawless facets. Maedhros was certain that his brother would undoubtedly make the same discovery when he paused long enough to handle his own jewel.
When the red haze of pain had faded from his mind, Maedhros felt as if he had been bathed in a shower of cold rain. It was a sobering realisation to suddenly awake from a deep sleep and learn that in your dreaming you had killed and shed blood. Such was the wisdom that rested over him as he stared at the Silmarils, the jewel sought by so many, for which wars were fought and loyalties were betrayed. His obsession had left bitter parting gifts and when Maedhros understood why he would never feel the grace of Eru upon him again, wept in sorrow and despair.
His tears had brought him to this place where the earth heaved underfoot and breathed fire from gaping fissures. Fire and ash riddled the air he breathed and made him flinch when embers of heat brushed against his skin. He looked at the black sky above and wondered if Maglor still lived. How had his brother accepted the knowledge of the Silmarils’ rejection? No better than he, Maedhros supposed. In either case, it mattered little because this was a place of endings. The doom of men would be his fate and Maedhros knew that it was a just end for all that he had wrought in Arda.
He could no longer even carry the Silmarils in his hand and had only been able to bear it this far because he had placed it within the confines of the Dragon Helm. Azaghal presented the helm to him for saving his life. Maedhros had retrieved it after hunting down the dwarves responsible for the sacking Menegroth in their efforts to steal the Nauglamir. The helm had been his gift to Fingon and Maedhros’ abhorrence of the dwarves gaining possession of it had led Feanor’s son to reacquire it at any cost. He had hoped to return it to the line of Hador as Fingon would have wanted but that was no longer possible.
Maedhros looked into chasm, a mere inches from his feet, stared past the mouth of darkness and followed its depths to the amber glow of light at the very bottom. As much as he despised himself and his actions over the Silmarils, he had not the strength to let it go for fear that someone else might claim possession of it. Even now, he was the jewel’s creature and Maedhros had come the realisation that there was only one way in which he could free himself from it. He took Azaghal’s helm and stared at the jewel inside of it, mesmerized by the light of the trees that lived within its crystal facets. No one knew with what Feanor had constructed the Silmarils, only that the secret would reveal itself with the unmaking of the world.
This thing of beauty had changed the fate of his people, had turned his father into a fanatic, made him into a murderer and caused Morgoth’s complete and utter destruction. The Silmarils had been the achievement of his father’s skill but had ruined his family forever. Closing his eyes, it was the only way Maedhros knew of severing the jewel’s overpowering hold of him. It would be a temporary respite because there were no eyelids in the mind. Its spell diminished briefly and as tears rolled down his cheeks, Maedhros reached into the helm and enclosed his fist around the jewel one last time. The pain rushed at him, sending waves of white-hot agony through his flesh. He opened his mouth and screamed in defiance of it before forcing his legs to move.
He was almost mindless with agony when his feet propelled him forward. The helm rocked briefly against the ground where he had dropped it and was the only witness to the Maedhros’ despaired leap over the edge of the chasm.
Maedhros felt air beneath him, felt the rush of heat that preceded a blast of fire from this chasm and felt no fear even if the Silmarils was burning a hole through his palm. He cared nothing for the bloom of fire at the bottom of the pit, rising quickly to greet him and the jewel. He saw it surging in a wall of flame and knew that his doom would be quick if nothing else. He feared not his passage from the world because at least there was one consolation to all this.
The Silmaril would belong to no one else after him.
**********
PRESENT DAY
Doctor Petra Tebben had met her benefactor only once. However, one meeting was all that was necessary when that benefactor was John Malcolm, the CEO of the conglomerate known throughout the globe as Malcolm Industries.
Petra had found Malcolm to be charming if somewhat intimidating. She had the impression that he enjoyed using his very formidable presence to provoke that response in the people he met. She had to confess to not liking him very much and had regarded his initial request to see her with much skepticism. As one of many archaeologists in the Museum of Stavanger in Norway, she did not know why the wealthy magnate had singled her out. Her professional career until that point had been less than stellar, her papers were informative but not striking and it was the striking that attracted large research grants. She had become resigned to the fact that she would never be considered a giant in her chosen profession.
John Malcolm had changed during their one and only meeting.
When she met him in the company headquarters in Oslo, she had been uncertain what to expect. Certainly, it had surprised her to learn that he was familiar with her research, which was largely centered around the Temple Glacier of Hofsjokull in Iceland.
During her brief expedition to the collapsed volcano, she had uncovered ice samples from far beneath the caldera of the mountain that revealed traces elements of minerals that were somewhat of an aberration on the periodic table. However, the samples were too minute in their quantities and too contaminated by time for an accurate determination as to what they were. At best, they were a curiosity, at the very least, speculation. Petra had been convinced that there was something to find deep beneath the glacier of Hofsjokull but she had neither data nor theory to offer anyone as to what that might be. Certainly not enough for a grant and was partly the reason why she had chosen to travel to Oslo to see Malcolm.
Malcolm not only believed in her research but offered to fund her with no limit to the expenses she may require to seek out what he believed was the secret beneath the mountain. She suspected that he might have an ulterior motive but the truth of it was, she was too eager to go embark upon the excavation to look very closely at his reasons. She accepted his offer of a grant without question and only raised a brow when he made the request that the project be called Maedhros. When she questioned the man about it, he had been evasive but not before reminding her that his money allowed him his eccentricities.
Petra tended to agree.
She was on a Malcolm Industries plane to Iceland within the month after her meeting with its CEO, having carefully selecting her team. As promised, Malcolm ensured that the excavation was in want for nothing. They were provided with the state of the art equipment and what they did not have, she only had to ask to acquire. A tremendous amount of money was funding the work and for the next year, they burrowed deep beneath the glacier, extracting ice samples, analyzing the data and finding that curious residue of unidentifiable material. At first, she thought that it could have been the effect of a meteor hit. It was certainly conceivable. It would explain the presence of the minerals they were unable to recognise. However, the deeper the excavation, the more the theory was disproved until Petra abandoned it all together.
In the meantime, she sent her reports dutifully to Malcolm who always returned to her a quick note of encouragement and confidence but interfered no more than that. One thing she admired about him, considering that individuals privately funding scientific pursuits tended to be impatient and demanding of quick results, was his patience. He always encouraged but never insisted. The expedition continued without pressure and this freedom to work at their own pace was very liberating indeed. Petra counted herself fortunate that she had found Malcolm as a benefactor or rather, he had found her.
The excavation reached a turning point when a computerized laser fusion device began malfunctioning while conducting potassium argon dating. The machine was replaced with another while it was being repaired and the replacement soon displayed the same defect. At first, she thought it was a coincidence but her scientific curiosity had been piqued and as any good scientist would do, she carried out an experiment by acquiring a third machine for the analysis. The defect remained. A technician explained that the only other explanation was the fact that the devices were detecting something other than the argon atoms in its spectrometer.
It was purely on a whim that Petra used a Geiger counter to examine the samples and found that its readings were almost off scale.
At first the team thought they had struck a vein of uranium but none of the subsequent techniques to determine this for a certain could prove it and the excitement that they had stumbled upon something utterly unexpected bade them to continue despite the possibility of radiation poisoning. Petra’s report to John Malcolm was answered by the arrival of an expert in the field who quickly assuaged their fears and persuaded them that it was perfectly save to continue with the work. Petra had been more eager to do so because she knew they were so close. She could almost taste it.
But then John Malcolm died and suddenly, she was without a grant.
His successor David Saeran ordered the immediate termination of the project but Petra was not about to stop now that she was so close to the find of a lifetime. Malcolm’s generous grants and Petra’s carefully handling of the project’s finances ensured that the excavation could continue for at least six months to a year. She told no one on her team that she was defying their new patron’s wishes. Petra was convinced that the find would vindicate her in the eyes of David Saeran and make him see that she was right to continue against his objections.
Two months of hard work and finally, they discovered something.
It was not at all what they expected. It was not some strange new material that radiated an unknown form of energy but rather an archaeological artifact that rightly belonged in a historical museum. The helmet was beautifully crafted and unlike anything she had ever seen before. None of the other members of the team could identify its origins. It was clearly fashioned out of iron but the smelting techniques were unlike anything recorded and the carbon dating placed it at almost one hundred and fifty thousand years of age. The historical record was clear that iron had not been worked until the last thousand years and never to the degree of sophistication found in the helmet before them. A hundred and fifty thousand years ago was an evolutionary limbo for the human race, a time before modern man had made his arrival onto the world stage. The cranial capacity of the individual who would have worn this particular helmet clearly showed that it was far larger than the cranial structure of a human being.
Whatever the race created this helmet, it was certainly not human.
Petra knew without understanding why, that the helmet was connected to the unusual energy readings. Somehow they were linked and she only had to dig deeper to find out why. It was there beneath the earth, she was sure. All she had to do was find it.
Then the find of a lifetime would belong to no one else but her.
"What am I doing here?"
The question repeated itself from the lips of Eric Rowan as he swept his gaze across the arctic like landscape with its sheets of glacial ice buried under more even snowfall. Harsh winds raked across the terrain, creating a wall of snow that seemed almost blizzard like in its intensity. It was not enough that the air he was forced to breathe chilled his insides and gave him an accurate idea of what a corpse must feel but the wind picking up momentum was assailing his exposed skin ruthlessly. Granted only his face was exposed to the elements while the rest of him was buried under several layers of thermal clothing, it still felt as if he was standing naked in the middle of the tundra.
"What are you doing here?" The question was hurled at him with almost as much bite as the winds and the freezing climate.
Eric rolled his eyes in resignation and supposed that he deserved this for openly lamenting his outcast state. The sharp retort had come from Jason Merrick, his young cameraman from New Zealand who had been forced to accept exile alongside of him because he was one half of their journalistic team. Since being forced here, Jason who was normally a most affable young fellow with the occasion flares of hot temper was projecting ejecta so frequently that it was in danger of melting the snow of Iceland. The younger man shot him a disgruntled glare as he carried his camera, his nose a shade rosier than the rest of him, making him resemble one of those red nosed elves frequenting Christmas cards. Of course, making this observation known to Jason would probably end up with Eric having to remove the camera from his posterior surgically.
"Are you going to start this again?" Eric stared at him.
"Start what again?" Jason grumbled. "Remind you of the fact that the reason we’ve been sent here is because you decided to seduce our editor’s wife?"
"I did not seduce her," Eric retorted haughtily. "The woman came on to me!"
"Eric," Jason paused and stared at him, "I know I’m younger than you but there are some things you just don’t do. You don’t tell a woman she’s fat unless you want your spleen handed to you, you don’t make sheep jokes to graziers and finally and most importantly, YOU DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BANG YOUR BOSS’ WIFE EVEN IF SHE COMES ON TO YOU!"
"I had a few beers," Eric muttered and resumed walking.
"You’re Australian, you always have a few beers!" Jason snapped, "it’s a bloody state of being for you Ockers!"
Eric supposed he had reason to be angry. Before Iceland, they were bound for the Gulf, preparing to take part in the journalistic feast that was the present Middle Eastern war. Careers were being made and for Jason whose aspirations included being a journalist himself one day, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to enter the battle zone and be apart of some history making events. Even as jaded as he was being a journalist for Channel Nine News division the past seven years, Eric could not deny looking forward to the assignment with similar enthusiasm. However, during an office party a few days before they were to leave for the gulf, Eric had a most unfortunate encounter with their editor’s beautiful wife, Dominique.
Eric was aware of Dominique’s interest from previous social engagements but one too many beers had led him to throw caution to the winds and on a balcony attached to the function room the company had hired for the night, he acted on his impulses. Unfortunately, his impulse was witnessed by almost everyone on the balcony, including Dominique’s humiliated husband, his immediate superior. Robert had said nothing at the time, he was too much the gentlemen to make any more of a spectacle of himself than his wife had already done. Instead, they had left abruptly leaving Eric with an understandably impending sense of doom.
The next morning he and Jason were summoned to Robert’s office where they were told very politely by the man, who did an admirable job of hiding his rage, that it appeared the Americans were cutting down the number of journalists permitted to enter the war zone. Seniority demanded that he and Jason be the casualties of this shortened list. Instead of the warm Gulf, they were being sent to Iceland to do a human-interest story on an excavation that was taking place in the Temple Glacier in the heart of the country. Eric had made no effort to protest the assignment, perfectly aware that he deserved the punishment because Robert could have fired him. Eric was certain that there was something in his contract about moral turpitude that would permit such a course.
"You know what your problem is?" Jason continued speaking, "you’re like this with all women!"
"I am not," Eric defended himself as they made their way across the snow covered plain to the top of the glacier. The dig was supposedly taking place within the collapsed cone of what was formally a volcano. It was now filled with snow instead of lava (fortunately) and the bulk of the work was being undertaken almost half a mile beneath the surface. Even as they approached the apex, they could see the campsite the archaeologists retired to when the day’s work was done. Colorful tents made for cold weather broke the magnificent line of snow and sky. He could see fold up chairs, lamps and other pieces of equipment stretching across the encampment.
"Oh really," Jason hissed, "how many times have you called the women on that encyclopedia you call a black book, more than once?"
Eric wondered if this was going to be the topic of conversation between himself and Jason for the next year. It was not his fault that women found him attractive. Compared to Jason, he was tall almost 6’2, with dark hair and overly intense hazel eyes. The fact that his look was rugged and his lean form was almost always sheathed in jeans and loose denim shirts, ensured he never had to look far for female company. Unfortunately, as he was now starting to learn, this was not always a good thing.
"Look, can we talk about this later?" he declared as he saw a figure emerge from one of the tents.
The person, clad in a heavy parka with a hood that made it difficult to discern if it was male or female, waved upon catching sight of them. Eric took a deep breath, telling himself the sooner they get this story over with the better. Trudging up the side of the volcano, he could see his breath escaping in puffs of vapor and drove home his longing for the delicious Australian heat even more acutely. He supposed this was part of Robert’s revenge; to send him as far away from Cronulla Beach so that his favorite past time of surfing would seem like a distant dream in this desolate place.
"Mr Rowan?" Their liaison, which they found out upon closer observation was female, extended a gloved hand towards him.
"That’s right, I’m Eric and this is my camera man Jason Merrick," Eric introduced himself politely to what appeared to be a young woman in her twenties. It was difficult to discern anything else about her because only her face was exposed to the elements. Considering the temperature was somewhere in the minuses, it was hardly surprising and completely understandable. "We’re from Channel Nine News, Sydney."
"We’ve been expecting you," the young lady with a Scandinavian accent replied as she gave both Eric and Jason a nod of acknowledgement. "My name is Freya. Doctor Tebben asked me to take you down to the site when you arrived."
"Thank you," Eric flashed her his most charming smile, "you speak very good English."
The girl blushed beneath the Australian’s charming smile before replying, "I lived in England with my parents for many years, so I had to learn."
"Well you learnt well," Eric replied, wondered briefly what she looked like beneath all that thermal padding.
She threw him an equally alluring smile before turning towards the snow filled mouth of the glacier, "if you follow me please?"
Eric started to follow her when he saw the knowing look on Jason’s face.
"What?" Eric replied defensively.
The cameraman shook his head and grunted softly as he walked past Eric, "the prosecution rests."
***********
The excavation required them to travel into the mouth of the crater. Once past its edge, the inner walls revealed a steep descent that was almost a sheer drop of several hundred meters. Only experienced rock climbers could make the effort to lower themselves into the chasm without serious injury. Fortunately, John Malcolm’s generous grant had ensured his research team did not have to undertake such a dangerous journey in order to reach the surface or the depths of the crater. A suspension lift or funicular like those used to ferry skiers to prime ski tracks in the mountain had been built for the convenience of the archaeological team.
Eric had been less than impressed about climbing into the contraption, which by his reckoning was rather fragile looking. It was little more than a boxed steel frame connected to a hoist and operated by a two or three large but unimpressive looking buttons. That it rattled when the three climbed into it did not fill him with confidence as to its reliability. However, he was forced to bite his tongue because Freya convinced them both that the lift was perfectly safe. Since plunging to his death carrying out this assignment was infinitely less painful than telling his boss (whose wife he had been caught groping) that he was too terrified to get into a lift, Eric climbed in without further complaint. Fortunately, he derived some measure of satisfaction in seeing the same reluctance from Jason as he stepped into the contraption.
Once Freya sent the lift on its way, Eric had to confess that his trepidation eased somewhat since the lift continued its downward journey with little incident. In order to take his mind off the journey and a slight case of vertigo, Jason had begun filming their descent towards the excavation site while Eric took the opportunity to learn a little more about the work conducted. In truth, when he and Jason had been handed this assignment, he had not considered the possibility of there being a story here in the frozen plains of Iceland. However, as he noted the depths into which they were descending, he wondered if perhaps he might have been incorrect about this original assessment.
"I understand that you have been studying ice samples," Eric asked Freya; his eyes fixed on the sunlight above which was slowly shrinking as they were lowered deeper into the chasm. Save for a small light inside the mesh, they would be bathed in darkness once they moved out of the sun’s reach.
"It began as ice samples," Freya explained enthusiastically, "but now it artifacts."
"Artifacts?" Eric raised a brow. "Here?"
"Yes," Freya said with barely concealed smile of excitement, "most of us specialize in stratigraphy and geology so our primary interest is the study of ice layers through the ages. We were expected our discoveries to be limited to pollen, perhaps fossilized vegetable matter or trace elements in the ice left over from atmospheric changes in the weather, nothing as prolific as an actual artifact or a man made object that predates the known colonization date of Iceland."
"Really?" Jason exclaimed. "Its older than 800 AD?"
Eric looked at him with mild surprise.
"I read the brochures on the plane," Jason retorted before turning back to Freya.
"Your cameraman is correct," Freya nodded, "we are at a loss to explain it. We’ve been working on some particular pieces for the last month and we have never seen anything like it. Doctor Tebben is very excited, she is certain we are on the brink of an amazing find."
"I’ll look forward to see them," Eric returned. "It must be fortunate that your grant is so generous. Not many teams I’ve come across have portable lifts like this."
"Doctor Tebben says that we are very fortunate that Malcolm Industries has such confidence in the research," Freya replied. "But in all truth, I do not know much about the financial side of things. I am merely a research assistant and Doctor Tebben handles these matters personally."
"I understand," Eric answered neutrally although his interest was well and truly piqued in learning that a global conglomerate like Malcolm Industries was funding this entire expedition. It was not often that a company handed what seemed like a blank cheque to an archaeological team, not unless it expected to be very well compensated. The journalist in him was too cynical to believe that Malcolm Industries' reasons for funding this excavation was purely for the pursuit of scientific discovery.
Perhaps, there was a story here after all, just not the one his editor had expected.
***********
It did not take long for them to reach the bottom of the chasm and as Eric gazed upwards into the distant sky, he did not like the idea that should anything happen to the contraption that brought them here, there would be no way out. He did not point out this observation to Jason who had avoided looking up or down during the trip in the lift. Jason was a good kid who had been with him through some rather hairy situations during the past four years. He had become his Eric’s cameraman during the Chechnya War in 1999. It was not an easy assignment for one as green as Jason had been when they first arrived in the war torn country. However, Jason had managed to keep his head in the face of some rather horrific atrocities carried out by both Russian and rebel forces alike.
Quite frankly, Eric was uncertain if he would be able to go the distance because Jason was less than a year out of college and had spent most of his short career as an assistant cameraman on a minor magazine show. His promotion had come because Eric had needed a cameraman immediately and Jason had been willing to work in a place where Russian soldiers ripped apart female snipers with armored transports to find release. The risk factor had been high, despite the opportunity for career advancement. However, something about Jason had struck Eric during their initial meeting that gave the older man confidence that this was someone who would not only work alongside of him but also watch his back if necessary.
It was an accurate assessment since there were numerous occasion in the past when it was felt like Jason was the more levelheaded member of their duo.
Freya led them through a series of ice filled catacombs and despite the icy coldness biting into their skins, the temperature was not as severe as it had been on the surface. The depths protected them from the harsh blizzard winds but Iceland was a haven of geo-thermal activity and whilst the Temple Glacier had been deemed dormant, there were many fissure containing hot gasses that could accidentally rupture at any point. The archaeology team was equipped with seismic equipment that would raise the alarm in such an instance and it was partially for this reason that the funicular had been installed. It would allow for a hasty departure if such a danger became eminent.
"You smell something here?" Jason asked as they followed Freya through the passageway leading to the excavation site. Thanks torches along the wall they were not completely shrouded in darkness. Still the torches could provide little more than dim illumination. In the distance, they could hear voices echoing and guessed that these most likely belonged to the rest of the team.
"I do," Eric answered quietly, having no wish to be heard. "Since when do companies like Malcolm Industries fund archaeological digs trying to uncover pollen in ice samples? There’s more to this than meets the eyes. My nose sniffs it."
"You sure it’s not the girl?" Jason quipped, unable to let that remark pass without comment.
"Why are you still working for me?" Eric gave him a look.
"Cause I’m the only one who put up with your shit without bloody well killing you in your sleep?" Jason retorted.
"Oh yeah," Eric grinned and returned to the subject at hand. "Besides I want to know why we were called in to cover this story."
Jason opened his mouth to answer but Eric cut him off.
"Other than me groping our boss’ wife that is," Eric declared. "If this is big, why invite a couple of journos in here? Most companies like to sit on their secrets until their PR people release it in a nice, marketable package. This doesn’t sound like a company spin."
Jason did not refute Eric’s observations. The man may have been a hopeless womanizer but his reputation was one of Australia’s best investigative journalists was not exactly undeserved. Behind his charming and somewhat disarming manner, particularly around the ladies, Jason was aware of the sharp intellect that had the ability to strip away inconsistencies and inaccuracies to uncover the irrefutable truth. With Eric, it was not all about the story but also the truth. Part of the younger man’s reason for remaining Eric Rowan’s cameraman was the fact that Jason believed he was learning his craft from the best.
They reached the end of their journey when Eric and Jason saw Freya leading them to a large cavern that was well lit. The echoes of voices emanated from here and as they approached, began to discern that there was a group of people working diligently within it. He could hear their voices, their footsteps and the sound of their tools against the ice. He wondered how many of them there were and long their day lasted. It was still daylight and wondered if these people did not feel somewhat cloistered away from the world in this rather inhospitable place.
Arriving at the entrance of the cavern, Eric saw that there were at least seven members of the research team. Their sexes were difficult to determine because all of them were clad in cold weather gear that somewhat stripped the characteristics of gender for those who did not know them. The cavern was obviously their base camp since the concentration of equipment and personnel was fixed on this point. No doubt they used this place as their beachhead for the further exploration of the caves. All eyes turned to them as they arrived and worked stopped. Small hammers and tools were lowered and instruments were temporarily ignored for the purpose of viewing briefly the new arrivals in their midst.
Like all her colleagues, Doctor Petra Tebben was clad in thick, cold weather gear. She was very much the Nordic beauty for her face was pale and the thin line of her eyebrows were white gold. She looked at him with full blue eyes and her pink lips stretched into a smile when she extended her hand towards him.
"Mr Rowan," she said politely.
"You must be Doctor Tebben," Eric answered grasping her gloved hand in greeting. "This is my cameraman Jason Merrick."
"Please to meet you Mr Merrick," she nodded in his direction before turning her eyes back to Eric, "please call me Petra."
"My pleasure," he said politely.
For the next few minutes, Petra went through the motions of introducing her research staff, their fields and their backgrounds before dismissing Freya to take charge of them personally. She led them to a fold up table that apparently acted as their ration counter and provided them both with a steaming cup of coffee, a godsend in Eric’s opinion almost as good as beer. Almost.
"Freya tells me that you’ve made some astonishing discoveries down here," Eric commented.
"Yes," Petra nodded enthusiastically. "Its quite amazing actually. I came here because I found trace elements in the ice core samples I acquired during a previous excavation that do not have the same spectra as any element I’ve ever seen."
"I’m sorry," Eric looked at her blankly. "I’m afraid this is not my field of expertise, you’re going to have to give it to me in laymen’s terms."
"Of course," she replied, "I sometimes forget that there are people in this world who do not live in academia. Every element in the periodic table has its own spectra. Each one is unique and under analysis, instruments are meant to be able to identify each one of them. We have detected something that isn’t identifiable."
"You mean a new element?" Eric’s brow shot up in amazement.
"Or perhaps a very old one," she countered.
"Freya said you found artifacts," Jason added becoming more intrigued by the moment.
This was by no means the kind of story that could land him a Pulitzer Prize but it was an important discovery that was being made here and Eric began to become and more enthused by what he was hearing.
"Yes," Petra nodded, grateful that the men seemed genuinely interested in the work, beyond professional interest. "If you follow me, I’ll show you."
"That would be great," Eric replied and then glanced at Jason, "get some shots of all this would you?"
"Sure," Jason nodded obediently and hoisted his camera to his shoulder to begin filming the surrounding excavation site.
As he did so, some of the researchers waved playfully into the camera, pausing long enough to indulge themselves in a little bit of absurdity. Some spoke to the camera, uttering the Norwegian translation of ‘hello mum and dad’ and posing for dramatic effect, all of which was great footage as far as the young Kiwi was concerned. It would add a humanizing element to the story when the final cut was made.
When Jason finally reached Petra and Eric once more, the doctor was standing at another fold up table. She was reaching into a steel box after releasing the locks and handling the contents with great care. Jason immediately directed the camera at the object she removed from inside it. The artifact that had caused this excavation such great excitement appeared for all intensive purposes a helmet. It was extremely tarnished but the shape was unmistakable.
"It is a helmet isn’t it?" Eric asked, stating the obvious.
"We call it a helm. It is very unusual because is has a visor that covers the eyes. The technique was developed to some degree by the Romans and perfected by the middle ages but this design is unknown to us."
"It could be possible that the ancient races got here before the colonization by the Irish monks." Jason offered.
"This is what I get when I choose to watch the in-flight movie instead of catching up on my reading," Eric retorted, impressed by his younger friend’s acumen.
"We thought that," Petra replied, "but then we put it through potassium argon dating and what we found was very exciting. At first we thought the machine was malfunctioning. We went through three of them before we decided that it wasn’t. It has a potassium argon date of one hundred and fifty thousand years."
Eric was no archaeologist but even he was staggered by that piece of news. "How is that possible? I thought we were still in the Stone Age then."
"By all rights, this should not exist. Recorded history proves that we did not work metal of any kind until the Calcolithic Age where copper was used and that was between 6000 and 3000 BC. This was made during Pliocene and before the Paleolithic, the age of the hunter gatherers."
"So we’ve been wrong about the earliest civilizations?" Eric asked, envisioning how he was going to write this particular story.
"I do not believe so," Petra answered reaching for the helmet, "try and put it over your head."
Eric stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Please," she insisted with a knowing smile. "We have run all the tests on it we can. You won’t be affecting its integrity in anyway."
"Go on," Jason insisted, aiming the camera at Eric as he spoke.
Eric frowned and removed the hood of his parka. Cold air assaulted his ears and turned it a shade redder he was certain. He picked up the helmet and stared at it dubiously, before lowering it about his head.
"I always pictured you as this tall, blond Viking type," Jason sniggered from behind the camera.
"Bugger off," Eric retorted and settled the helmet over his head. He did not like the smell and he could not see properly out of it. It took a moment of attempted adjustments before he discerned why.
"Its too big," he complained. "How the hell is anyone supposed to see out of it?"
"Precisely," Petra said smugly, "it is too big for a human skull."
Eric took the thing off his head and stared at the woman, "are you saying this isn’t made for a human?"
"The cranium required to fit that comfortably is too large for a human, even if someone built it with added space. I even considered that it might be for another species, a Neanderthal perhaps. Their cranium capacity was larger than Cro-Magnon man but the size was too big even for that. You saw for yourself." Petra declared.
"You can prove this?" Eric stared at her, not wishing to break the story if it was going to be refuted by every archeologist in the scientific community. It was something of a leap to go from an oversize helmet, no matter how old it was, to the possibility that it may have been created by another evolved species of which they had no previous knowledge.
"I do not need to," Petra said with a smile, "we found something else."
*************
The Hydrostatic Snow Cat started to slow some distance from the campsite.
In size, it was considerably larger than the vehicle used by Eric Rowan and Jason Merrick to reach the excavation site. It moved silently, a sleek, black engine of efficiency as it glided across the snow. Against the pristine white plains of the glacier, it was difficult to ignore the vehicle, its shiny black exterior gleaming beneath the sunlight. It had been travelling this course for some time now, its agenda secret almost as secret as the occupants within. For once, there was no danger of being seen. In this wilderness, it was easy to believe that there was no one else in this world.
For he who was known as Morgul among his brothers, the isolation would prove most useful in what needed to be done.
He could sense the power emanating from their destination, it breathed beneath the earth with a strength that could almost rival their connection to their master if he were not lost. When they were far away, the power felt distant and vague. Now that they neared it, it had grown in strength, until its radiance was like the stars in the sky. The irony of that description was not lost upon Morgul, once called the Witch King of Angmar. To his brothers, this was yet another demeaning task set out by the master’s woman, the human agent who walked where they could not, whose aid they were forced to accept in order function in this strange mechanized world they had been brought into by the Master following his resurrection.
It had been somewhat discerning for the Nine to awaken in this strange land, so far removed the world they had known and found not even their lord was free of servitude. The Master served the Dark One, the Exile from whom all evil had come. Although they pledged their allegiance to the Exile, in truth they served without question, the one who had made them what they were. Now both were gone. The Exile or Malcolm as he was known in his most recent incarnation, was destroyed so utterly that it was likely that he no longer existed anywhere in Ea. The Master had suspected the Exile had been commended into the hands of Iluvutar himself and what the creator of all chose to do with his errant child was for his knowing only.
The Master was not destroyed as the Exile had been but he was well beyond their reach nonetheless. For six months after he was taken from them, they sought far and wide and found nothing. Bryan Miller, the human who had vaporized them in their Master’s domain and sent then back to the shadow world to restore themselves, had ensured that there would be no trail to follow. With great reluctance, Morgul was forced to accept that the enemy had taken the their Master through the barrier that separated the Undying lands from the world. It was the one place they could no go to retrieve him. The woman whose bidding they were forced to carry out, whose desire to find the Master rivaled theirs in intensity had sent them on this mission because they had exhausted all other avenues of hope.
Hope, it was an odd thing for a Nazgul to feel but it was the truth. Without the Master, their phantom souls felt less tangible than ever. It was like craving air but not being able to die of suffocation. The emptiness of his absence was gnawing at them, an itch against the skin that burrowed deep into the flesh and tormented them with each waking moment. The Master had created them well, had bound them to him in chains so strong that not even death could free them. The woman, Irina had told them that what awaited beneath the caverns of Iceland was important. As Morgul and his brothers neared the open mouth of the once dead volcano turned glacier, he could sense the power that made him understand what plan she had in mind.
For a human, he had to concede her genius and wondered if this was the reason why she was so favored by the Master.
The Nine had never understood the Master’s need for the woman but understanding was not what he required of them. The Nine was his sword and his will. What the woman was to him was a mystery and entirely the Master’s affair. The Nine’s present allegiance to her was out of mutual need. They needed her to retrieve the Master. It did not matter what came after. The time for debating that question could retreat in the shadow world of Morgul’s mind until after they had completed their task.
They did not feel the icy cold as they stepped out of the vehicle, dressed in their non-descript suit of black, identical from one another. A witness charting their movement across the snow would feel a cold chill shuddering through them that had little to do with the cold. They moved across the plain like shadows in the daylight, an abomination breathing life in dark Armani. The Nine did not feel comfortable moving about in the light of day but it was necessary to undertake the task quickly thanks to the added complication that Irina had explained to them when they were sent here.
"Do you feel it?" One of his brothers asked as the crater loomed and the sensation bombarded them like colors of the rainbow. They had heard the legends but experiencing it for the first time was unsettling. It made them anxious, a most curious sensation.
"Yes," Morgul nodded, grateful for the sunglasses that filtered the glaring white glare of the snow, "it burns."
***********
Unlike the helm that had been contained in a secure box and was rather easy to identify, the find upon which Petra was basing all her hopes appeared to be little more than a rock no larger than his palm with no discernible value. Its importance however was established soon enough once Eric and Jason were allowed to make a closer inspection. The young man with frizzy brown hair and thick glasses, working diligently to remove the layers of rock and sediment surrounding the artifact had uncovered a tiny section of it. . His meticulous and laborious effort had allowed them a glimpse of the artifact’s true appearance.
What lay beneath the fossilized dirt and stone was the facet of a jewel, possibly the largest ruby the world had ever seen. It gleamed in crimson light, reminding Eric absurdly of the red light pens used in presentations. The outpouring beam captured the eyes and one could not help but become lost in its power. For a brief moment, it felt as if its light was piercing the walls of his skill, infecting his brain with its promised beauty.
"Is that a ruby?" Eric looked away after a moment. He was forced to blink and turn away. Jason was still staring at it.
"It does have that effect on you doesn’t it?" Petra said in perfect empathy, remembering how she had been similarly transfixed when Gunther had first exposed that small portion of it.
"It is amazing," Eric replied. However, he sensed that Petra’s enthusiasm was not simply due to the discovery of a ruby, if that was what this artifact was. "So is it a ruby?" He repeated the question.
"I don’t believe so. The spectral analysis does not support it. It may seem like a ruby but it is not one," Petra answered sincerely, "however, the energy readings emanating from it is phenomenal. At first we thought it could be radioactive but the scans we’ve been able to make tell us that it is not an actinide. We examined it with an electron microscope and its composition resembles a crystal more than any mineral of the corundum family. However, crystals do not radiate energy and certainly not in the levels this is producing."
"Is it harmful?" Eric asked and noted that Jason had taken a step backward as soon as the word radioactive was mentioned. For the first time, Eric observed the instruments around the workbench and realized a great deal of analysis had preceded the restoration work.
"Not that we’ve been able to find," Petra answered. "Usually exposure to radiation produces overt physical reactions but none of the team has displayed any effects of the kind. Just to be safe, no one handles the artifact without proper safety gloves and we conduct regular medical examinations of anyone coming into contact with it on a prolonged basis.
"So what kind of energy is it?" Eric inquired, his eyes shifting back to the artifact, searching for that crimson gleam once more.
"We have yet to determine that," Petra answered, happy that the journalist was seeing the importance of the discovery, not just another curiosity of academia. "However, we are very excited at the possibilities. We could be on the verge of discovering a new source of power. It the artifact is this small and capable of producing such high energy levels, imagine what it could do in large quantities? We could be lighting cities with a relatively small amount of this substance."
"You’re assuming that there is more?" he turned to her, thinking that was something of a leap.
"I hope there is," she replied.
"I am rather surprised that Malcolm Industries would invite the media into this," Eric pointed out while Jason was busily filming the work conducted on the artifact. "If this is the case, they’re on the verge of a virtual fortune. I would think they would want to keep it quiet for a while."
Petra’s expression wavered just enough for Eric to catch it and suddenly, he had the strangest suspicion that perhaps things were not as he believed them to be. The woman swallowed thickly, aware that he had caught her lapse and appeared for a moment, deep in thought as she debated whether or not she should take him into her confidence. She took a step away from the table, her eyes meeting Eric’s long enough to ask him to join her before moving away from it entirely. The journalist followed her to a quiet corner, marveling inwardly at the treasure throve this story was evolving into. His boss had thought sending him here to cover what was essentially a piece that got buried at the tail end of the news would be punishment for his sins. Eric was going to have great pleasure telling Robert how wrong he was.
"You have something to tell me?" He looked at her in expectation.
"Yes," Petra nodded guiltily. "It was not Malcolm Industries that requested your presence here. I made the call to bring a news team here?"
"Why?" Eric asked quietly, wondering what else Petra had hidden from her colleagues.
"They don’t believe in the work and they want us to stop. I thought that if I contacted a news team that was somewhat off the beaten track, Malcolm Industries would not notice until the story was released and the find were revealed to the world. Then they would have no choice but to let the work continue and they cannot steal credit from me."
It made sense. He had wondered why an Australian new team had been invited to cover a story in Iceland. At the time, he had not thought past Robert’s motivation of vengeance but there was certain logic to what she was claiming. If she wished to reveal her find to world without interference from Malcolm Industries, then the best way to do so was to approach a news organization that was not local. The fact that he would be usurping some corporation’s big moment amused him to no end and if she had been the driving force behind the work conducted here, Eric saw no reason why she should not share in the celebrity that came with the tremendous discovery. Scientists lived on research grants and the acclaim for she had found here would ensure that she never had to worry about funding again.
Even though he was loathed to admit it, there was a chivalrous streak in Eric that enjoyed coming to the assistance of a damsel in distress. Sure he was an utter bastard after bedding them but this intention to come to a lady’s aid was one of the few redeeming features in his altogether abysmal relationship with women.
"A story is a story," Eric replied after a moment, flashing her a genuine smile of reassurance, "the source doesn’t really matter."
Petra’s smile revealed her pleasure at his statement but her joy was short lived as her gaze shifted to the entrance of the cavern.
It was as if they had stepped out of the shadows. There was no warning of their arrival. They appeared at the mouth of the cavern as if they were shadows emerging from the dark. Judging by the expression on Petra’s face, Eric gathered quickly that the appearance of these strange men in their dark suits, hats and sunglasses, completely oblivious to the freezing temperatures, were unexpected guests.
"Who are you?" Petra crossed the floor as all eyes raised to meet them.
Eric counted nine of them. They were tall men with pasty white face, clad in the same clothes as if it were a uniform. For a moment, Eric wondered if they were the infamous Men in Black, the chief antagonist in almost every UFO movie made. They seemed expressionless and his inability to see their eyes made Eric shudder with a chill he could not explain. The cold did not seem to effect them at all, particularly in their inappropriate clothing. Eric watched as they surveyed the scene in an almost obligatory fashion, paying little heed to Petra’s demand for an explanation.
"What’s going on?" Jason asked coming alongside Eric.
"I don’t know," Eric shook his head, "but I have a real bad feeling about this."
No sooner than the words had left his mouth he saw Petra reach the leader of the group.
"This is a private excavation. You have no right to be here," she declared hotly.
The stranger looked at her, cocking his head to the side slightly as if she were merely curiosity before looking over his shoulder at his companions. He did not speak. He simply nodded.
And when he was done nodding, he produced a gun and opened fire.
Eric could only watch in horror as the bullet slammed into Petra’s skull and killed her with one shot. She had no time to scream, no time to realize that she was the opening act to a much greater drama and her role in it was done. Blood splattered across the white snow as pandemonium erupted in the room in a chaotic blend of screams and gunshots. The scientists were scattering in all directions but their only means of escaped was blocked by their mysterious assailants. Eric watched as bullets tore through the bodies of those around him and it was but a split second before his brain was motivated into acting but for that brief lapse, he saw blood everywhere and bodies falling to the ground. He saw Freya screaming in terror, just before she was torn apart by the Uzi wielded effectively by the enemy.
"Come on!" Eric grabbed Jason who was staring in astonishment by the terrible turn of events.
The young man stumbled forward just as a riddle of bullets slammed past him, killing Gunther who had left the artifact and had been trying to make cover. More than half the research was dead by this point as Eric thought quickly for a way out of this nightmarish situation. Suddenly, he saw the leader of them lower his weapon and stare directly at Jason. The man seemed to stiffen for a moment before his body began to tremble. Jason seemed to know that he had become the focus because the younger man was staring back at the enemy, his green eyes locked with the man.
"Move!" Eric replied, pulling him by the arm after making the decision that the only way out was the way they came. Somehow, they were going to have to get past these men.
"PERIANNATH!" The man shouted in fury and surged towards Jason. He moved so quickly that when Eric blinked again, he was upon them.
"Get away from him!" Eric hissed and rushed the man who had set his sights on Jason, God only knew why.
The man lashed out. His fist caught Eric beneath the jaw and sent him halfway across the cavern from that powerful blow. Eric felt his face flare in pain, was certain that his jaw was broken and it was not, had come terribly close to it. His landing was broken painfully by a table. The Australian felt the collapsible table beneath him give way under his weight and crashed loudly as he landed on the hard ground. Eric’s head was swimming but the shattering sound of gunfire served to prompt his senses back to coherence with speed.
When Jason saw Eric flung across the room, his own rage had been provoked and he slammed his camera against the man, not caring about the film he was going to be destroying in the process. The man took the blow as if it were nothing and swatted him aside like he were a child. He staggered backwards, crushing the table where Gunther had worked, landing on the floor long enough to see the scientists body staring vacantly into nothingness, his blood a contrasting pool against the ice. However, it was not that which caught Jason’s eye but the artifact that was inches away from him, its gleam catching his attention once again. A thought struck Jason at that instant.
This was what they wanted.
Uncertain of what compelled him, he reached for it quickly, his hand enveloping the rock in a movement that appeared as if he were trying to stand up. Enclosing it in his gloved fist, Jason had barely enough time to store it in his pocket before feeling hands dragging him to his feet by the back of his parka. Whether or not the enemy had witnessed this was a question that would be answered soon enough.
"It has been a long time hobbit," the leader spoke and for the first time Jason realized that the face staring at him was a mask, not unlike that sported in several dozen Halloween film by the infamous Michael Myers. He stared into the dark sunglasses and saw his own reflection. For some strange reason, Jason knew that if he were to stare into the enemy’s eyes, he would see the same thing. Emptiness. The man’s voice was a hoarse whisper, like the sound of escaping gas hissing into the atmosphere, poisoning it with malevolence.
"What are you talking about?" Jason grunted as he felt hands digging into his throat. He was being lifted off the ground, his feet dangling beneath him. He struggled to break free but the grip upon him was merciless and powerful indeed. He could feel the air forced out of his throat, his lungs gasping for fresh oxygen.
"Is she here too?" The enemy demanded almost hysterically. "Is the shield bitch here too?"
"You’re crazy!" Jason shouted unable to comprehend what this man was trying to say. In desperation, Jason lashed out and tore the sunglasses from his attacker’s face.
What he saw beneath it drove all sense from his world.
They were not eyes. They were crimson points of light, very different indeed from what he had seen emanating from the artifact. That had the power to reach into the soul and unleash a world of possibility. All this could do was drive sense from his mind with nothing less than terror. What he saw into those fiery depths was branded on to his psyche, he doubted if he would ever be able to sleep again without seeing them in his nightmares.
"What are you?" Jason managed to say.
"You will die wondering, periannath," the enemy hissed.
"Or you will!" Eric shouted, appearing out of nowhere.
The older man was carrying the helm that Petra had shown them with such pride. Eric had grabbed it because he had needed a weapon and at the time, it was all that had he could find. Smashing it against the body of Jason’s attacker, the stranger shouted in pain and the section of helmet that had made contact with him sizzled with smoke. Jason tumbled to the ground, gasping for breath now that his airways were free again. He saw Eric slam the helmet against the man’s head, causing him to fall forward.
"Come on!" Eric shouted.
The others assailant were turning their attention to them and Eric knew that if did not get out now, they would die here with the rest of the research team.
Jason nodded and scrambled to his feet. Guns were being aimed at them as the bullets tore through the air in an effort to halt their progress. He felt projectiles whizzing past him and felt the rip at his shoulder when a bullet tore through the fabric of his parka, barely missing his flesh. Eric was leading the way, somehow managing to avoid the gunfire as they reached the mouth of the cavern. Jason could hear the enemy behind them, screaming at his comrades to give pursuit. The young cameraman prayed that Eric’s photographic memory could lead them back the way they came.
If not for the torches, it was likely that they would have been lost but Eric was nowhere confident that they may escape this place with their lives. He had seen some things in his life that made no sense. The brutality of man did not surprise him in the least. After places like Kosovo, Rwanda and Chechnya, Eric had seen enough blood spilled to last a lifetime but there was something about the slaughter they had just witnessed that frightened him to the core. The assassins had been stone killers the likes of which he had never seen and when one of them had singled out Jason for no apparent reason, Eric had been prompted to act out of sheer terror.
"Are they behind us?" He asked as he navigated the tunnels that brought him back to the lift.
A barrage of gunfire echoing down the hallway was answer enough.
"I would say that’s a yes," Jason retorted.
An unearthly screech traveled up the passageway as they hurried forward, their progress hindered because the ice was slippery and the breadcrumbs of torches were dim and provided little visibility. The tunnel amplified the sounds in the passageway and it chilled their blood when they heard the pursuing footsteps of the enemy. Eric’s stomach knotted further with apprehension, thinking that it would be a minor miracle if they escaped this stygian place with their lives. As it was, Eric was rather amazed that they were lying on the ice in that cavern, dead with the rest of the archaeological team. Perhaps it was due to seven years of being a field reporter in some of the worst places on earth that had given him the edge to make it this far. He hoped that edge was enough because for a hit like this, the assassins could leave no witnesses behind.
However, it appeared fortune was with them because they saw the passage empty into the bottom of the chasm. The faint light of the distant sky had provided some illumination and the lift, the contraption which he had been certain would kill them on the way here, had suddenly become their only means of survival. It was just as well because they could hear the enemy closing in on them. Their footsteps were looming and the intensity of bullets they were weaving about in the narrow passageway had increased.
"Get in!" Eric ordered Jason as they reached the lift. The younger man obeyed without question as Eric glanced anxiously at the passageway. He could see shadows flickering against the walls and knew that they would escape with barely a moment to spare. No sooner than Jason had stepped inside the mesh frame, Eric followed suit. He pulled the flimsy door shut as Jason fumbled for the buttons that would activate its upward descent. His fingers had just depressed the button when the assassins appeared.
The lift began moving upwards as they opened fire, with Eric and Jason dropping to the floor of the frame and causing it to swing precariously by the sudden motion. Bullets riddled the walls, filling the chasm with the thundering noise of gunfire. Some of the deadly projectiles struck the mesh and continued on its path. One of the bullets had actually nicked the side of Eric’s ear. The newsman hissed in pain, feeling warm blood coursing down his neck but grateful that the injury was not more severe. The enemy continued to shoot, forcing Jason and Eric to shift constantly in the small space to avoid being hit but fortunately, the lift continued its descent, oblivious to the predicament of its occupants.
"You’ve been shot!" Jason exclaimed as the increasing sunlight thanks to their approach to the surface, allowed him to see more clearly.
"Its nothing," Eric shrugged, touching his ear and flinching at the sting of pain. "Once we get up there, we’re going to have disable this thing so those bastards can’t come after us."
"What about survivors?" Jason asked. "Maybe some of the research team.."
"They’re all dead Jason," Eric met Jason’s eyes and spoke firmly, "those men were carrying out an order of execution that almost included us, I don’t think they would leave anyone alive down there to talk about it. In any case, we don’t have a choice. If we want to get out of here alive, we’re going to need time to put some distance between us and those bastards."
"They were after this," Jason declared, somewhat overwhelmed by everything that happened. He reached into his pocket and produced the artifact.
"You took it?" Eric’s brow shot up at the sight of the fractionally exposed jewel.
"I couldn’t let them have it," Jason replied, uncertain why he had taken it but knowing only that those men, no, not men, those things, could not be allowed to gain possession. "I just couldn’t."
"Well we’ll figure out why they were so eager to get their hands on it later," Eric declared, brushing aside the artifact for the moment because the business of getting back to civilization alive was their primary concern.
Jason nodded in agreement, his eyes staring into the darkness below them and wondering silently, what a periannath was.
Something odd was taking place in the seaside community of Lochinver.
Despite its quaint atmosphere, Lochinver was one of the largest coastal ports in Western Scotland and was more than accustomed to having its share of visitors during the year. Once upon a time, the town’s principle means of support had been its fishing industry but in recent times, this traditional vocation had been supplanted for a newer thought equally feckless trade. Tourism. Visitors with busy lives in bustling metropolises flocked to Lochinver during the summers, turning the quiet fishing town into a model of commercial opportunism.
It had all happened rather suddenly. A visitor had come, admired the sites and most likely returned home to whatever city, probably London and Manchester, spreading the word about the beauty of the Scottish coast. Certainly, Lochinver had a great deal to recommend it. Surrounded by the magnificent Canisp Mountains in the distance and the Suilven closer to home, Lochinver offered travelers panoramic views and a taste of that most elusive of things, timeless beauty. There was nothing slick or patented in the countryside, no attraction that was put there for the benefit of visitors. The seals, the puffins and the whales that made their yearly visits had done so for hundreds of years and would most likely continue to do so when Lochinver’s brush with the tourist trade had subsided.
The people of Lochinver had become accustomed to the strangers that suddenly flooded their community. The tourists arriving in their cars and buses moved through the quiet town like a whirlwind seeking desperately the elusive spark of holiday magic that would make the rest of the year somewhat tolerable. Some went away with a small understanding of the people and the history of town they had briefly invaded, most however, did not. The majority of tourists departing the community, did so with a snapshots of a preconceived ideal that successfully accomplished the rather artless task of reducing Lochinver to a packaged holiday haven dedicated to generating more tourist dollars.
Lochinver’s residents had come to accept this situation as a fact of life. Every year, they braced themselves for the influx of visitors that swelled the town’s coffers and reminded the locals how nice it would be when autumn finally rolled along again when things would return to normal. They looked forward to it like they forward to all things, with quiet expectation and profound gratitude when the moment was finally upon them.
This year however, something had changed.
At first, no one could discern what it was. It had happened so gradually that by the time they were aware of it, it had become so commonplace that it was difficult to remember when things had not been as they were now. As a coastal port, Lochinver was more than accustomed to the numerous vessels that sailed into its port throughout the year. Whether they were deep-sea trawlers on their way to find better fishing waters or wealthy mariners with custom fitted yachts, to the people of Lochinver their presence was as a fact of life. After all, Lochinver had began its life as a port and the arrival of ships was so ingrained into their identity, it would be considered unforgivable to question it.
However, in the last four months a new sort of traveler began making their appearance.
Small collections of men and women in boats that could only be described as antiques yet bearing such exquisite beauty that it could not be envisioned that they were anything but newly crafted for its perfection. Often tall with long hair and strange accents, they spoke English perfectly but one knew instinctively that it was not their native tongue. They did not lodge at Lochinver when they put to port, choosing instead to remain on their boats. However, when they did emerge, they were polite and eager to sample the local cuisine and converse to the townsfolk about any number of subjects.
They were undoubtedly foreign and it was generally believed that these visitors hailed from the colder, European countries for they seemed to have that air about them. Once arriving in the community, they lingered for no more than a day or two. Some would trade small gems and pearls for currency at the local jeweler, before departing the town on trains or buses to the parts unknown. It appeared none of these strangers drove. However, for the brief time they spent in Lochinver, they were gracious guests who took pleasure in the scenery, unlike the stomping tourists that invaded the town in the summer.
There were rumors that these visitors were also sighted coming into port further up the coast in Drumbeg and Scourie but no one could confirm this and in truth, no was particularly rushed to do discern their secret, whatever it was. The strangers did not cause mischief and anyone in their presence would get the distinct impression that they wished to maintain their privacy. Lochinver’s inhabitants who longed for the days when their community was just a quiet hideaway in the Scottish coasts could respected the sentiment and saw no reason to cause trouble particularly when the arrangement seemed to suit everyone.
There were occasions when the visitors were questioned about their origins, though these were mere inquiries not pointed interrogations. Across the sea, they would respond in answer, further promoting the belief that they had indeed originated from Iceland or one of the Nordic countries. They could not possibly be illegal immigrants because as often as they disappeared into the country from Lochinver, they also returned with similar frequency. After an interlude of many weeks, the visitors would promptly return to town, often bearing souvenirs from their travels before embarking upon the voyage home. In their grey ships, they would sail across into the mists and that was all one would hear from them until more of their countrymen returned.
When the latest of these visitors stepped on the wharf and made their way into town, their arrival hardly rated a glance. So commonplace were these odd visitors, that Lochinver’s residence no longer pondered their origins as they once had, aware only that once the visitors’ business was concluded, they would return the way they came. On this occasion, the new arrivals were two young men clad in dark heavy clothes that were well suited for the cooling weather. Both had long dark hair, braided in the appropriate places so that it would not become unruly, with serious expressions and handsome enough in their features to bring a smile to the faces of any woman that happened upon them.
Like those before them, they were polite and gracious to the people they encountered and it was not long before it was understood that they were brothers. Twins apparently, though not identical. The older of the two was the more conversant while the younger appeared more reserved if not a little shy. They remained in the town for a day, taking in the best of the town’s cuisine and, drinking all together too much Coke than was considered decent and making inquiries as to the next appearance of Xena, the Warrior Princess.
The next morning saw both men embarking upon their journey southwards, boarding a bus that would eventually take them to London. Like those who had come before them, they offered no word as to when they would return but the folk of Lochinver sensed they would see the brothers again. It was curious this understanding between Lochinver’s folk and these strangers. However, the trust had been engendered from the same feeling that had gripped them all since the first appearance of the majestic grey ships. No one spoke of it but they all felt it, felt it seeping into their bones, saturating their being with a presence so familiar and welcoming that it was almost enlightenment.
It was a feeling of starlight.
***********
Miranda Miller wished she were anywhere but here.
Sitting in her car, peering over the steering wheel at the busy street beyond the parking lot of the local shopping center she had been forced to visit to pick up Frank’s dry cleaning, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Her knuckles gripped the wheel tight until they were white from exertion as she struggled to control the shudder of anxiety that had become common place since returning to Europe. She had hoped returning here after nine years would spare her these lapses but it appeared she was not as settled with her demons as she liked to think. The atmosphere around her was so damn familiar to another experience, buried deep within memory and so secret that not even Frank knew about it, that it drove the air from her lungs and she had to take a minute to crush the uneasy emotions swelling inside her into nothingness.
She could not be this way in front of her husband or her children. They needed her too much for Miranda to disappoint them with such embarrassing weakness. In the old days, behavior like this would not be tolerated. She was required to keep rampant emotions under check and was sorely disappointed that after nine years, her skill sand training had degraded to such that she was sitting in her car, shuddering like just another frightened woman. It was with that thought that she shook off the sensation of discomfort and started the car. She had too much to do today to be wasting her time with this sentimental nonsense.
This was Oslo, not Belfast and she was a housewife, not an intelligence operative working for the British government.
Miranda slid the key into the ignition and started the car, bringing to life the engines and filling the vehicle with its healthy drone. She glanced at her watch and saw that she was almost due to pick up her sons. Putting the vehicle in gear, Miranda proceeded to drive out of the parking lot into the street that would take her to the city center of Blindern where the boys were presently at school. It never ceased to amaze her how easily her mood improved when she thought about her family and their needs. To Miranda Miller, there was nothing more important than the welfare of the family that comprised of her two sons, Sammie and Philip, and Frank, the husband she adored, though she knew he sometimes wondered why.
Frank had entered Miranda’s life at a point when she believed that there was nothing ahead of her but the grim world of her demons consuming her until she ate a bullet. His entry in her life had been such a surprise that to this day, Miranda still wondered how it was possible for one person to so completely enrich another’s life but sheer presence alone. It was difficult to perceive that Frank Miller was capable of affecting anyone on such a level when one first met him. Certainly, Miranda had not considered him impressive when Bryan first introduced them. However, by the end of the night of that first meeting, she had this odd sensation in the pit of her soul that this man she would spend the rest of her life with.
Unlike his brother Bryan whom Miranda had known first, Frank was somewhat reserved in social situations and found it difficult to command a room in the manner his brother found so easy. However, what he did have was a quiet strength about him, a sense of dependability made others turn to him in times of crisis and this was further supported by the steel in his nature that he concealed well from those around him. She knew perfectly well that if he needed to take command of a situation he would rise to the occasion perfectly and do so with such subtlety that one would not know they were being led until they was already a follower.
They had met six months after the most harrowing assignment of her career. Miranda had been an operative working for the Intelligence and Security Company, an organization whose primary goal was the surveillance and intelligence gathering of Irish Republican groups. She had been recruited out of university and one of the qualifying necessities for such risk work was training in the SAS. Officially, the SAS had no women on its combat teams. However, training them was another matter entirely. The SAS training regimen was more brutal than the US Navy Seals and their reputation for being the fighting elite was not underserved. Out of the dozen or more women that subjected themselves to this backbreaking instruction, Miranda was one of only three that had survived its duration.
Despite the chauvinism that infected the rest of the military establishment in terms of female officers, the atmosphere in the SAS and the Intelligence community was very different indeed. Women were expected to be just as qualified as men even if they were not combat operatives. By the time her training was completed, she was more than capable of walking into a war zone alongside any SAS soldier and hold her own in a fight. She knew how to kill and she knew how to avoid being killed. Above all else, the training had taught her the necessity of survival under any circumstances. She learnt to force away emotions, to bury them in deep dark place within herself so they would not interfere with the mission. Everything she was before the service had been whittled away in favor of this doctrine.
It was during her last assignment that Miranda had met Bryan. He was the contact to whom Miranda would deliver her report on the activities of the particular Irish Republican member she had been assigned to for the previous six months. It should have been the matter of simplex exchange, a routine task carried out a dozen times before without incident. Unfortunately, an informer had tipped off the IRA about the transaction and during their meeting, she and Bryan were abducted and driven to a secluded location for interrogation. It was difficult to say who bore the worst of it because they were both subjected to the same torture. However, it was not Bryan they raped.
Miranda did not think about it. Even during the ordeal, she had had shunted aside the experience because in her mind, it was not happening to her. It was happening to the persona she had cultivated to trick the enemy for the past year. In the service, the instructors had prepared them for rape as much as one could prepare anyone for such an ordeal. For female operatives, it was always a possibility and when it happened to Miranda, she bore it the best she could. She even used it to escape. They thought they had beaten her when the violated her body, they did not. Once it was done, she pushed away the memories and continued the business of surviving. Ironically it was during this episode she was able to escape and reach Bryan. Together, they walked out of there alive and left a lot of bodies in their wake.
Miranda was put on leave as soon as she returned. Although she wanted to go back to work immediately, the Firm’s doctor’s thought otherwise. Perhaps they knew better than she did that eventually what happened in Belfast would return to haunt her, despite her best efforts to suppress the memory. For her part, she had tried admirably to pretend that nothing had happened, unaware that she was self-destructing before the eyes of everyone who knew her. In her solitude, she began to learn that her work had taken the place of everything else in her life. It sent her spiraling into depression and with Miranda realized that one day she had looked at her gun and saw it as the answer problem.
She had sat there in her apartment, shell shocked that the thought had crossed her mind and came to the conclusion that this was what the doctors had feared. Miranda knew the reality of the situation. Agents of her level could not function with that kind of stain on their record. For what they were required to do, any small mental defect could very quickly escalate and compromise the lives of others. The Firm simply would not risk it. Sensing that they were about to put her on indefinite leave, a prelude to something more permanent, Miranda had slipped further into depression, convinced her career was over and having no idea how to function without it.
When Bryan Miller appeared at her doorstep, he was the last person she wanted to see. Bryan had been there, he had heard every tortured cry and knew perfectly what they had done to her even if he was not in the room while it was taking place. Part of her ability to cope with her ordeal was the fact that most people were reluctant to discuss it with her because they could not imagine what it was like. Bryan however could, he was there and unfortunately for sheer stubbornness, Bryan was more than a match for Miranda when he set his mind to things. When he knocked her door, he was determined to save her from herself and he had enough will to ensure that she accepted his help whether or not she wanted it.
Despite her protests, Bryan refused to take no for an answer when he invited her out for a drink that night. Fortunately, they had both seen far too much of each other’s darker side to ever turn to one another other in any romantic fashion. She considered him a friend even if he was a stubborn bastard who would not leave well enough alone. She had accepted mainly to appease him and joined Bryan when he went to meet his brother, who had just returned to London after traveling in Africa. She had not expected anything from the evening except, for maybe Bryan getting drunk and she having to ensure that he did not get into too much trouble. Like all Yorkshire men, he loved his pub brawls.
Miranda could not say it was love at first sight but something about Frank intrigued her. His quiet manner, so contrasting in comparison to Bryan’s, was almost charming. He was soft spoken, sympathetic and not at all intrusive. Like his brother, his blue eyes saw a great deal but he was even more subtle about it than Bryan, who was an operative trained for such observations. For Frank, it was not a vocational requirement but rather a fact of life. As an archaeologist, he had to see past the surface to find the truth hidden beneath some very fragmentary clues. The first time she met him, Miranda had the impression he saw her a riddle he had to solve. However, he did so with the delicacy of an archaeologist unearthing the find of a lifetime; with patience and care.
Whether or not Bryan was taking a turn playing matchmaker, Miranda would never know because Bryan was wickedly closed mouthed about it. The bastard. However, he did not seem to mind when Frank offered to take her home as if she were a teenager and he was her date. At her door, Frank did not even ask to be invited in. He stood at her doorway, telling Miranda he had a wonderful time, and asking her if he could call her the next day. It was to Miranda’s surprise that she found herself wanting to see him again and telling him that she would like that very much. After he had gone, Miranda had closed her door with the oddest sensation that her life had reached a watershed and was about to take a very unexpected turn.
Frank remained in London for two months and they saw each other virtually every other day. It was not easy to know him and in that, they had something in common. Their relationship was almost an exploration of each other souls and though she did not tell him what had happened to her in Belfast, she noted he did not probe deeply into the reasons for her departure from the service. Miranda doubted that Bryan would have told him the truth because it was a Firm matter and its operatives were not in the habit of discussing it even with family members even if they weren’t bound by the Official Secrets Act.
In any case, he was always content to let her set the pace for their relationship. He did not kiss her until he was certain she was comfortable with the intimacy and even so, he was more than willing to pull back when he sensed any anxiety on her part. Miranda believed he knew that she had been raped but he spared her the pain of having to tell him outright and for that it was so very easy to fall in love with him. When he told her two months later that he was a part of a research team bound for Tanzania, Miranda was dismayed by the idea that he would be gone. The very thought that she would not see him left this void inside her soul that astonished Miranda by its intensity. All her life, she had told herself that she would not be one of those women who would be satisfied with being just a wife. However, when she thought of Frank walking out of her life, she could think being nothing else to remain at his side.
When he left England, Miranda went with him.
She never regretted the decision and being a wife and subsequently a mother had its own rewards. The first time she looked into Sam’s face, she had wept from the sheer emotion of it. Suddenly the world had ceased to be this enormous place and had contracted into the tiny bundle in her arms for which there was no ugliness or brutality. In the midst of all the death she had seen, the blood she was capable of spilling, knowing this life that had come from her had restored Miranda’s faith in herself. Her life was not simply about surviving the next day, it was about creating life, about nurturing it and ensuring that her children would never know the things she had seen.
Sam had been all that for her and while she loved both her sons equally, Miranda had to confess that she had a deeper connection with her first born. He seemed the more grounded of her two children while Philip or Pip, as he was called by his parents, was a dreamer like his father. Sam was determined, headstrong and practical, qualities Frank had repeatedly told him he acquired from his mother, while Pip loved books and was a sweet natured child who only had to smile to melt his mother’s heart.
When the demons of Miranda Miller’s chose to make a reappearance, it was her love for her family that gave her the strength to crush them into submission again. The past was an unfortunate reminder of the person she had been, the person who had died forever when she became a wife and a mother.
It was a sacrifice Miranda was more than happy to make.
***********
“So we now know that despite Boule’s view on the Neanderthal being an inferior member of the hominid family, an opinion he formed because the fossils he examined belonged to an elderly person, was far from the truth. In fact, the Neanderthals were a highly successful species with a larger cranium capacity than modern humans. Their bones were thick indicating a powerful musculature and they lived within a tight knit social structure. They were able hunters with exceptional knowledge of the prey they hunted since many of their fossilized remains reveal evidence of injuries sustained by animal attack, most likely when they got too close. Imagine the injuries you would get hunting mammoth? In any case, this should gives us a healthy respect for them.”
Frank Miller swept his gaze across the classroom as he concluded his lecture and was gratified to see that most of his students were actually listening. A good portion were staring at him in anticipation, waiting for him to add further comments while others were scribbling furiously into their note pads, attempting to condense his lecture into a series of concise paragraphs. A few had started shifting in their seats, an indication that they were aware that the class was drawing to a close, their eyes stealing glances at the clock as they listened to him speak.
Frank could not blame them for wanting an escape from this room. He had been teaching at the University of Oslo for the past six months and even though the posting was pleasant enough, he missed the excitement of on site fieldwork. He wondered what they would think if they knew that he wanted to leave the room as much as they did
“I am preparing a test for early next week so I recommend that you study chapters five and six of the text. How you do in this test will greatly influence the selection process for those who are signing up for summer fieldwork with me. Now, if you would please leave my classroom, I need to recover after the ordeal of teaching all of you. Dismissed.”
His comment drew a ripple of laughter throughout the student body present and he flashed them a smile in case some of his less astute pupils were unaware he was joking. Frank could not deny that despite his ambivalence in accepting a teaching position, there was some satisfaction in knowing that he was shaping the minds of future archaeologists. Retreating behind his desk, he lowered himself into his seat as the exodus out of his classroom began. The shuffling of feet and closing of books filled the room for a few moments, as well as a chorus of good evening’s from the departing student body.
Frank had been dubious about his ability to teach a class in Oslo because of the language barrier but the Dean had been very convincing when he approached Frank about accepting the position. He was a leading paleoanthropologist in the field and there were more than enough English speaking students in the university to warrant his position. Normally Frank would have refused the offer as he had done so many in the past but it was one simple fact that had forced him to take the job to his regret; his family. As well as being an archaeologist, he was a husband and a father and his chosen profession had ensured his family would never quite have the normal life. When he thought about the situations he had subjected Miranda and the kids during in the past few years, Frank decided for once he was going to make a decision on his career that would benefit them all.
God knows he had put Miranda through enough ordeals during their nine-year marriage. He had been on a site in Tanzania when she was pregnant with Sammie and despite all her bravado when it came time to deliver, Frank knew she was scared. All the training in the service had not prepared her for the watershed of being a mother, the onset which was the actually birth of the child. It had not helped matters that they were fifty miles from the nearest hospital and Sammie had decided to arrive a fortnight earlier than he was expected. It was a pattern repeated over the years where Miranda was forced to make their family life somewhat tolerable, usually in the middle of a desert or some African Savannah where the fossil hunting was good. She never complained and the kids seemed to enjoy their nomadic lifestyle but of late Frank had started to think that perhaps they deserved better.
Miranda deserved to be in a place where there was running water and proper plumbing; she deserved to be near a supermarket or in easy reach of a doctor’s office. She needed to be able to go get a pedicure or whatever it was that women did in salons every now and again and she deserved to be taken to dinner once in awhile and be lavished with attention by her husband. When he had accepted the position in Olso, it was so that she would have all these things because she had never complained once in all their years of marriage that his work was depriving her and the kids of a normal life.
Frank’s love for his wife was more than he was able to describe. When she entered his life so unexpectedly, he had thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His golden haired goddess, he thought privately to himself. Bryan had warned him that she had been hurt and Frank knew his brother well enough to know that if Bryan was asking him to thread with caution, then there was a good reason for it. Frank knew his brother enough to know that Bryan’s perception of danger was probably ten bars above everyone else’s. There was little that could shade his brother’s cynical demeanor so Frank had paid attention when Bryan had told him that the woman they were meeting tonight needed to be handle with care.
Bryan had said nothing else about what had happened to Miranda when they had first met, however, it did not take any great feat of intelligence to discern what had happened to her. During their first encounter, he noted the way she would flinch if anyone brushed past her, or if a waiter stood too close at the table. He saw the cloud in those amazing green eyes and knew that despite being injured with Bryan in the same mission, whatever it was, more had been done to her. He could tell because these things were not lost upon Bryan and with each reaction, Frank saw the tiny slivers of guilt stealing into his brother’s eyes at being unable to stop any of it.
For Frank, even if what he suspected was the truth, it mattered little. He had fallen in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her and wanted nothing more than to take away that sadness in that lovely face. For the next two months, he worked hard to gain her trust, not an easy thing to do because the service had given her the same hard edge that he had become accustomed to seeing in his brother. Fortunately, that also meant that Frank had some idea of how to deal with it. When he asked her to marry him at the end of those two months, he dared not hope that she would accept but he could not leave England without at least trying. He did not think he could be quite as happy as he was the day she accepted his proposal.
They married less than a week later with Bryan grinning ear to ear like some deranged Cheshire cat, so much so that Frank was forced to remind his older brother that he knew many interesting women in academia that he would be happy to give his brother’s number. For a man who was probably a secret agent for all Frank knew, Bryan had a yellow streak a mile wide when it came to things like commitment. If Bryan ever found a woman who could capture his heart, Frank was certain to send her his sympathies and a condolence card.
His ruminations came to a halt when he heard footsteps. Lifting his head, Frank saw the approach of Professor Hans Skogen, the man who had offered him this job in the first place. Frank had met Hans at a symposium some years ago and though they had never worked together, had developed an instant rapport, which they maintained through letters and electronic correspondences over the years. Hans had been thrilled when Frank had accepted the position to play substitute for one of his staff members who was presently in an expedition to Iceland. An elderly man with snow white hair and a rather leathery face, Hans’ skin showed signs of someone who had spent his youth in the outdoors. From the papers he had written on Saharan pastrolists, Frank knew that someone who had done extensive fieldwork could only accumulate such data.
As he approached, Frank knew immediately something was wrong. Hans seemed older and his eyes filled the shadow of some dark news.
“Is something wrong Professor?” Frank asked immediately. No matter how long they had known each other, Frank could not help calling him by his title. It seemed so rude referring to such a brilliant mind in so forward a manner.
“I have just received news from Hveravellir,” Hans said somewhat dazed as he lowered himself into one of the vacant seats in the classroom, “there’s been some sort of accident. The entire excavation team was killed.”
“Killed?” Frank exclaimed horrified. He knew some of those researchers, Gunther Nilsen, Freya Seljelid to name a few. “How?”
“They think its cave in,” Hans replied, appearing as if he could not quite believe the news. It was understandable, the man whose job Frank was presently occupying was a good friend. “It is difficult to say because they cannot reach the bodies. All their vehicles were recovered over the excavation site. It was clear they never emerged from the caldera to the surface. It will take months if at all, before any effort can be made to reach the bodies.”
“Is it possible that they could still be alive?” Frank asked, becoming just as stunned by the news as Hans.
“The chasm is completely sealed. It appears as if the sides just gave way and collapsed upon itself. I don’t understand it, the Glacier was cleared of any instability and if the event of a seismic disturbance, they had more than enough equipment to predict an episode long before it took place.”
“What do the Icelandic authorities say?” Frank inquired, unable to process such a loss. Such accidents were not uncommon but to lose an entire team was still a terrible tragedy, no matter how one tried to rationalize it.
“They could tell me very little except that they would try and send teams to recover the bodies if possible, however, considering they were more than a mile deep, that makes any such effort problematic at best.”
“Yes,” Frank nodded in agreement. “Petra Tebben’s research indicated that they would have to go to some depths to recover their samples.”
“You know her research?” Hans met his gaze.
“Only from what she has published,” Frank offered. When he had first arrived here, he had taken an off hand interest in what had caused his predecessor, Richard Ahlgren, to join the Icelandic expedition. “It’s very speculative and there isn’t a great deal of evidence to support her theories. I am rather surprised that she found funding actually, considering how difficult it is to find grants for archeology these days.”
“The last I heard from Richard,” Hans added, “was that they had found something in the ice using magnetic prospecting.”
“I hear that’s providing some amazing finds,” Frank replied, knowing something of the method of prospecting that allowed objects deep in the dirt to be discovered thanks to the differing magnetic resonance in each sedimentary layer of earth. “Did he say what it was?”
“No,” Hans shook his head, “but it was meant to be justify their reason for being there.”
Hans lapsed into silence again and Frank could see that the news had impacted badly on the Professor. The old man had known many of the people on the excavation team and while Frank mourned them also, he did not have the same emotional connection as Hans. The Professor seemed frailer in the light of this terrible news and prompted Frank into leaving his desk and crossing the floor.
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight,” Frank offered. “You haven’t seen the boys in weeks and we can have dinner.”
“I thought you said your wife is not a good cook,” Hans reminded.
Hans had a point. For all the wonderful things that Miranda could do, cooking simply was not one of them.
“Good point. We’ll order out.”
************
Sam Miller wiped the blood from his nose.
He could hear Pip crying in the distance. He looked up from the ground that he had landed upon and saw Aksel staring at him with a triumphant sneer on his face. The boy was a year older than Sam was but he was bigger than most and unafraid to use his size to intimidate younger children. Boys like Aksel never did their bullying alone, a fact that Sam was beginning to learn as he saw Aksel’s friends, Trigve and Nils flanking him. He stared at them for a minute, his anger rising inside his young body in heated waves of fury, trying to decide how he was going to take all three of them without them beating him senseless.
And then turning their attention to Pip again.
Since their arrival at the St. Sunniva School, an expensive private school that fortunately for them had a strong English speaking body of teachers and students, Pip had become Aksel’s favorite target. It did not help that Pip was small for his age and that he did not go to the primary school like Sam but rather the non-compulsory kindergarten classes. After years of being tutored by either parent owing to the remote locations of his father’s archaeology digs, coming to a proper school with other children their age had been something the boys had looked forward to and for most part, it was everything they dreamed it would be.
Aksel was Sam’s first encounter with a bully and despite his lack of experience in dealing with such situations, had come to decide very quickly that he did not appreciate being intimidated and disliked it even more when it was his brother being subjected to it. Aksel had targeted his brother for no other reason than Pip was too small too stop him from stealing his lunch money, which was not to say much but Sam sensed it was not the money, it was the power. His mother had often said that it was not the hurting that bad people like to indulge in but rather the sense of power it gave them over others. Sam was not about to put up with that in any shape of form.
“What are you doing English boy,” Aksel asked gloating. “Cry like your baby brother?”
Sam raised his eyes to the three faces before him, feeling a surge of intense outrage at their triumphant bragging. It hurt more the pain pulsing from his nose, more than cheek scraped across the concrete. Sam stood up and glanced at Pip who was shaking his head silently, perfectly aware that the gleam in his eyes was not defeat.
“Don’t,” Pip said wordlessly but Sam understood him well enough.
Their laughter still ringing in his ears, Sam stood up in the center of the playground, surrounded by other children who were trying to decide what he would do but registered nothing but Aksel. His companions did not matter. They lacked the backbone to bully anyone on their own. No, it was Aksel that influenced their behavior, Aksel that needed dealing with. Without giving them any warning, Sam ran forward and grabbed the leader in a full body tackle that toppled them both to the concrete. The two children slammed hard into the floor, Aksel taking the worst of it because he was beneath Sam. The older boy’s head hit the hard surface with a whack and uttered a cry of pain as he did so.
In seconds, Sam was certain that Aksel’s friends would leap into the fray and shift the odds in the favor of the bully once more, but before that happened, he intended to make those few seconds count. Pummeling the older boy with his fists, Sam was relentless and determined. He struck Aksel a few times that had been too dazed to fight back and was still kicking when Trigve and Nil dragged him away.
“You’re going to pay for that!” Aksel grunted a minute later, his eye sporting a dark bruise and his lip was split and bleeding.
“Yeah come on and fight me now!” Sam shouted. “You’re too chicken to fight fair!”
The words were perfectly understood by the children watching and Sam saw Aksel stiffening with rage, not because of Sam’s words but because they might believe it was true. Sam could tell that Aksel was rather stunned by the ferocity of Sam’s efforts to defend his brother and if this were not so public an arena, might have withdrawn but even if he was nine, he was suffering that most debilitating of afflictions, masculine pride.
He took a step forward and Sam was certain he was going to lose teeth when suddenly, he saw Pip’s face brighten with relief. His brother was in tears but had stopped crying suddenly. The children watching this after school fight had started to dissipate and even the three schoolyard bullies who had been the cause of all this had reason to withdraw.
“What the bloody hell is going on here!”
Sam felt his breath escape him in relief. It was mum.
Aksel was really in trouble now.
“Mum!” Sam saw his mother striding across the playground. Her eyes scanned the situation and he knew by the look in her eyes, that she was perfectly aware of what was going on. The other children had started to scatter, not wishing to become embroiled in this affair now that there were parents were being involved. Even Trigve and Nils had decided that it was time to leave and had released him quickly. Aksel had started to run but before he could escape Miranda had reached out and caught him by the arm with surprising speed.
“Let me go!”
“Not until we have a few words young man,” Miranda said staring at him hard.
She saw her Sam with his nose bleeding, his upper lips smeared in crimson as was the scrape that ran from his temple to his jaw line. It took all her control to remain calm and even more so to remember that she was dealing with another child. Pip had dried his eyes and was looking intensely pleased at her arrival and she had no heart to be stern with the child, giving him a little wink that produced that heart melting smile across his face.
“Mum its alright,” Sam said wiping his nose again when a fresh rivulet of blood ran down his nose again. “I’m okay.”
“Wait in the car,” she said glancing over her shoulder at the road where their four wheel drive was parked.
“Sam didn’t do anything...” Pip started to say but Miranda cut him off firmly but not harshly.
“Philip, Samuel...WAIT FOR ME IN THE CAR.”
The boys knew her tone well. That was the tone of voice she used when she wanted to argument and they had seen her employ it enough times that even their father was reluctant to object when she made a demand with that particular intensity behind it.
“Alright, but he’s just a bully mum.” Sam nodded feeling a little sorry for Aksel even if he was a men kid. “
“You rotten squealer!” Aksel shouted viciously as the two boys walked away to the car.
Miranda waited until her sons had crossed the playground and disappeared behind the trees into the car when she turned back to their tormentor. The young man in her grip looked unrepentant. He probably thought she was going to give him a stern talking to and warn him that she would call his parents if he did not behave. Miranda had dealt with his kind all her life, in and out of the service. She was exceedingly proud at Sam for standing his ground. She knew her son well. He did not accept intimidation well. Frank had once told her that Sam must have inherited that trait from her but it was not so, if Sam had acquired that from anywhere, it was from Bryan.
“What’s so your name?” Miranda asked the child, this nine year old who was probably going to grow up to be just as nasty in his adult years as he was in childhood. Boys like this never learned the important lessons until later in life, when they were standing in the wreckage of their lives that they had no control in shaping because their parents had never taught them the most important thing in life. There were always bigger bullies.
“Aksel Aarset,” he replied scornfully, “you going to call my father now and tell him what a wimp Sam is?”
Miranda smiled and decided this boy was going to be quite the charmer until the first time someone took offense and broke every bone in that smart mouth of his. If he were older, she would have obliged him. However, she was a mother and she had deal with things differently.
“No,” Miranda shook her head. “I have some idea how your father will react. Chances are fairly good that you are the way you are because of him. He’s probably a bully too so I shall probably be wasting my time. However, I will not have you terrorizing my children, either of them.”
“What are you going to? Come to school and hold their hand?”
“No,” she twisted his arm so sharply that he could not ignore the pain even if Miranda was careful not to leave marks. “I will break every damn bone in your hand.”
“I will tell my father...” the boy exclaimed his face turning into a grimace of pain as he saw the menacing gleam in her eye.
“Fine,” Miranda said coldly, “and then I’ll break the other one. Don’t assume anything when it comes to me boy. You’ll be surprised how much I can get away with if I tell the police that you were terrorizing my children. I’m a mother after all. I can’t be responsible for that I do when my children are being hurt. I shall take my Sam to the doctor and have his nose fixed so anyone who comes looking for me will know you did that to him. Do we understand each other?” She twisted just enough so that he was squirming again.
Tears were running down the boy’s face, not from the pain but from the threat in her eyes. He may have been nine but he was perceptive enough to recognize that the threat was real. She was not wrong, he had bullied many children in school. His father was proud of him for being so strong but the headmaster was in possession of a thick file of complaints, complaints that usually required another hefty donation from his family to make disappear. Most of the other parents were content to remove their children from the school but Sam’s mother did not appear to be one of these. He did not doubt that she would hurt him and he did not doubt that if he told his father, it would only end up worse for him.
“Okay!” The boy replied, feeling his lip quiver as the tears began to come, humiliating stream of moisture running down his flush cheeks. “I won’t come near them again.”
“Good,” she smiled, releasing him. He staggered back, clutching his arm. “I’m glad we had this little,” she said straightening up and looking down at him, her stare hard and naked with dislike. “Do yourself a favor and stop being a bully. One day, you will find someone who is even less forgiving than I am.”
*************
“Let me look,” Miranda ordered when she returned to the car and found Sam holding his nose with a blood soaked tissue.
“It hurts,” Sam whined, forgetting all about his earlier bravado and enjoying his mother’s attention. “I know it’s broken. It feel like it’s broken. My nose will look like the guy from Rush Hour.”
Miranda rolled her eyes, “no I don’t think you’re quite ready to match Owen Wilson the broken nose contest yet,” she smiled as she examined him in the backseat of their Cherokee Jeep.
“He was so brave mum,” Pip said excitedly, “Sam was like a footy player, he just ran into Aksel and put him on the ground! It was so cool!”
“I don’t think your father is going to like you using your fists to solve your problems Sam,” Miranda replied, wondering if she was not a touch hypocritical after her exchange with the young man in question.
“He was beating on Pip,” Sam grumbled, “I won’t let anyone hurt my brother.”
Miranda stifled a smile, feeling her inside warms with love for this little scraper that was her son. “You were very brave,” she replied planting a little kiss on his forehead, “now let’s go home and fix up that nose. We’ll think of something to tell your father.”
***********
For the twin sons of Elrond Peredhill, Elladan and Elrohir felt as if they were on a journey of discovery.
During their first visit to Arda a hundred thousand years after leaving its shores, there had been little time to see anything. They had come to Arda to find Olorin on that occasion and the world they had found was so alien, that it had been effort enough to move through it without drawing suspicion let alone find their lost friend. If it were not for the chance encounter with Eve McCaughley, the human reincarnation of their sister, Arwen Undomiel, it was likely that they would have never succeeded in bringing Olorin home or bringing to the attention of the Valar, the return of Morgoth to Arda.
However with Manwe’s momentous announcement following the wedding of Eve to Aaron, the reincarnation of Aragorn Elessar, they were not the only elves to have departed Valinor in the past six months. Though the numbers were still small, a handful of elves had been crossing the sea in their grey ships to see the changes that had taken about in Arda and experienced the wonders of the modern world for themselves. The Teleri were gleefully building ships again, trying to fashion their constructs with some of the techniques that Aaron had brought with him when the human returned to Valinor the second time. Apparently, aside from their mission to save the world from Sauron, the healer had been given an extensive list of reading material to bring home and though Cirdan was still dubious about ships being made wholly from steel, the master shipbuilder was open to learning something about modern shipbuilding.
For Elladan and Elrohir who were disappointed that they were not allowed to cross the sea when Aaron had gone to face Sauron's reincarnation, this journey was one of discovery. The twins had always shared a love of exploration and there was no greater unknown at the moment than the modern world. Their last visit had provided them with little opportunity to really see it and on this journey, they were fully intending to rectify situation. Arriving in Eriador or Great Britain as it was now called, they were able to cross its length in little more than a day, covering distances that only Gwaihir would have been capable back in the day. The humans of Valinor had been very specific in their lessons to the elves making the trip over the Western Sea. Aside from the instruction in language and customs, was the caution to remain unnoticed above all else.
Elladan and Elrohir had learnt how to speak and read English with far more ease than the humans believed possible. However since it was the elves that had taught all the other races to speak, they had a far greater aptitude for learning languages quickly than most. The race of men had developed numerous languages, numbering in the hundreds but fortunately English was the most commonly used. When Aaron and Eve had first arrived at Valinor, the elves had aspired to learn the language for the simple reason that it was new. After a hundred thousand years of isolation, it had surprised many of them how intensely they felt the craving for knowledge. The twins suspected that this was partially the reason for the Valar's decision to allow the elves to go forth into the world again.
The mind, whether it belonged to an elf or a human, needed to learn in order to grow.
Their command of English was more than passable according to Aaron and when they had emerged into the township of Lochinver, they found that its inhabitants had grown somewhat accustomed to the strange visitors coming from mists of the sea into their presence if but briefly. The elves sensed that perhaps deep in the core of them, the humans recognized the elves from their distant past. Even if their minds no longer retained the memory, their heart could feel their connection of long past. In any case, elves knew enchantments that ensured that the humans of Lochinver had no reason to question their comings and goings.
After spending the customary day in Lochinver where they became accustomed to being in a modern community of Arda once more, the twins traded their pearls and sometimes their gold for the means to travel. The gold had been wisely melted down prior to their arrival, into simple bangles to avoid questions about its design and its origins and exchanged for the odd notes of paper that passed for currency in this realm. Judging by the thick wad of money that was given to them and the jeweler's advice to find something called a bank, the twins surmised that their trade had been beneficial to both parties. Once they were fiscally secure, they acquired passage out of the town on the large vehicles known as buses and made their way to the great city of London.
The journey through England did not seem as overwhelming to the twins as their introduction to America. The land known as the Angel Isle held certain elements of familiarity for the duo. There were moments when they sighted familiar in the landscape that inspired a distant memory of Eriador but these fleeting even if there was no mistaking that this realm was once home to the hobbits of the Shire. Although being confined in the small space of the bus for almost an entire day had been quite unpleasant, the elves could not deny that they made good progress. Also, the breaks offered them a further glimpse of the country while allowing them to remain on course to their destination.
Upon arriving in London, a city which seemed very much like Minas Tirith in that it possessed the same frantic pace and a desire to maintain its traditional past, Elladan and Elrohir sought out the man whom Bryan Miller had instructed them to find as soon as they arrived. It had been easy enough, thanks to Eve's advice, to navigate the seemingly maze like city. It appeared that people were not so suspicious if they claimed to be tourists in need of direction and the twins were sensible enough to stay away from any officials even before their human companions offered the warning. Eve in particular, had told them to make their queries to any young woman her age though she did not explain why.
The first time Elladan asked for directions and was offered that and an invitation 'to go for a drink' more or explained their reincarnated sister's reasoning and her enigmatic smirk.
Nevertheless despite several such offers that grew even more amorous when the young women learnt that they were twins, Elladan and Elrohir managed to reach their quarry, with their virtue intact. While it would have been intriguing to pursue a brief dalliance, elves were painfully aware that any sort of relationship between themselves and humans would inevitably end badly. Also, they could ill afford to allow anyone they did not trust explicitly to pay too close attention to them or their origins.
Despite their assurances that they could remain anonymous from the officials that governed Arda, Bryan had not been so certain that they would escape scrutiny, even in a minor instance. The man he had sent them to find was apparently a master craftsman and an associate from his previous occupation. As Bryan told it, Watkins owed him a favor and in aiding Elladan and Elrohir, he would be repaying that debt. Bryan believed they could trust him and Elrohir who had been the human's constant companion since his arrival in Valinor, knew that trust was not a word the man bandied about freely. When they finally approached Watkins and delivered Bryan's request, the man had looked at them oddly as if trying to discern what they were but did not make any comment in regards to what was being asked of him.
Watkins was an elderly man who smelled like musty paper and damp wood. He was pleasant enough, conversing about his retirement plans and regaling them with tales of Bryan's previous exploits in the service of England's queen. They had felt some apprehension when he recorded their faces on an image maker but Watkins assured them that it was for a good cause. He disappeared after that into his workroom and did not emerge again for many hours, leaving the twins to wonder what it was Bryan had instructed him to do.
When Watkins returned, their questions were answered and once again, the twins had to marvel at Bryan's foresight. In the old man's possession appeared to be a complete set of documents, called passports, with their image affixed upon them. The documents would allow them to travel to the shores beyond Britain without raising suspicion and needing a means of covert entry. Watkins informed them that they would be traveling under the names of Alan and Eli Peredhil from the land of Finland. With their accent and their appearance, it was a plausible deception.
As Elladan and Elrohir were planning to leave England, this seemed like a necessary precaution.
Once they had concluded their business with Watkins and gained adequate instructions as to finding suitable lodgings, the twins arrived at rather large lodging house in Hoxton, called a Holiday Inn. It was a nice enough place, in no way comparable to Valinor, but it did have a television set and when the elves were not wandering the city taking in the sights, they were searching its many channels for an appearance by Xena the Warrior Princess, to which kingdom they hoped to learn during this trip.
After a week in London where they had visited its great towers and temples, the twins sailed the narrow expanse of sea that separated Britain from the continent of Europe. In Amsterdam, they acquired passage to the land that had been known in their time as Frodowraith but was now called Norway, on an errand for Bryan.
They were happy to carry out the mission of finding Frank Miller and ensuring that the Nine still knew nothing of his existence.
Jason stared at the artifact inside their hotel room in Fludir.
It was not the first time Jason had found himself doing this since the artifact had come into his possession, or precisely since he had liberated it from the excavation site amidst the violence that had almost cost their lives. Despite being able to see only a small portion of the object that remained largely encased in its fossilized shell, Jason thought it was still beautiful. He found himself becoming lost in the facets of crimson and knew subconsciously that even though it appeared to be a ruby; it had not always been so. Years of entombment had dulled its beauty, turned it into something forgotten and dark. This potent belief remained in Jason’s mind and would not be denied no matter what his eyes were telling him.
Those men, no, those things, had wanted this.
They had killed for it. Eric’s interest in the object went no further than why it was important enough to cost the lives of Petra Tebben and her colleagues. However, there was something gnawing away in the pit of Jason’s stomach that told him that the artifact was far more important than they could possibly imagine. Petra Tebben was right about this being the find of a lifetime but for reasons Jason could not explain, he knew it was not in the way she envisioned.
He had not told Eric about what he had seen, how his struggles to free himself from one of the team’s killers had yielded the discovery of those terrible red eyes and led him to the realization that what had almost taken his life, was not human. He could not bring himself to tell Eric because the journalist would tell him he was insane. Jason was not that far from thinking it himself. So much of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours had seemed incredible even for one whom had traveled the world and seen some rather astonishing things in his short lifetime. When they had emerged from the mouth of the dormant volcano, Eric and Jason had done what they could to disable the lift device that had brought them to the surface. They hoped that it would provide the time needed to escape their pursuers. Eric had even gone so far as to sabotage the starter motor in the hydrostatic snow cat that the assailants had used reach the Temple Glacier.
When they reached the station where they had hired their own snow cat, Eric and Jason had discovered the place to be deserted. Although they could find no evidence of bodies, Eric was certain that the assassins of the archaeology team had been here because there was every sign that the station’s inhabitants had made a hasty departure. Whether or not that was that departure included the mortal plane was a question they had little time to ponder since Eric was determined to make it back to civilization and alert the authorities of what had transpired. However, what Eric feared most Jason suspected, even if the older man had not voiced the concern, was the coincidental timing of the assassins’ arrival.
Had they been sent been to steal the artifact from its discoverers or silence the team and the journalists who were about to reveal its existence to the world?
If it was the former and the assassins believed that they were members of the archaeological team who had merely escaped their clutches, then it was possible for Eric and Jason to use the precious time this misconception had afforded them to find a way out of their predicament. However if it were latter, which Eric believed to be the case since the assassins arrived soon after he and Jason, then the enemy knew exactly who they were and would be hunting for them even now.
It was with this concern in mind that Eric had chosen their a small guesthouse fifty miles outside of Fludir, a community south of the Koljur Pass that led to the Temple Glacier and central Iceland as their hiding place. The guesthouse sat in the heart of geothermal activity in the region and was often used by travellers visiting the sights of Gullfoss, Geysir, Hjálparfoss, Háifoss and Þjórsárdalur. They had arrived here in the small hours of the night after ensuring that they had successfully evaded their pursuers. However, Eric was certain that their efforts were at best a temporary measure.
While Eric was contacting the authorities to report what had happened at the Glacier, Jason had opted to remain in the guesthouse in order to glean what they could about the excavation and the scientists who had been so ruthlessly eliminated on the eve of their great discovery. However in truth, he had a more personal research in mind even if it was indirectly related to their present dilemma. Sitting in front of his laptop, Jason began pounding the compact keyboard, typing in the word that had remained with him since the creature with the red eyes had first uttered it.
Periannath.
His search quickly revealed that there was no such word in existence, in any language. He remembered the other thing the man had called him and keyed in the term ‘hobbit’, hoping that this would yield more information than the first request. He supposed he should not have been surprised at having found nothing. That creature’s hatred had sounded so personal when he called Jason that name. Somehow, the key to understanding this entire situation rested with why the enemy believed Jason was familiar to him. The young man could sense the seething rage in the creature’s voice and then there was the demand to reveal what he knew about the so-called shield bitch.
Was she here too?
Who was the ‘she’ he was referring to? Why did he seem to think Jason would know?
After a frustrating search that availed him nothing, Jason decided to dedicate his time to learning what he could about the archaeological team and in particular, their backgrounds. It was their expertise that had unearthed the artifact and now that they were gone, he and Jason would have to find someone else who might be able to provide the answers they needed. Unfortunately, the file containing their assignment did not include the names of the researchers leading Jason to suppose that if Malcolm Industries were funding the research, then it was likely that they would know who was on their payroll. Using his cell phone, which typically had been out of service at the Glacier when it was most needed, Jason telephoned the company’s office in Reykjavik from the telephone number he had found on their corporate website.
Surprisingly enough, Malcolm Industries had been most accommodating. While it had required Jason to endure a ten-minute ordeal of being placed on hold before being transferred to the appropriate department and then finally to someone who could actually answer his request, they were nevertheless, helpful. They company confirmed that the grant to Petra Tebben had been terminated almost a year ago but fortunately they were still in possession of the information he required. Information, they would be more than happy to email to him if he so desired. The list of researchers on the excavation team arrived a few minutes later by email and allowed Jason to see that most of Petra Tebben’s staff had originated from the University of Oslo. Tebben herself had been a student of Professor Hans Skogen, the Head of the Paleoanthropology Department.
Perhaps Professor Skogen may have some ideas as to what the artifact was.
Jason was in the process of ruminating on this point when Eric returned to their room, his expression grim.
"I don’t bloody believe!" Eric snapped in anger and frustration as soon as the door closed behind him.
"What?" Jason, understandably concerned, asked rising from his seat.
"I called the Icelandic authorities," Eric replied taking a deep breath to calm himself, still unable to wrap his mind around what he had been told. It was so unbelievable and stomach turning that Eric could barely contain his disgust and his exasperation. "I told them what happened, that an execution squad had just murdered the entire archaeology team in the Glacier."
"They didn’t believe you?" Jason blurted out before he could finish.
"It wasn’t that they didn’t believe me, there’s just no way to collaborate my story since the entire glacier collapsed in on itself shortly after we left. Everything is buried under tons of snow. Since the archeology team is almost a mile deep beneath the chasm, there’s no way they’re going to be able to learn the truth until someone burrows through all that snow to reach the bodies."
"How they hell could they have managed that?" Jason exclaimed, completely sympathetic to Eric’s shock.
"They blew up the damn glacier!" Eric exclaimed, "they blew it up so no one would know."
"Except us," Jason replied, realizing why Eric was so concerned. "Except us," Eric nodded with a hard edge to his voice that emphasized the urgency of their predicament. "We have to get out of here. We have to get out of the country and head back to Oz. Once we’re there, we’ll sort it out on familiar territory."
"Eric, I’ve been thinking," Jason said quickly, not entirely agreeing if this was the best course. "Maybe we should find out about where this artifact comes from. I think we both know agree, its what those guys were after."
"Jason, you don’t understand, if they were willing to blow up a national treasure to cover their tracks that means they’re hunting us, even now. We’re the only ones who know what happened. We have to get to this print. I’d call in the story but we have no corroborating proof. Exposing these people is the only thing that will keep us alive."
"It’s just that most of the archaeological team, even Petra Tebben comes from Norway. Most of them worked for a Professor Skogen in the University of Oslo. If we take the artifact to him we might be able to work out what it is?""How would you know that?" Eric stared at him sharply, an uneasy feeling rising up inside of him like bile. "That information wasn’t in the file."
"I rang up Malcolm Industries office in Reykjavik," the younger man explained.
"You called them? Using your mobile?" The Australian almost shouted.
"Yeah," Jason nodded, wondering why the alarm.
"Jesus Chris Jason!" Eric shouted in astonishment and shock, "didn’t I teach you better than that? Malcolm Industries are most likely the bastards who sent those killers after the team!"
Jason stared at Eric dumbfounded, too stunned to respond. However, even as he stared at Eric, his mind was already processing the pieces now that Eric had brought to light the allegation. Of course, it made perfect sense and upon reaching that conclusion, it did not take long to realize the monumental mistake he had made.
"Oh hell," Jason muttered. "I’m sorry, I didn’t think…"
"We’ll bloody well talk about this later," Eric bit back; aware that he was harsh but felt he was justified under the circumstances. "Right now we need to pack up our gear and get the hell out of here before anyone finds us."
Still too horrified by the implications of what he had wrought upon then, Jason was more or less muted with silence as he hurried to pack their things away for a hasty departure. It had never occurred to him that those killers might have been sent by Malcolm Industries because of what he had seen of their true nature. The idea that a corporation might be employing supernatural creatures to do their bidding was so absurd that Jason had hardly given it thought. However, Eric was not aware of what he knew and was able to think in more realistic terms. He was right. If indeed they were the impetus for the arrival of the assassins to dispatch the excavation team, then Malcolm Industries must have learnt that Petra Tebben had gone behind their backs to the media and moved to act accordingly.
They probably traced the call when he was on hold.
Jason could not believe his stupidity but Eric was right, they had no time to deal with it at this time. He had a feeling that Eric would rake him over the coals if they got out of here in one piece and at the moment, Jason was inclined to think that Eric was completely justified in doing so.
"Are the authorities even going to investigate?" Jason asked as he saw Eric hastily picking up his clothes and shoving them into a travel bag.
"They’ll make some inquiries but the fact of the matter is, we can’t even offer a description of the men that murdered those people so they don’t have much to go on."
"What about the connection to Malcolm Industries?" he asked somewhat meekly.
Eric straightened up and met his gaze, "we don’t have proof of that either but it makes sense. No one else stood to gain by killing the team and it’s too much of a coincidence that they arrived just after we did. Chances are they had some idea of what Tebben stumbled upon. She thought it was a new source of power. Can you imagine the dollar value attached to that? They probably thought killing her was the only way to protect the sanctity of their product."
Jason held a deep breath and released it knowing there was more to this situation than just the money, "Eric, there’s something I need to tell you."
"Save it," Eric brushed past him as he headed towards the bathroom to gather up what belongings remained there. "You can save the apologies for later after I’ve kicked your bloody arse for doing something so stupid. You’re not a professional newsman, use your head and think!"
"I wasn’t going to apologize," Jason muttered, his face flushed with embarrassment.
"You bloody well ought to!" Eric shouted from the bathroom.
"ERIC I DON’T THINK THEY"RE HUMAN!"
There was silence following that statement as Jason waited with abated breath for Eric’s response. It had gone dead quiet in the bathroom and it was a few seconds later that the silence was broken by Eric’s footsteps back into the room.
"What did you say?" The journalist stared at his younger counterpart, certain that he was mistaken at what he had heard.
"When he had me, I took a swing at him," Jason said quietly, wishing he had not spoken but Eric’s vehement response had provoked him into spilling the truth. "I didn’t hurt him or anything but I did knock those sunglasses off his face. Eric, they were wearing masks, all of them. Pasty white masks, the kind that Michael in Halloween wears and his eyes, he had glowing red eyes. I think the masks hide what they are because they’re not human."
"Red eyes?" Eric stared at him, wondering if Jason had not lost his mind as well as his sense.
"Red eyes with no irises, just a red glowing eyeballs," Jason swallowed, "I’ve never been so scared in my life."
"Look he hit you pretty bad," Eric started to say, unable to conceive that what Jason was claiming could be true. He was a journalist used to hard facts. The evidence spoke for itself far more reliably than the words of men. Jason was perhaps his best friend but he could not ignore the insanity of what the younger man was alleging. "Maybe you imagined it."
"I didn’t imagine it!" Jason barked back in exasperation. "I saw his eyes. Didn’t you think it strange that when you hit them with that helmet thing, it sizzled? You saw it Eric! You saw how they were dressed. No one turns up to an ice cave in the middle of Iceland in Armani, I don’t care how well tailored it is. The cold didn’t affect them. All of us had vapor coming out of our mouths with each breath we took. When that thing held me up to him and was hissing, I saw nothing. It was like he didn’t even have a breath or perhaps he wasn’t even alive."
"Jason!" Eric cut him off not wishing to hear any more of this. "Think about what you’re saying."
"I have thought about it and I haven’t stopped since it happened," Jason replied. "Eric you’re a newsman but you’re also the best investigator I have ever seen and as stupid as I was to call Malcolm Industries, you have to admit that there are some things about this that don’t make sense. You’re too sharp to have missed them.
"He was right, Eric admitted begrudgingly. The strange occurrences had not been lost upon him but Eric was too much the cynic to admit the existence of the supernatural. It shook the foundation of his very logical world. There was an explanation for everything, no matter how impossible it may seem outwardly. It only required someone with a nose for research to uncover the truth. Eric had lived by that creed all his life. He relied on it and knew that despite all the ugliness he had seen, in his life, the sanctity of the truth needed to be preserved if the future was to learn anything at all. It would have surprised many too discover that beneath his jaded exterior, Eric was still the idealist he had been when he first put pen to paper.
"We have to go," he said quietly, unable to bring himself to admit that Jason could be right. He could feel the pressure against the reliable walls that was his perception on reality, buckling ever so slightly. Since the artifact had come into his life, nothing was making sense and Eric sensed he was poised over the periphery of something greater than himself. He could feel it and it terrified him.
"We can talk about this later," he declared.
Jason knew that meant precisely the opposite.
Eric was suffering a terrible case of denial but Jason was certain he would overcome it.
The situation left no other alternative.
*************
The Nine were notified within minutes of the phone call made by Jason Merrick to Malcolm Industries.
The news came to them from Irina Sadko who had told Morgul rather pointedly to clean up the mess they had made in the Temple Glacier by allowing the escape of the two journalists. Personally, the Nine did not care who knew about the artifact. It would not change matters much because no presence on this earth could stand in their way when the Nine were on the hunt. Even if the two men were to expose the presence of the artifact to the world, it would make very little difference since there was one left on this earth save themselves and their Master’s woman who knew what it was to begin with. It would be a curiosity that would sear the flesh of any human that attempted to hold it with their bare hands.
The woman however had demanded that the artifact be retrieved and those who were in possession of it to be killed to maintain the secret regarding the true fate of those who had unearth it to begin with. Morgul had no hesitation in carrying out that order even if it were for entirely different reasons. Since the glacier, he who was once the Witch King, felt uneasiness settle into his being. Disquieting emotions felt almost alien to a creature that had believed himself expunged of all things human aeons ago. However, he knew the precise moment it had begun.
The instant he caught sight of the hobbit that had been present at the battle of Pelennor, even the retrieval of the Master seemed to shrink into insignificance.
For the first time in his long existence, since the shadow world had claimed him as one of its own, Morgul was suffused with an entirely human need that differed greatly to the purpose of his brothers. It surged through his phantom veins and filled his mind with such hatred that it was difficult to remember the main reason for retrieving the artifact to begin with.
He wanted vengeance.
Not from just the halfling who had been reborn in human skin but from her.
If the halfing was here then Morgul was certain she was as well. She had been the last thing he had seen during the Battle of Pelennor and he intended to return the favor. Somehow, Morgul was convinced that if he found the human called Jason Merrick, then he would also find her, wherever she was in this lifetime.
The vehicle in which they were travelling approached the lodgings where the telephone call had originated and crawled to a gradual halt after turning off the road. Once they were close enough, they needed no further instructions to reach their quarry.
The power of the jewel radiated outward like a beacon, drawing them like moths to the flame. There was no denying the lure of it to those who understood its significance, the need to touch and possess something that once given light to the world. The woman saw it as a means to the end but she could not appreciate the true power of at her disposal. None of the Nine saw any reason to enlighten her, less she develop the same glimmer in her eyes that had driven so many others to obsession. They needed the jewel to restore their Master who had been perceptive enough to remain free of its lure, although he was not immune to falling under the sway of his creation, much as the jewel had become Feanor’s master in the end. As long as the humans kept it in their possession, the Nine would find them. It was inevitable.
*************
After carrying out what was a fairly impressive effort of fast packing, Eric and Jason hurried out of the guesthouse bound for the driveway where their car was parked. Eric could still think of nothing to say to his young partner and was grateful for the fact that their present crisis allowed him to avoid the issue for the moment. It was not as if he did not wish to discuss the matter, in truth, he knew there would be no avoiding it once they were safely away from here but he needed the time to compose his thoughts.
Jason had seen some rather harrowing things working with him during the past years, enough for Eric to know that he was not prone to delusions during stressful situations. If he had seen red eyes, then Eric believed him without question.
Unfortunately, believing him also meant that Eric would have to open his mind to possibilities he had a great deal of trouble accepting as truth. Being a journalist, he was by definition, the original doubting Thomas and right now, Thomas needed more than Jason’s word that the assassins chasing him were some form of supernatural creatures with glowing red eyes, even if they were dressed inappropriately for Icelandic weather. Eric knew that he was showing classic signs of denial but at the moment his senses needed to be sharp if he was going to extricate both them from this dangerous situation in one piece. He could not do that if he doubted everything he knew about the world.
It was already dark outside since daylight in Iceland during in the latter half of the year lasted briefly. With the half moon peering indifferently at them from the heavens above, they reached the unimpressive Fiat they had been forced to rent at the local rental agency and piled everything into the backseat, including the helm that he had used to subdue the assassin intending to kill Jason. Eric let out a sigh of relief as they prepared to depart because it appeared as if like Jason’s mistake would not cost them as dearly as he had feared. In a matter of minutes, they would be leaving this place behind and anyone who came looking for them would find nothing but a vacant room.
The distant drone of car engines caused Eric to instinctively dig his fingers into his pocket to find the keys. Even though there was nothing unusual about the sound since theirs was one of many guesthouses in the area, the journalist had become somewhat paranoid after Jason’s revelation, the least of that was the fact that their pursuers may not be human. While he was not ready to accept that as fact, Eric knew he did not wish to fall into their hands to find out. He would prefer to make that discovery at minimum safe distance.
The sound attracted Jason too who immediately reached for the door handle and climb into the car. Eric felt the familiar ridge of steel inside his jeans pocket and pulled out the set of keys just as the twin strobes of headlights exploded in his eyes. He flinched and blinked trying to clear the blur of dark spot that appeared as his retinas were overloaded with too much light. Jason was already in the car as Eric raised a hand to shield his eyes when suddenly, he heard the younger man shout.
"Get in the bloody car!"
When he retained some semblance of normal vision, Eric understood why. The long black car, a Jaguar or BMW, he could not tell because its badge was too far away to be discerned came to a halt with one door swinging open almost immediately. One figure stepped out first and the familiarity caused Eric’s blood to run cold. He did not wait to see the rest.
Climbing into the Fiat, he jammed the keys into the ignition and brought the engine to life, aware that even as he did so, the enemy had retreated into his own vehicle and was warning the driver to give chase. Eric spun the wheel in full circle as soon as the gears and engines had given him leave to do so, causing the vehicle to execute a sharp turning circle that put them almost parallel with the assassins’ car approaching from the opposite direction. As the two vehicles swept past each other, Eric saw their pursuers winding down the window.
"Get down!" He ordered and crouched low as the barrage of gunfire strafed the body of the car and shattered windows. Glass exploded in the backseat as Eric forced his foot against the accelerator and roared out of the driveway at greater speed.
"Eric I’m sorry!" Jason cried out as the younger man stared out the windows and saw the dark car executing the same turn to maintain the chase.
"It’s alright!" Eric said hastily, not terribly concerned with how the enemy had found them but rather getting away with their skins intact. "Look grab one of the smaller bags and stick everything in it we need to run and leave the country."
"What?" "We’ve got to get out of this car," Eric retorted. "No way in hell is this pissy little Fiat going to outrun that Jag. We won’t even get half way to Reykjavik in this thing."
"What do we do?" Jason stared at him.
Eric stared at the headlights in the rear vision mission and saw the other increasing its speed, until the twin points of light had become powerful strobes reflected in the glass. They were gaining. In response, he forced his foot against the pedal once more, feeling the engine’s roar become more pronounced, until he was certain that he had wrung every bit of power that the car could muster into the spinning wheels carrying them forward. It was still not enough. The car was built to be reliable, not to race
Eric thought quickly, examining the mountainous regions that surrounded Fludir and knew that the natural terrain was the only way to lose their attackers. A sign blurred past them and his eyes flared, a thought coming to his head as Jason stuffed their identification, the helm and the artifact into the small canvas bag knapsack used to carry his film. Once again the mountain tracks surrounding the town beckoned him and Eric made a quick decision hoping that this was good enough.
"Make sure you grab parkas and jumpers for each of us," Eric instructed further.
"Why?" Jason asked suspiciously, his mind trapped between fearing for their lives and the occupants of the car and the idea he could sense behind Eric’s orders.
"Because we’re ditching the car."
"Ditching the car?" Jason’s brow shot up. "For what?"
Eric swung the wheel and forced the car into a side road sharply, causing them both to tilt to one side as they made the turn. Large, looming trees immediately surrounded them and the smaller road as the car sped down its length. Eric did not answer, his mind fixed upon controlling the speeding car on this small, winding road that was leading them deeper into the mountains. Behind them, their pursuers were maintaining the pace though there was still gap enough for Eric’s rather desperate plan to work. It was a slim hope at best, but if they remained in this car, the enemy would catch up to them and this time, they would not survive the encounter. He was certain of it.
"We’ve got everything!" Jason announced once he had secured the straps on the knapsack and slung it over his back. "Where are we going?" "
There," Eric pointed to the dark silhouette of a large country manor tucked neatly in the surround of mountains and steep hills. It sat facing a cliff with a sizeable drop into the Gullfoss River and the magnificent waterfalls for which the area was renowned.
"That place?" Jason stared at him quizzically. "Isn’t that the place you go for horse rides?"
"One and the same," Eric replied, not bothering to turn into the driveway that led to the manor itself, directing the vehicle towards the place where the manor’s source of income, their horses, were stabled. The road became uneven as they neared the stable and the sharp glare of headlights against the twilight darkness told them that their pursuers were still there. At best, Eric estimated they would have little more than minutes to make their escape before the assassins caught on to what they were doing.
Hopefully, none of those bastards could ride a horse.
*************
As soon as the car had come to a screeching halt, creating a cloud of mud and dirt as the wheels skidded against the soft ground, Eric jumped out of the driver’s seat and hurried towards the stables. Jason followed suit, pausing long enough to see the headlights of the assassins’ cars moving through trees as it followed the road to them. The journalist hurried past the stable doors and was immediately assaulted with the acrid aroma of hay, musk and manure. He grabbed the first saddle he saw on the ground and sought out the horses.
Icelandic horses or Tolts were medium size animals covered in thick fur and possessed a double mane. To survive in the harsh climate of Iceland, the horse had developed powerful musculature, good stamina and an ability to navigate through the volcanically formed terrain of the country. Considering what Eric intended to do to escape the enemy, the Tolt seemed perfect for their needs.
"You want to tell me what we’re doing?" Jason asked as he handed Eric his parka who put it on promptly.
"Isn’t it obvious?" Eric replied, having dropped the saddle on the ground once he found the horse that would wear the saddle so that he could don the heavy coat.
"We’re riding out of here?" Jason stared at him in incredulity putting on his own.
"We can lose them in the mountains and get back to civilization later. We stay in the car and they’ll find us."
"How do you know how ride a horse?" Jason questioned. "You’re from Marrickville for Christ sake!
"Despite the situation, Eric did found a smile stealing across his face as he saddled the animal, a beautiful chestnut mare with a double mane of flaxen hair, as quickly as possible. "My grandfather Theo had a property in Victoria," Eric answered hastily as he secured the straps of the predominantly English saddle with its Icelandic modifications and ensured that it was safe to ride. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take us there for the holidays. My granddad taught me how to ride. The property is still there but dad has a cocky to manage things for him."
"That’s the farm you keep talking about?" Jason declared, recalling Eric speaking of it one or twice in the past.
"That’s it," Eric retorted grabbing the reins and mounting the animal in one easy moment, surprising Jason with how comfortable and expertly he managed it. For a man who spent most of the time in the city, Eric seemed perfectly at ease on the animal.
"I can’t ride," Jason reminded him when suddenly they heard the screeching wheels of a car coming to abrupt halt. Both he and Eric exchanged the same look of realization.
"I know," Eric extended his hand out, "we’re going double. I don’t want us separated anyway."
Jason did not like the idea of riding behind Eric like he was a girl but supposed he did not have a great deal of choice. Taking the older man’s hand, he was helped awkwardly into the saddle behind Eric. It was just as well because the slamming car door indicated that their hunters were closing in on them again.
"Hold on," Eric replied and dug his heels into the horse’s flank, sending the animal into a rapid sprint towards the stable doors. Within seconds, they had emerged in the open once again, the chill night air assaulting them. Eric saw the occupants of the car had emerged and instinctively felt himself inching closer to believing Jason’s claim that these were supernatural beings.
Clad in their black suits and those pasty white masks, there were at least five of them making their way to the stable when he and Jason had barged out of the building astride their animal. Eric did not waste time with his observations and he kicked his heels into the horse once more, ensuring that it maintained its breakneck speed away from the enemy. The five men opened gunfire immediately, startling the horse somewhat but the animal’s response to this was to surge forward even faster than before. Eric took the most difficult route he could think of, one he was certain that could not be traversed by a car.
The mare was already bursting with adrenaline and had little difficulty making its way down the steep incline that would have sent a car flipping over on its back like a distressed terrapin if it made the attempt. Eric could feel Jason’s fingernails digging into his flesh from anxiety. Eric could not blame him. As able a rider as he was, Eric was relying on the animal’s natural fleet footedness to get them down this steep hill to the river’s edge. He hoped to follow the river as far as he could, certain that it would them lead to a town. Iceland was largely a haven for tourists these days and the Gullfoss was an important waterway. It was also inaccessible to cars for quite some distance and Eric intended to be safely away before their pursuers found a way to reach them.
It took some effort to remain in the saddle and he could feel Jason’s grip tightening and even glanced down to see knuckles turning white from the ordeal. If the horse were to lose it’s footing, the fall would most likely kill the animal and injure them severely. However, the animal appeared mindful as it navigated the uneven slope of rocks and dirt, somehow finding a path that its human riders could not see. Eric held on tight, tilting his back a little, working with the animal to reach the shale ground along the river.
"You right back there?" Eric asked, looking over his shoulder concerned. He hoped talking would take Jason’s mind off what they were doing. Even the bravest human being felt a little anxious their first time on a horse and usually the circumstances did not involve pursuit by ruthless assassins who may or may not be creatures with glowing red eyes.
"I’m fine," Jason replied tautly, keeping his eyes away at the river instead of the immediate ground and their unsteady descent. "Do you think they gave up?"
"No," Eric said without hesitation. "They’re probably looking for a way to get to us."
Suddenly, they both heard the sounds of horses neighing and looked over their shoulders simultaneously. "I think they found it," Jason declared, his throat becoming even drier than before as he saw their pursuers making their way down the slope astride horses. If Jason thought that Eric appeared comfortable in the saddle then the creatures commanded their mounts looked as if they were cavalrymen about to charge.
"Bugger!" Eric swore loudly and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, inciting it into moving faster even though it was their present route was dangerous enough as it was. The enemy however, did not appear constrained by limitations of their own safety and were pushing their mounts hard to reach them. The horse grunted its disapproval but hastened its pace, making its riders suffer in the saddle as it rocked forward perilously on the uneven terrain. Jason’s grip around Eric had grown tighter and even Eric was forced to grip the pommel in order to maintain his balance. The riders behind them were surging down the hill at a faster pace, their animals snorting and neighing in protest. However, it did little to hinder their determination.
As the ground came closer and closer, Eric prayed they would reach the shore but was somewhat at a loss over what to do next. He had not considered the pursuers were such able horsemen or for that matter, so recklessly ignorant if their own safety. However, it hardly mattered now because the situation was what it was, they had to escape. His eyes searched the terrain and could see nothing that would help them. All he could hear was the rushing of water from the waterfalls that Fludir was so well known.
Suddenly a thought entered his head and as equally dangerous as it was in comparison to what their pursuers were now doing, Eric knew they had no other choice. To be captured would be to die.
"Come on!" Eric hissed forcing the horse to move faster, his heels assaulting the beast’s flanks relentlessly and invoked in him a surge of guilt at its treatment.
The horse put all its effort into reaching the ground and even then, Eric could not allow it the respite it so richly deserved, compelling it to surge forward again, past the five dark riders that were in close pursuit.
"What the hell are we going to do?" Jason asked, accustomed to following Eric’s lead after years in the field with him but growing anxious as the lack of any real strategy.
"What kind of a swimmer are you?" Eric ignored his question and demanded instead.
"I’m alright, why?" Jason shouted back, suddenly developing this very uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut. It was the same feeling that he had gotten when Eric had convinced him that they could both pass for Afghanis during the recent war there. The incident had almost resulted in both of them falling victim to a Taliban soldier’s killing spree where many civilians had been brutally killed.
"We’re going for a swim," Eric replied enigmatically as they raced along the river’s edge. Behind them, the assassins had reached the ground and spread out across the breadth of the shoreline. It appeared to Eric that they were almost accustomed to falling into formation on horseback. Once again, Jason’s suspicions about them surfaced in his mind and he was starting to think that perhaps the younger man was right, that these men were not men at all but creatures they did not understand.
Creatures who not only knew how to hunt but would not yield until their quarry was in their clutches.
Jason was dubious about the effectiveness of making a swim for it and wanted to question Eric about his plan when suddenly he felt the older man pull up the reins of the horse and bring the animal to a sudden stop. If not for his grip around Eric’s waist, he would have fallen out off the saddle.
"What are you doing?" Jason demanded glancing behind him and seeing their pursuers closing the distance.
Eric climbed off the saddle and hurried forward, reluctant to tell Jason the full extent of his plan. Fortunately, they did not have far too go and the rushing of water that had been building in their ears would soon reach climax and give Jason a fair idea of what he was intending. The enemy was closing in for the kill. They had no more than a matter of minutes. Jason ran after him, keeping up with no trouble at all. Truth be known, the kid was in better shape than he was and could probably outdistance Eric if he set his mind to it.
Within seconds, they had come to the edge on the top of the enormous cascade that was sweeping anything it is path further down stream at a rapid pace. It was awesome to look and utterly terrifying when one considered what their next step was going to be. Jason came to a halt next to Eric and saw him staring into the churning water and at the powerful currents continuing its journey once the water had escaped the boundaries of the water.
"Oh no," Jason shook his head in disbelief, beginning to understand. "You got to be bloody kidding!"
"Don’t worry," Eric said with more bravado then he really felt. "It will be just like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."
"Might I remind you," Jason growled, "that they DIED!"
"Well the Bolivian army is coming and unless you want to debate the matter with them, we’re going to have to jump," Eric retorted, having no patience to deal with Jason’s histrionics at this time.
"Aw Jesus!" Jason groaned and looked down felt his stomach turn to jelly. What Eric failed to realize, was that it was not the fact they were jumping into the waterfall with powerfully dangerous currents that made Jason so reluctant but rather the actual drop. Jason did not handle heights well at all. Travelling in a helicopter had been a personal nightmare the young man had forced himself to endure because he simply had to if he wanted to do his job.
"Jason," Eric said seriously, his expression sympathetic, "we’ll find another way down."
"Really?" Jason exclaimed with genuine surprise as well as relief.
"No," Eric declared promptly and threw a fist into Jason’s face, sending him reeling backwards over the edge.
"YOU BAST……!" He heard Jason screamed indignantly before Eric jumped in after him.
************
He hit the water at full force and was immediately dragged to the bottom by the currents continuing on its relentless onslaught down the river. For an instant, Eric was filled with panic as the icy cold water swirled in around him. His hands clawed desperately at the space in front of him, his fingers grasping nothing but freezing water as his feet kicked frantically to gain some buoyancy or for that matter, find the riverbed so that he could propel himself upward. Calming himself as the rush of wander filled his ears with relentless pounding, Eric knew that he could drown if he did not focus himself. It was almost impossible to see anything other than the bubbles before his eyes but that was more than enough for him to notice in which direction they were rising. Too many drowning victims had died because of that simple miscalculation.
Needing little more than a split second to note the direction of bubbles escaping his mouth, he started kicking strenuously and found himself gaining a little bit of distance as he stared to rise. The strong current was ushering him along but Eric was making a gradual progress. His lungs were bursting for air but he was not in dire straits, not yet at least. The cold was beyond belief and Eric who hated the freezing temperature knew for a fact that if they did not get out of this river and find some warmth, they ran the risk of hypothermia.
Struggling to swim despite the weight of his parka, Eric somehow manage to break surface. His emergence was followed by a hungry gasp for air and his parka swelled up and began to offer him some aid in staying afloat. He looked around and saw woods around him with the waterfall growing more distant. He could not see their pursuers but knew that the assassins would have to find a path down the waterfall to reach them. Hopefully, it would buy Jason and him some time to get away. He struggled to see through the darkness and was greeted with dark waves of water moving him further along with little definition.
"Jason!" Eric risked shouting, fearful that his inability to see his young cameraman might mean the worst.
Shuddering at each breath of ice cold air he was taking into his lungs, Eric shouted again when he received no answer. He searched the banks of the river and saw no signs of his friend. Christ, he thought to himself, what had been running through his mind when he forced the kid over that waterfall? A cold fear gripped his heart that had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with his feelings for Jason who had been like a brother to him in the past three years. They had gone through much together and the possibility that Eric might have killed him when he had thrown that punch was more than the journalist could stand.
"JASON!" He shouted once more, growing more frantic and no longer caring about the men or the creatures that were hunting him. He struggled to stay afloat so that he could see but the combination of water, waves and darkness made visibility poor.
"Will you shut the fuck up before they hear us?" Came a disgruntled reply through the rushing water ahead.
"Jason?" Eric struggled to see, pushing himself over the surface to gain a better view. He could see nothing but a large branch, obviously torn off by lightening or some other natural phenomenon and had found its way into the river.
"I’m here!" He saw an arm waving at him from behind the gnarled wood.
Eric began swimming towards the branch that was further up the river then he was. When he finally reached it, Eric let out a sigh of relief when he saw clinging it to the branch, with his knapsack still attached to his back, Jason looking just as cold and miserable as he. For a moment, their immediate situation fled Eric’s thoughts as he was overcome with a flood of gratitude knowing that Jason was alive and well, if not somewhat waterlogged. In seconds, Eric had swum his side, grabbing the discarded branch for support as well while it continued its journey down river.
"Thank Christ," Eric said breathlessly, "I thought I lost you there mate."
"Mate?" Jason glared at him. "We’re not mates. I quit. I’m going home to Wellington and taking that job at my father’s fish shop. Its greasy work but you don’t get thrown over cliffs and dragged into life and death situations by a Aussie lunatic who belts you when you’re not looking!"
"You hate fish," Eric grinned, having heard this tirade so many times before that he had it memorized.
Jason swept his gaze across their surroundings and retorted, "can you blame me?"
Both men met each other eyes and laughed out loud, forgetting for the moment that they were being hunted by assassins who may or may not be supernatural creatures, whilst carrying an artifact that should not have existed. It did not even register that they were being swept down river in freezing cold water that would most likely give them hypothermia if they did not remove themselves from it soon.
"What did you say that Professor’s name was?" Eric asked when they finally composed themselves.
"Hans Skogen at the University of Oslo," Jason replied.
"Oslo," Eric nodded, conceding defeat in regards to that particular issue. "Alright, we’ll play this out and see where it goes."
"You know I’m right Eric," Jason insisted, glancing towards the cascade where he was certain their assailants were descending in an effort to reach them. "I know what I saw, I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life."
"I’m not ready to believe that yet Jason," Eric replied sincerely. After all he had seen, he simply could not make the leap that Jason needed him to Not just yet. He was still too bound by what he considered to be the doctrine of his life, to never take anything on faith that could not be proven with cold hard data. He could sense that this belief was beginning to fray at the edges, but he was simply not ready to accept that they were embroiled in things far greater than he could imagine possible.
"I know," Jason patted him on the arm, aware of how difficult this was for him. "But it’s the truth and sooner or later, you’re going to have to accept it if we’re going to survive this thing."
"Not yet," Eric reiterated and decided to return their attention to their immediate situation of being swept into parts unknown by the currents of the river and slowly freezing to death. "Right now, we’ve got to get out of here."
"I’m for that," Jason agreed before looking at him. "You got a good grip of this branch?" He asked Eric suddenly.
"Yeah," the older man nodded, confused at the point of the question. "Why?"
Without saying another word, Jason threw a hard right at Eric’s jaw and caused the journalist to almost lose his grip of the branch but not quite.
"What was that for?" Eric cried out clutching his aching jaw.
"For finding another way," Jason smirked triumphantly reminding him of how Eric had helped him off the waterfall.
Now they were even.
The twins had never traveled to Frodowraith during the age of Middle Earth.
Alas their journey northwards had taken them no further than Mithlond and even then the twins had never felt the desire to venture into the icy wasteland beyond it. Despite the fact that both brothers were avid explorers, the limitations of the times ensured that such a journey would be fraught with peril and there were far more pleasant places to visit in Arda than the ruined coast of what had once been Beleriand and the great ancient kingdoms. Some regret of this did follow them to the Undying Lands when they finally crossed over sea, borne out of the longing for the land they had known all their lives and the fear of going to an unknown place for all time.
However, that was the past and now, it appeared that both Elladan and Elrohir would at last see the lands of Frodowraith. The perils of the past no longer existed, not when they had made the journey on the large, snake like carriage that moved through mountains and across the landscape without pause. Comfortably, they had sat in their berth, watching the scenery outside, the towns and the landscape in between. As they moved northwards, the twins had spied the familiar shape of mountains where Imlardis had been. Unfortunately, the moment was fleeting because the land had change so drastically that it bore little resemblance to their childhood home and to the Last Homely House. They could have broken the journey to wander the paths of their childhood, transmuted as it was by history and change, but it would bring as much grief as it would bring pleasure.
Travelling up the European coast, they saw the land become vibrant and green, filled with such lush beauty that it could almost be comparable with Valinor. Unlike America, Europe saw no reason to build excessively. Much of the countryside remained and the same sense of tradition that they had seen in England. Their knowledge of recent history was not as in depth as it could be. Like most of the Valinorians, they had poured over the books that had been brought back during the two initial excursions to Arda but their grasp of the language was new and not all the words had meaning which they could fathom. Aaron, Eve, Bryan and Tory had explained as best they could but it was still a difficult proposition to compress ten thousands years of history into a quick, accessible format.
Aaron had once said that if Africa was the cradle of humanity, then Europe was the cradle of the modern world.
In Europe there was pride in what was old. It was preserved, restored and blended into suit. More than any place they had been since arriving in Arda again, Europe reminded them Middle Earth as it once was. They traveled through northern France, recognizing that these were once the lands of Arnor and then across Germany to enter the country called Denmark. Beyond the window of their great carriage, they could see a land swathed in green as far as the eye could see, marred only by the occasional settlement and framed by magnificent coasts. They travel along its length, reaching to the very edge of the country before disembarking from their carriage to make the crossing into Norway by sea.
Once again, the crossing allowed them to see the great fjords of Norway and further inland, the peaks of mountains that seemed endless. It seemed that much of this country still remained covered in vegetation, allowing its natural beauty to flourish amidst the encroaching progress of civilization. The twins liked this country very much and believed that the mountains were most likely what remained of Ered Mithrin though it was possible that they were wrong. From the sea, their introduction to Norway made them anxious to explore the country, once they had ensured the safety of Bryan Miller’s brother. Elrohir who had become fast friends with the reincarnation of Gondor’s great Captain, had promised Bryan that he would and the journey across Europe had been so rewarding for both brothers that neither minded undertaking the errand.
Arriving in the city of Oslo, they had become so accustomed to travelling in the world of Arda that it was with little difficulty that they were able to find the place where Frank Miller was likely to be found. It was hard to perceive that Frank was a scholar when one had met his brother. That Bryan, who was the personification of the warrior spirit, had a younger brother whose vocation made him a scholar of the past, was somewhat astonishing to the twins. Still, it was no more astonishing to know that the former king of Gondor had been reborn as a healer who had difficulty bearing arms of any kind.
The question of how to approach Bryan’s sibling did however, weigh heavily upon their minds.
Bryan had been adamant that once they delivered to Frank the message they bore from his brother, Frank would understand the need for Bryan’s disappearance. However, whether or not they wished to tell Frank about Valinor and the elves was another matter entirely. One thing they had learnt, not only from this visit but also from the one previously, men had a great deal of difficulty grasping the concept that they were not masters of this world. Being left alone for the past hundred thousand years, where not only the elves had departed but also the dwarves going to ground, had made them forget that they had once shared Arda with other races.
While the situation had demanded both Aaron and Bryan to accept the truth that it was otherwise, there was no immediate peril that would facilitate this for Frank. As a scholar, he would be even more difficult to convince then Bryan and despite their great affection for his brother, the twins had no idea how Frank would react to being told the truth, if they should decide to tell him. Unfortunately, anyone who came into contact with them for an extended period, possessing of a keen intellect would see that there was something about them that simply did not fit in the modern world. The twins were certain that Frank would see this.
It was decided that they would see how things develop and make their minds up once they had encountered Frank. Elves were fairly good judge of character, since their experiences and their honed senses allowed them to see deeper beneath the skin than most. Once they met him, they should have some sense of the man, enough hopefully to decide whether or not he could be trusted with their secret.
“Do you think we should simply go to his home and announce ourselves?” Elladan asked his brother as they moved through the sprawling campus of the Oslo University campus. Fortunately, there was always someone who spoke English so the duo was not completely overwhelmed by the language barrier. Their use of English had them branded quickly as tourists and so people were inclined to be naturally helpful in giving them directions, not to mention paying little attention to them beyond that fact.
“I do not see how else we are to approach him,” his brother replied, his gaze moving across the park where he saw young people sprawled at rest areas, under trees and in the middle of the grass, enjoying the sunshine whilst pouring over their books. There was an air of dignity about the place, an atmosphere of burgeoning knowledge wishing to burst free from the minds of those who approached their scholarly pursuits with reverence. It reminded Elrohir of his father’s instruction to young acolytes in the healing arts during their time in Arda. “If we approach him with subterfuge it may make the rest of what we tell him even more difficult to accept.”
“I am still dubious as to the sensibility of that course,” Elladan replied as he saw a golden haired beauty walk past him with an enchanting smile. “You saw Eve was when we first appeared to her.”
“She did not faint,” Elrohir pointed out, “that is always a good sign. Actually, I find the women in this time less prone to fainting and vapors you notice?”
“Well I think it has to do with the great teachers that Eve speaks so frequently about, the ones that changed everything,” Elladan remarked off handedly as he gazed up the stretch of walkway that led to the staff residences as directed to him by a helpful student earlier on.
“Ah yes,” Elrohir nodded, having been subject to their quotes several times since their sister’s return to their lives. “Gloria Steinham and Germaine Greer.”
***********
It was chaos in the Miller household.
Well it was always chaos around dinner, Frank thought as he tried to round up the boys who were playing outside while fielding requests from his wife to set the table at the same time since she was the one cooking. Naturally Sam and Pip, whose duty it actually was, were in the garden, having suddenly developed selecting hearing even though Frank had called out twice for them already. He had been trying to finish grading some papers in his study when Miranda enlisted him in the duty and somehow his comment of ‘just one more love’ did not impress her. Fortunately, Frank had learnt well enough during nine years of marriage not to get on the wrong side of a wife with ex-military combat skills and had begrudgingly set the papers aside.
“I know you heard me!” Frank shouted through the door once more and heard Sam responding something that they would be just one minute. “Dinner’s almost ready and I’m not happy to be stuck with your jobs. Get in here now!”
Frank shook his head and retreated into the dining room, swearing profusely when he accidentally treaded on Pip’s Anakin Skywalker action figure. Leaning over, he picked up the toy and frowned when he saw the saber had been bent under the weight of his boot.
“You’re going to get a red one anyway,” Frank muttered tossing it someplace where it would not offend, the sofa, before continuing towards the kitchen.
He found Miranda over the stove, putting the finishing touches to the evening meal, which smelt tasty enough although he knew from experience that it did not always deliver what it promised.
“Tell me,” he asked, following the wafting trail of aroma, “why do we have children?”
She cracked a smile and replied without looking up, “because you decided that the way appreciate the night sky in Africa was to sit under the stars with a blanket and a bottle of Riesling.”
“Oh yes,” Frank replied sliding his arms around her waist as he nuzzled her hair from behind, remembering the occasion well. While neither of them could say for certain that was the night Sam was conceived, it suited the romantic in both of them to think so. “I was right, wasn’t I?” He asked as she turned her head slightly to capture his lips in a kiss.
“Aside from all the grass in my clothes, I can’t say that you were,” she replied when they had parted.
“Dinner smells good,” Frank remarked when the aroma of dinner captured his attention once more. “Though I think you have a bit too much cheese on that spaghetti sauce.”
Miranda stiffened and gave him a look, “it’s lasagna.”
Frank winced under his breath. “I’ll just go get the boys,” he replied quickly, deciding that the best way to avoid the minefield he had inadvertently stumbled into was to make a strategic withdrawal from the battlefield.
“Coward,” she stared at him through narrowed eyes even if her lips were crooked with amusement.
"You bloody well better believe it," he grinned and went to round up his errant children who had just entered the house from the garden.
"You owe me you two," Frank pointed out as he regarded the table. "It’s your job to set the table." He added, ruffling Pip's hair as he cast his gaze upon Sam.
"Sorry dad," Sam replied, hurrying to take up the task because he did not like the idea of disappointing his father in anything, even if it was something as simple as setting the table.
"That's alright," Frank smiled at his oldest and flinched at the purple bruise against the skin of his nose. "How is your face?"
"It doesn't hurt so much any more," Sam called out as he darted into the kitchen to get the plates for the table.
"Aksel doesn't bother me anymore after mum talked to him," Pip replied as he extended his hands out and displayed the universal sign of airplane to his father who promptly lifted him into the air and spun him around, almost on reflex.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Frank muttered, hoping Miranda was not too harsh with the child, even if the little wretch deserved it.
"Oh by the way boys," he said quietly to Pip and motioning Sam over when the child emerged from the kitchen armed with of plates. "We're having lasagna."
Both boys nodded gratefully at their father's warning perfectly aware of their mother's expertise when it came to cooking.
She was capable of many wondrous things like knowing which movies to take them too even if dad had objections to the scary ones but cooking was not a skill she had mastered. Still, it was not hard to adore her when she sat through cartoons with them and let them watch South Park (much to their father's chagrin) or drive twenty miles to get them to a theatre because they wanted to see Harry Potter again when it was no longer showing locally. When she was required to act as disciplinarian, their punishments were usually followed by ice cream, reminding them that though she was angry, she still loved them. They understood she had difficulty saying it sometimes and she was not the kind of mother who hugged and kissed a lot. That was left to their dad but their mother was there for them in every way that mattered and neither child wished she were any different.
"What does it look like really?" Sam asked his father just as quietly.
"Spaghetti," Frank shrugged and was grateful that the phone number for pizza was on speed dial. Father and son exchanged a short laugh before Sam went to help Pip with the setting of the table.
"Did we get videos tonight?" Frank called out to Miranda in the kitchen as he stared at his sons' arguing over which side the fork when on the place map, a discussion that Frank had been called upon numerous occasions to referee.
"Yes," Miranda sang back in response, "brace yourself, the kids want to see Jurassic Park again."
"I wish you wouldn't rent that," Frank groaned, "it is not at all a true depiction of archaeology. I mean I have never felt the urge to carry a bullwhip."
Miranda emerged from the kitchen carrying a serving dish, "not even once?" She teased.
"Actually, I had ideas about you carrying one, whilst clad in figure hugging leather and boots with spiked heels."
She rolled her eyes, grateful that the conversation was lost on the children, "maybe for your next birthday," she replied winking at him mischievously.
"Really?" Frank looked at her.
Miranda did not have the opportunity to answer because no sooner than he had spoken, they heard a knock on the door. His eyes met hers first in question before the inevitable question left his lips.
"Are you expecting anyone?" Frank asked.
"No," she shook her head, since she hardly knew anyone in Oslo beyond the faculties wives she encountered during the staff parties or functions. "You?"
"It may be Hans," he answered, making his way to the door to answer it since she was busy setting down the hot serving dish onto the table. "He's still a little shaken about the accident in Hofsjokull. I told him to come around if he needed company."
"Well he's welcomed certainly," Miranda answered before turning to Pip and examining his hands. "Go wash," she instructed the child and then regarded Sam with the same scrutiny, "you too Sammie."
"Mum!" Sam grumbled.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Miranda shook her head, "go wash your hands."
Frank left his children to their mother and went about the business of answering the door, pushing aside another toy on the floor and making a mental note to have a 'discussion' with his children about keeping their belongings out of tripping way. He thought of the days when his existence revolved around the study of the past and every discovery had been something to relish with pride. It was so far removed from this chaos and yet he balked at the notion of having things the way they were because he could not imagine life without Miranda and his sons. As mad as the household and children might seem, he knew neither he nor Miranda would trade any of it. His brother Bryan, who had despised the marriage state, simply had no idea what he was missing.
Opening the door, Frank had expected to see the slightly diminished form of Professor Skogull who appeared so much older after learning of the accident. It grieved him to see his friend that way but there was little he could do to assuage the hurt of so many lost friends. However, instead of Hans standing on the front porch of the house, Frank found himself staring at two men he had never seen before. The two strangers with dark hair and same intense eyes told Frank immediately that these were siblings. The similarities in some of their features left him with no other conclusion.
Their blue eyes widened upon seeing him and a smile crossed their faces as if in recognition, Frank was quickly sifting through his memories, hoping that these were university friends that he could not longer remember but discounted it immediately. These were not faces that you forgot.
"You are Bryan's brother," one of them said.
Frank's chest immediately tightened with anxiety.
Six months ago, his brother had disappeared off the face of the earth.
While Frank had never known for certain what Bryan did for a living, he knew that it was dangerous and Bryan was the absolute best at what he did. Being Bryan, he could be no other way. Miranda who had worked with her brother had been equally closed mouth about it. He knew that they had both worked in some capacity for the government and it had to do with their combat training. The scars he had seen on Miranda's skin was a testament to how dangerous the work was and too many times had Frank seen the same scarring on his brother to know that they could be killed in their line of work and killed in turn. Bryan had tried his best to keep Frank out of the shadow world in which he existed and Miranda was more than happy to leave it behind in its entirely when she married him.
When Bryan telephone him six months ago, he had explained Frank that it was necessary for him to disappear. Frank understood and accepted it even if he did not like the idea of being cut off from his brother. However, Bryan would not take such steps unless there was a compelling reason and Frank had preferred his brother stay alive. However, his explanation for his impending absence was not the only thing he had to impart to Frank, there had also been a more ominous reason behind his telephone call. He had told Frank to deny he had a brother to anyone he did not trust with his life. Bryan had claimed to have taken appropriate measures to ensure that no one seeking him out would find their way to Frank but just in case, it was necessary to take the precaution.
Frank had not told Miranda about Bryan's warning. He had merely informed her that her brother needed to disappear for a while and Miranda knew enough about Bryan's business to understand what that meant and not need further details. He knew he should have told her about Bryan's request but Miranda had so many demons of her own that Frank had not wished to add to them with the possibility that their family might be in danger. However, now that he found himself staring at these two men with their question hanging in the air like a pregnant drop of water about to fall, Frank wondered if he should have told her the truth.
"I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," Frank said retreating past the doorway, preparing to shut the door in their faces.
"Please," Elladan spoke quickly, sensing the man's apprehension. "We mean you no harm. We have a message from your brother and we have come a long way to deliver it."
"I'm sorry you have wasted your time," Frank retorted, not about to be swayed by such words, no matter how convincingly they were delivered.
"Wait," Elrohir stepped forward, reaching quickly into his coat to produce the folded piece of paper Bryan had given him to pass onto Frank. "This is for you."
Frank saw the note and paused, trapped between curiosity and the need to protect his family. However Bryan was his brother and if these men were indeed sent by him, then Frank owed it to Bryan to at least give them the benefit of the doubt. In any case, if they were the reason Bryan had warned him, than it was too late already if these men had found them. Reaching out gingerly, Frank took the note and unfolded it quickly, aware that they were staring at him in anticipation. It was a hand written message and the words were in that familiar scrawl that matched a dozen or so letter that Frank had stored in his study from years of correspondence with Bryan.
The handwriting was his brother's undoubtedly.
He did not have to read the entire contents of the letter to discern that but he did so anyway just to ease his mind.
Dear Frank,
How is it going? I hope this letter finds you and family doing well up there in the cold country. Couldn't believe it when you told me that you'd pull up stakes and were heading over to Europe. Didn't you once tell me over pints at that pub in Scarborough, that Africa was where real archaeology took place? Maybe I was wrong, if I recall correctly, I was hitting on that pretty barmaid, what was her name?
"Jill," Frank said softly.
Jill? Anyway, I thought I'd just drop you a note and tell you how I'm doing, which is fine. You'd be happy to know that I have actually settled down. She's a great lass, used to be a barrister. She didn't slap me after the first kiss, so she must be the one, eh? We've been living together these past six months and we're perfectly safe, all three of us. Yes, there's a little one too whom I hope you'll one day meet. She's not my little girl but what drove me out of England is the reason why she's with me. It’s a strange thing you know. For once it looks like I am needing your advice instead of the other way around.
These blokes who have delivered this message have come a long way. I know you're probably a little nervous about receiving them after what I said to you when I left. However, if you have any doubt that this letter is a forgery, rest assured it is not. It is as real as what you did to mum's vase and where you buried it under the rose patch, leading her to believe Mrs. Potts from down the road had nicked it. I know they’re a little strange but they’re my friends and their lot have seen to it than I’m very taken care of. You can trust them with your life Frank, yours and the family’s. I mean that. They may not tell you where I am but that’s okay, I think that it is better that you don’t know. They just dropped by to see you because I asked them and also because I need a few things I’d appreciate you get me. The shopping around here isn’t good and I’m getting low on everything. I wouldn’t mind a couple of cases of Fullers, what passes for alcohol around here makes me weep.
Anyway, better let you get back to it. Give my love to Miranda and the kids.
Love Bryan,
PS. Don’t let them near alcohol; they hold their liquor like Yanks.
Frank lowered the letter and met the gazes of the two men waiting for his response in silent anticipation. He studied them for a moment, trying to discern why Bryan would trust them so completely and most of all, why he had advised Frank not to ask them where they had come from. It was a valid question and considering his long absence, perfectly justifiable from Frank’s point of view. However, there was something about them, something he could not put his finger on. Frank had a keen intellect when it came to reading people and for some reason, he had difficulty utilizing that skill where the duo was concerned. Something skirted on the periphery of his mind, whispering things he was certain the logical part of him did not want to hear, but this gnawing feeling attacked itself to him nonetheless.
“Is he alright?” Frank asked quietly.
“He was well when we last saw him,” Elrohir answered him with an inward sigh of relief because it seemed as if Bryan’s letter had convinced Frank to accept them as no threat to his family.
“He has taken to working wood,” Elladan added, recalling that Bryan had apparently shown some interest in carpentry and was amenable to being taught some elven methods of the craft during his time in Valinor.
Frank let out a small laugh, “yes, he used to build things when he was younger, before he went away to the army. I haven’t seen him show an interest in it in years but I’m glad.”
Elladan had met the Prince of Ithilien only a number of times during the Third Age but it seemed appropriate that he would be reincarnated as Bryan’s brother. From what he knew of their relationship, Denethor’s sons had been very close in order to compensate for a distant father, absorbed by matter greater than them both and slowly being poisoned by the war with Mordor. Such bonds were difficult to break and had tethered their souls to each other, even through time. Frank Miller looked a little different from his Middle Earth counterpart but Elladan had no doubt that this was indeed Faramir of Ithilien.
“Please come in,” Frank said after a moment, aware of Miranda staring cautiously at him from the table, wanting to know who the strangers were and why he seemed so anxious. “We were about to sit to dinner, we're happy to have you join us.”
“Thank you,” Elrohir nodded, appreciating the dazed tone in the man’s voice. “I am called Elrohir and this is my brother Elladan.”
Frank paused a moment, looking over his shoulder at the mention of those names. He had never heard anything quite like it and wondered what language they found their origins. “Those are very unusual names, where are you from?” He asked and instinctively winced because Bryan had asked him to desist in that very question.
“From across the sea,” Elladan replied smoothly, not wishing to reveal any more about their origins than that.
Frank was not surprised by the answer and supposed he deserved that elusive response for ignoring Bryan’s advice. Bryan had asked him to trust them and Frank knew his brother would not make such a request lightly, especially when it meant gambling with the safety of his family.
“Luv,” Frank gaze stretched across the room to find Miranda and the kids already at the dinner table. “We’ve got company.”
************
There was something odd about their guests.
This much Miranda decided as she stared at them from across the dinner table. An atmosphere of awkwardness had settled over the room once introductions were made and their guests had joined them for the evening meal. Unspoken questions hung precariously in the air, threatening to drop at any moment. As Miranda studied the men who had entered her home, she noted the way they were looking at her and her family. If she did not know better, she would swear that they were being viewed with familiarity. When the brothers first looked upon Sam, they immediately broke into a smile and exchanged glances that made her maternal instincts rise to the surface with the intensity of the Alien Queen about to give Sigourney Weaver an acid bath.
However, they made no overtly untoward actions towards her son even if they told Sam, who like all children was pleased by the attention, that they were very pleased to meet him. What surprised Miranda was the fact that she could tell that they meant it sincerely. They showed the same regard towards Pip, but it was clear that Sam had somehow sparked their admiration though why Miranda could not possibly imagine. When they had met her gaze, it was with that same recognition and while she and Frank some discomfort in their presence, the two men appeared perfectly at ease in their company, as if they were old friends becoming reacquainted.
During a short tete' tete' in the kitchen where they had left Pip and Sam to entertain their guests, Frank showed her the contents of Bryan's letter and Miranda could not deny that its tone was very much Bryan even if the handwriting was a perfect match. However, she noted that Bryan had taken care to add in details that he knew only his brother could conform as fact, even if it appeared to be little more than harmless musing at times. Despite Frank's curiosity, she could understand why Bryan would wish to keep his location a secret but wondered where these men had actually originated.
Despite their Caucasian features, it was clear that they did not hail from Europe. She supposed they could have come from Russia but their accents did not possess any hint of that and she had traveled to that country enough to know the difference. Their voices had a resonance to it that was almost musical and they were almost picture perfect specimens of manhood. Chiseled features, long dark hair, with braids in appropriate places and deep intense eyes that scrutinized everything with the precision of a hunter. She knew the look well having seen it enough times in the mirror.
They looked at her in the same way, sizing her up under their intense gazes, measuring both her and Frank to some unspoken ideal.
“How long do you plan to stay?” Miranda asked, reminding herself to curb her curiosity. If Bryan wanted his location kept a secret, there was probably a very good reason. Knowing where he was would only make them a liability, not only to his safety but to the family’s as well.
“We do not plan to remain long,” the one called Elladan answered her, wearing that damnable expression of quiet awe she could not fathom. “Bryan asked us to inquire after you, to ensure that you are safe.”
“What would we have to be protected from?” She asked pointedly, not liking the idea that there was something lurking in the dark. Frank’s eyes dropped at the moment and suddenly Miranda had the impression that her husband had not told her the entire truth about Bryan’s disappearance.
“Boys,” Frank spoke, turning his attention to Sam and Pip who had finished dinner but were still at the table. “Why don’t you go start the movie without us, mum and I need to have a serious talk.”
Sam nodded, his youthful face showing his concern even if Pip was too young to understand. “Alright dad,” he answered and regarded his brother, “come on Pip, let’s go watch the movie.”
The two children left the table and none of the adults spoke until they heard the familiar score of the classic film emanating from the television set.
“Luv,” Frank cleared his throat, hating to admit to Miranda that he had lied to her but he knew his wife, she would not let go the possibility of danger until she knew the truth. “When Bryan left, he told me that he had taken care of things to ensure that no one came looking for us but if anyone asked, I was to deny that I had brother.”
Miranda stared at him, aware of the implications of such a request. It meant people were hunting him, people who wanted him badly enough that they might use his family to coerce him into showing himself. She felt her cheeks flush with anger, not because of the danger but because Frank had omitted telling her. The last six months, she had been oblivious to any danger because it did not occur to her that there could be any. How many occasions had she left herself and her children open to attack because she had not known?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked quietly.
“I didn’t think that there was any reason to worry you,” Frank swallowed thickly.
“My lady,” Elladan quickly interjected, “please do not be angry with your husband. Those who seek your husband’s brother would have had no way to communicate to him that they had you in their power. Even if they have found you, there was very little benefit in their apprehending you. Bryan is as beyond you as he is beyond them. They know that.”
“What does that mean?” She turned to him. “Beyond us? What is it that they think Bryan has that we could be used as blackmail.”
“Something that is exceedingly dangerous,” Elrohir answered cautiously, not about to reveal everything they knew about Sauron and his machinations in Arda since his return in the modern age. “Your brother,” he glanced at Frank, “averted a crisis that would have caused unimaginable destruction to your land but he could not destroy the enemy completely. Bryan took away from them their leader and has him held in a place they cannot reach. Bryan feared that perhaps, they might attempt to use you to bargain for their leader’s return. However, even if they embarked upon such a course, they cannot convey to your brother that they have you. So it avails them nothing. It is far more sensible for them to wait until Bryan returns to make a move against you, which is why he remains where he is.”
“You should have told me,” she looked at him Frank with accusation but understanding that he had tried to protect her
“I’m sorry,” Frank apologised. “I didn’t want to worry you about something that may never come up.”
“If that were true, these two wouldn’t be here,” Miranda turned to Elladan and Elrohir, “would they?”
Neither of the brothers could deny her statement abjectly.
“We came to see if you were well,” Elladan spoke after a moment, having no doubt that the White Lady existed within the flesh of this woman for she bore the shield maiden’s sharp wit and strength. “It appears to us that you are. That is the report we will bring home to Bryan when we return.”
“That and your superior culinary skills,” Elrohir added with a smile.
Miranda gave him a look and retorted, “now I know you are lying.”
Gardermoen Airport was very much like the country of its birth.
This, Eric Rowan decided when he and Jason Merrick entered the terminal following the flight from Reykjavik. On first appearances, the designed was very reminiscent of some of the older landmarks scattered across Europe, with huge gray columns that keep the high walls and floor from meeting. However, the effect was superficial because once one shed the jet lag or disorientation associated with a new place, they would see the outside world through the sheets of glass walls. The inside of the airport was more or less sprawling since there was few walls inside the structure, beyond the main. The airport felt like a nexus between the old and new, which was rather appropriate since Eric had always considered airports the crossroads of the modern world.
It was early morning and the airport was bustling with activity. Eric was somewhat grateful for this organized chaos because it meant that their arrival would be difficult to track. Ever since they had crawled out of that freezing river in southern Iceland and found their way to a local farmer’s house, he had been looking over his shoulder for the assassins that were undoubtedly still hunting them. Somehow, they had made it to Rekjavik and managed to leave the country without being seen. He had been concerned that the authorities would give them trouble about the artifacts they carried whey they attempted to pass customs. Fortunately, airport security these days were more concerned with hijackers to pay too close attention to two journalists carrying a partially exposed crystal embedded in rock and a helmet that could have been bought from any souvenir shop.
After Jason’s lapse in bringing the assassins right to them, Eric had become paranoid of letting anyone know where they were. He knew he should have reported into his news editor Robert, but considering how Robert felt about him at this time, the man would not go to any lengths to protect him if anyone came asking after them. As it was, the man’s first order when Eric revealed to him that they had survived the massacre was to sit tight and wait for instructions. So far, nothing had been heard from the man and though he did not voice it to Jason just yet, Eric wondered if the lack of response had anything to do with the fact that Robert did not expect them to be alive to receive instructions.
Eric made a mental note to contact Dominique when time permitted and see if she knew anything about Robert’s possible links to Malcolm Industries. While Eric was not entirely ready to believe that Robert hated him enough to sell him out to the assassins, he could not discount the possibility either. Besides, Jason was correct, he did try to bang the bosses’ wife and most men reacted rather badly to such situations.
After arriving at the airport, they took a cab to the City Center that was not far from where the University of Oslo was found in the area of Blindern. Checking into the Grand Hotel, Eric had hoped for far less ostentatious accommodations. The Grand Hotel was an exercise in grand elegance with all the modern amenities and the most important thing that two travelers from Australia could want, a predominantly English speaking staff. With the main language of Norway being Bokmål, a Danish –Norwegian dialect based on Danish, Eric thought it was a necessary requirement. Hopefully their business with Professor Skogull would not take too long and they could get out of the city without having to remain at the Grand for too long.
After checking into the impressive hotel with its elegant Old World architecture and thanking the gods of credit that they could bill the cost of their accommodations to their company charge account, Eric and Jason took a taxi to the university. They had seen its outskirts during the drive from the airport and were impressed by its size. It was one of the most prestigious universities in Europe and when one saw it face to face, it was easy to discern why. Eric could imagine why most of Petra Tebben’s colleagues had come from here. It was truly one of the centers of academia for the entire country. He only hoped that Jason was right about Professor Skogull being able to discern what the artifact was and why someone was willing to kill for it.
Neither Eric nor Jason had made mention of the supernatural aspects of the situation. Despite everything he had seen, Eric was simply not convinced that these killers were the boogey men Jason claimed them to be. There had to be a logical explanation to all this, he told himself. Eric knew he was being stubborn and his reason for being so adamant had to do with his fear that his beliefs about the world were about to endure a spectacular challenge. Yes, he did notice the odd things. The fact that the helmet had sizzled when it made contact with the assassin’s body. He did not reveal to Jason that they scared the hell out of him from the moment he had laid eyes on them and it wasn’t simply because he knew they were killers. It was a fear borne from under the skin that was almost primordial, the way a mouse knew instinctively that the cat was its natural enemy from the instant it laid eyes upon the beast.
Not that Jason would have noticed the conflict. Since the incident at Hofskojull, Eric had noticed that Jason had trouble sleeping. In the twin share room they had occupied the night before their flight, Jason’s sleep had been restless. At some points during the night, Eric was certain Jason had awakened in a cold sweat. He would have asked the younger man about it but since Jason did not make comment about it, Eric allowed him his privacy. Even during the flight when he had dozed off, whatever was bothering him in the twilight hours had followed Jason and there was more than one occasion when his eyes flew open in his seat and Eric was certain he was ready to jump out of his skin.
“You okay?” Eric found himself asking during the taxi ride to the university.
Jason turned to him a few seconds later, realizing he had spoke, “you say something?”
“I asked if you were alright,” Eric repeated, becoming increasingly concerned about his young partner in crime. “You seem a little out of it.”
“Its nothing,” Jason shrugged, “too many thoughts going through my head. None of it making sense.”
“Want to talk about it?” Eric offered, seeing that it was not all right. Whatever worried Jason was reflected in his eyes and it showed Eric that his concerns ran deep.
“Its nothing you to want to hear,” Jason retorted, a little angry at Eric because he would not believe that they had stumbled into something dark and sinister, that could not be explained by normal rules of logic.
“Try me,” Eric offered, telling himself that he would be supportive no matter how skeptical he was of Jason’s fears or beliefs that they were being chased by supernatural creatures.
Jason dropped his gaze to the knapsack at his feet, as if he could see past the canvas into the rock that awaited scrutiny at Hans Skogull’s hands. It was a few more seconds before he raised his eyes to Eric and trusted his friend enough to answer. Eric may be an ass at times but he was a good friend and Jason was reasonably confident that he was capable of empathy not derision if Jason confided in him.
“That thing,” Jason said after a pause, “I think he knew me.”
“Knew you?” Eric’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean knew you?”
“He came after me,” Jason tried to explain himself. “When everyone was being gunned down, he came specifically after me. Why? If it was because I was apart of the news team, they would have come after you."
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Eric replied quickly. “They could have just as easily been working their way through the room.”
However, he could not deny the truth of Jason’s allegation. When the leader had seen the young Kiwi, nothing else had seemed to matter. He had more or less forgotten the others in the room and headed straight for Jason.
“He knew me Eric,” Jason insisted, “he knew me personally and he kept asking me about a woman.”
“A woman?” Eric’s brow arched even higher. “What woman?”
“The Shield Bitch he called her,” he answered, “is the shield bitch here too? That’s what he said?”
“Shield bitch?” Eric burst out because it sounded absurd. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Jason confessed, “but when he said it, there was something in his voice.”
“What?” Eric leaned in closer as he waited for the answer.
“Fear,” Jason met his eyes. “There was fear.”
**************
It did not take them long to arrive at the campus and Eric was grateful that it was midday since hopefully, the professor would not be teaching a class at lunch time and would have time to talk to them. As it was, Eric wondered how much they ought to tell him since the man would have almost certainly have heard about the deaths of the excavation team by now. He and Jason decided to play it by ear for the moment. If it became necessary to tell him the truth, Eric hoped Hans was capable of hearing it because beyond this particular course of action, Eric had no other plan save running home to Australia and somehow, he had the sense that they were no safer there than there were here.
It did not take them long to find their way to the Paleoanthropology Department with Eric paying little attention to the plethora of pretty co-eds that happened past with their Nordic good looks and perfect bone structure. A testament to the urgency of their situation. It seemed so profane as they walked along the manicured lawns and tree-lined paves that little more than a day ago, they were fighting for their lives in a freezing cold river being pursued by possibly supernatural monsters.
When they were finally shown into the office of Professor Han Skogull, they were confronted by a man in his late fifties, dangerously close to retirement age, with snow-white hair and a face leathered by an outdoor life. They had not made an appointment out of some irrational fear that Malcolm Industries might have Skogull’s ear and to do so would be giving the enemy another opportunity to ambush them again.
“Doctor Skogull,” Eric introduced himself after he and Jason were invited into the room. “My name is Eric Rowan and this my associate Jason Merrick, we’re from Channel Nine News in Australia, if you’re not busy we would like a word with you.”
“What does an Australian news team want with me?” He asked with genuine curiosity.
“We’ve come a long way to see you in order to get your opinion on artifact that has come into our possession,” Eric continued, aware that he was being evasive but short of telling the man the truth, it was the best he could do.
“Really?” Skogull looked the two men curiously, wondering what could be so important to bring it to him personally. “Tell me about it,” he asked reaching for his spectacles at the corner of the desk.
Eric nodded at Jason who reached into the knapsack and produced the objects in question. Placing it on the desk, Skogull’s first impulse was to reach for the helmet. He studied it for a few moments, his brow arching periodically as he scanned the artifact closely. Of course it was impossible for him to make any astonishing revelation from just this observation alone and Eric was reluctant to tell him about Petra Tebben’s estimation of its correct age, not until he heard what Skogull had to say.
“Where did you find this?” Skogull asked putting down the helm after a few minutes of interminable silence.
“Iceland,” Eric answered gingerly, “it was found in the a chasm about a kilometer from the surface.’
“This isn’t exactly my field but the design is unusual,” Skogull responded. “Not to mention the size. This is too large for human and the fossilization around the metal seems to indicate extreme age, consistent with what I might have found on fossils of early man.”
“Tell him the truth Eric,” Jason said suddenly.
Eric stared him. “Jason...”
“Tell him the truth because we need answers and we don’t have time to wait,” the younger man stated. “Those people were his friends, he has a right to know what happened to them.”
Eric swore under his breath at Jason’s outburst. The kid was too damn noble for his own good. It was always a sore point between them out in the field. Jason had great difficulty maintaining the emotional detachment journalists were meant to have and there had been too many occasions when Jason had complicated their assignments with his idealism. Unfortunately, it was also one of the qualities that Eric admired in Jason, the fact that despite all the ugliness he saw, Jason honestly believed that people were good and could be trusted if offered the chance to prove it.
One of these days, it was going to get them killed.
“Explain yourselves gentlemen,” Hans declared, making the connection with far greater speed than Eric would have given him credit.
“Professor,” Eric cleared his throat and threw Jason a dark look, “we took these items from Petra Tebben’s archaeological excavation in the Temple Glacier. We were there, the day the team was killed.”
“What?” Hans exclaimed, rising to his seat, his face turning so white that it almost resembled the shade of his hair.
“Doctor Tebben had requested a news team in order to expose her find before Malcolm Industries had the opportunity to cancel her grant and stopped the work,” Eric continued. “She called us in to do a story, hoping that the finds which included that helm and something else, would gain national acclaim and she could justify the continuation of the work.”
Eric went on to explain how he and Jason had been shown the helm and the primary artifact, the curious crystal like object trapped in a shell of stone. He told the professor of how nine men in dark clothing had appeared in the cavern where the dig was situated and opened fire, killing everyone and might have done the same to them if not for their escape. He omitted the supernatural aspects of the killing, certain that Skogull would find it even more difficult to accept than Eric would himself. However, what he did reveal was enough.
“And there is no way to prove it?” Skogull managed to say after their narration was over.
“Not a one,” Eric shook his head. “You can check our credentials if you like and contact the Icelandic authorities. I’m sure my allegation is filed somewhere but truth is, the men who killed the excavation team want us dead and we have to know what is so important about these object, they were willing to kill everyone to hide its existence from the world.”
“But it is impossible,” Skogull stammered. “This cannot have been made a hundred and fifty thousand years ago,” he said staring at the helm. “Mankind was able to fashion tools and objects out of bone, stone and wood but not metal and certainly not like this. For all its degradation, the work is extremely fine. Craftsmanship like this is not a mere aberration, it’s sophisticated and requires technique perfected over time.”
“And this?” Eric gestured to the artifact that Skogull had given a cursory examination.
“I have never seen anything like it. Doctor Tebben was correct in saying that it was not a jewel but it is not a crystal either. You said she claimed it was radiating energy?”
“Apparently the spectrometer was unable identify what it was,” Jason added. “She had everyone handling it wear protective gear. We haven’t been that careful but we have avoided touching the crystal or whatever it is directly. She believed this was the major find, not the helm.”
Han examined the object while holding it in a pair of calipers, his eyes catching the gleam in its surface. There was something powerful about the artifact. He could feel its resonance almost on an instinctual level. Even though it was only partially exposed, Hans knew that to discern its true nature, it would have to be removed from its husk, so that a proper analysis had been made. His colleagues and friends may have died because of this little oddity of nature and Hans knew to understand why that had happened, he would have to unlock its secrets.
************
Frank had just finished his last class and was on his way home when he remembered that he wanted to check in on Hans. Thanks to the events of the last day, with the arrival of their unexpected guests, Frank was ashamed to admit that he had forgotten about the old Professor who was still grieving for those killed in the accident at Hofskojull. After ushering his last student out of the room and shutting the door to the lecture hall behind him, Frank made his way through the faculty building towards the Professor's office. He wondered if Miranda would be too upset if he invited the old man home for dinner again, especially when they had something of a full house already.
So far the two visitors had contented themselves with remaining in close proximity of the house. Frank suspected that all the traveling they had done to reach him in Norway had engendered in them a desire to simply rest for a few days, without the urgency of having to board some form of modern transport for the next leg of their journey. In fact, they had remarked wishing to see some of the country because it reminded them greatly of home. When questioned again of where that place actually was, they had once again managed to step the inquiry, inciting Miranda's ire to no end. Despite her detached and disciplined manner, his wife could be very much female at times and burdened with the gender's natural inquisitiveness.
There was a good reason it was Pandora who opened the box, he thought to himself.
The twins seemed to enjoy the children the most however and while parents in this day and age may have reservations about two adult men having such a fondness for two young boys, Frank sensed nothing sinister or inappropriate about it. He could not understand why he was so certain of this but knew that if Miranda did not suspect them in this regard, then he could be confident of his own judgment in the matter. They told the boys of stories involving wizards and magic rings, of great kings and battles, these were tales so richly textured that Frank was curious to know where they had originated because he wished he had known of them a child. While Sam had little interest in the literary, his first born nevertheless listened with rapt attention while Pip absorbed everything with wonder and awe.
Walking down the corridor, he heard voices in the quiet faculty. With most of the students scattering to their last classes of the day, the staff usually followed the exodus. Hans always stayed late since the Professor confessed to him once that it was during these hours that he got the most thinking done. Frank paused in his footsteps because one of the voices he heard belonged to Hans and quickly discerned that the Professor was in the laboratory. Unaware that Hans was working on anything that required lab work, Frank immediately strode towards the room. If Hans was throwing himself into some new project, it was the best thing for him Frank decided.
Stepping into the laboratory, Frank saw Hans talking to two strangers with great animation. Neither were men he recognized and they certainly did not look like university students. Their eyes darted to him the instant he entered the room like deer that were caught in headlights. Their anxiety at seeing him was unmistakable and immediately raised Frank's internal alarm that something was not right.
"Hans, is everything all right?" Frank asked, eyeing the men cautiously as he walked deeper into the room.
Hans who had been so engrossed with what he was doing at the bench had not noticed Frank's presence until he spoke and then promptly looked over his shoulder to exclaim boisterously, "Frank, I'm glad you're here. I could use your help on this."
"Professor," the tall man with the dark hair objected almost instantly.
He was Australian, Frank noted silently as he continued his approach despite the man's disapproval of his presence.
"Its alright," Hans said dismissing his guests' fears, "this is Frank Miller, he's one of our lecturers and a notable paleoanthropologist. You can trust him."
"What is going on?" Frank asked suspiciously, his eyes raking over the two strangers with just as much scrutiny as they were visiting upon him.
"These gentlemen have brought me an artifact from the site at Iceland. This was what Petra Tebben was working on, this was the find that she claiming would vindicate her," Hans said with no small amount of excitement.
"Really?" Frank stared at them because neither looked like archaeologists of any description. The shirt worn by the tall one was worth at least week's salary to Frank.
"This is Eric Rowan and Jason Merrick of the Australian Channel Nine news," Hans announced while remaining hunched over the workbench, meticulously chipping away the fossilized layer of dirt around the object that had captured his attention so fully. "They were the last people to see the team alive."
"And they simply gave you their artifacts?" Frank stared at Eric with growing animosity. Han's scientific curiosity often blinded him to people and Frank was too much Bryan Miller's brother to be so completely trusting.
"Just wait a bloody minute…" Eric growled, starting to get very annoyed by what this Pom was implying.
"Frank," Hans raised his head, equally annoyed that he had to stop what he was doing to intervene in the growing tensions. "These men did not steal anything. The excavation team was murdered. They barely escaped with their lives and these objects. They came to me to find out what was so important about the artifacts that Malcolm Industries is willing to kill anyone who has come into contact with it."
"What?" Frank stared at Hans and then at the two men in astonishment, his jaw dropping open in shock. This was the sort of thing he expected from Bryan, not Professor Skogull with whom he shared coffee and discussions about their field every morning. "Murdered."
"Gunned down right in front of us," Eric retorted bluntly. "Before she died Tebben was certain that this was the find of the century. I think Malcolm Industries murdered them all to keep it a secret."
"Over this?" Frank reached for the artifact that Hans was working on because he was too stunned to think clearly. He had intended to pick it up by the fossilized exterior but instead his fingertips grazed the smooth surface of red uncovered by Hans. No sooner than his flesh had made contact, surge of heat passed through his skin. The pain came soon after, sharp and intense.
"BLOODY HELL!" He shouted and released it immediately, allowing the artifact to fall on the floor, his fingertips stinging with pain.
"Frank!" Hans cried out in concern. "What's wrong?"
Frank saw the younger man, Jason reach to pick it up and immediately reacted. "Be careful! Don't touch the crystal!"
"What?" Jason stared at the Englishman who was clutching his hand, his faced etched in pain.
"The bloody thing burns!"
"Burn?" Eric exclaimed in astonishment. "What you do mean burns?"
"Look," Frank held out his hand and showed the Australian the fingers that had touched the exposed facet.
Eric's eyes widened to see flesh blistering and though it was not a severe burn, it was still a burn, produced by an object could not be generating heat of any kind. However, even as the thought flashed across his mind, Eric remembered what Petra had said about it exuding energy levels that were not only unexplainable but also exceedingly high. She had thought it was a new source of power and while Eric had been skeptical about the possibility even after she had been murdered, he now wondered if she had not been correct after all.
"This is insane," Eric stared to mutter. "How can a rock buried under the earth for so long be able to burn someone just by touch? Its impossible!"
"You know why," Jason replied quietly.
"I won't believe that!" Eric snapped, unaware that he and Jason had completely lost the two scientists in the room listening to the conversation. "Its ludicrous!"
"What is?" Frank asked, beginning to empathize with Eric because the anxiety he saw on the Australian's face was genuine. Something was rattling this man badly.
"Frank," Hans intervened, "look at this." The doctor drew his colleague into more familiar territory.
He led Frank to the other side of the bench where the helmet had lain during the entire exchange. To Frank, the design was unusual and he could not recognize it but it was hardly unusual. There were so much about the past that was shrouded in mystery and despite the efforts of the scientific community to explain everything logically, they could only do so with what evidence they had. The rest was simply speculation.
"How old do you think this is?" Hans asked.
Frank picked up the object and examined it. He had been around prehistoric artifacts for most of his career and though the fossilization seemed consistent with some of the objects he had uncovered in that time, the logical part of his brain refused to entertain the notion. This helmet was clearly made of steel and though a proper cleaning was required for them to get a better idea of its origins, one thing did strike him as odd. It was too large for a human skull. Since his field was the study of hominids, that was the first thing that captured his notice. This helmet was too large for the skull of a human, however this was easily explainable. Poor craftsmanship but still it nagged at him, the amount of degradation in the steel.
"If I did not know better, I would say pre-Calcolithic but that's impossible," Frank replied. "This is made of iron and the metal worked during that period was copper."
"I got the confirmation from the lab an hour ago," Hans said proudly. "This object has a potassium argon dating of between 100 – 150 thousand years old."
Frank's eyes widened. "That can't be."
"It is Frank," Hans beamed like a happy child. "And that artifact which burned your fingers may even be older. The lab could not gain an accurate reading on it."
Frank turned to Eric and Jason, hoping that they could tell him something that would refute Han's words but it was clear that even if Eric had difficulty accepting it, he believed everything the Professor had said because he had already heard it from Petra Tebben.
"I'm guessing you're not going to be able to tell us what that is," Eric frowned, the answers that he and Jason had hoped to find were not forthcoming. So much depended on their being able to understand the nature of the artifacts, mostly notably their lives. Eric felt a wave of disappointment knowing that they had come all this way for nothing.
"These things are never quick Eric," Hans said patiently, aware of how difficult it must be for someone not of the field to grasp the notion that artifacts could take years to decipher. "We need to do more testing and now that Frank is here, we may get it to the bottom of what this is even sooner. It will take time but we will find your answers, I promise you."
Hans' words were sincere but Eric could tell by the skepticism in Frank's eyes about their chances to uncover the truth that the Professor was being optimistic at best. Time, Eric thought himself cynically. Time was as priceless as the artifact Professor Skogull and Doctor Miller were so eager to decipher and Eric was gripped with the feeling that they did not have much of it to squander.
***********
The sun had begun descending from its noonday peak when the dark vehicles arrived at the university.
Bearing little difference from their counterparts in Iceland, the sleek black Jaguars entered the main parking lot of the campus as if they were their animal namesakes, circling the dark bitumen before coming to a gradual halt. Their appearance captured the attention of anyone in proximity, the gleaming surface of polish metal catching the eye of bystanders under the dwindling sunlight. Students noted in passing the arrival of the cars, some paused long enough to see the vehicle's halt, wondering if someone important was visiting the campus.
They were soon to learn otherwise when they saw the five tall men that emerged in their black suits, their faces pasty and their eyes covered beneath sunglasses. It was impossible to look upon these men and not feel a shudder of some unexplainable fear and students who had paused to look soon found reason to be on their way again. The men did not ask any questions, they did not need to and because they were not men anyway.
The Nazgul did not like the sunlight even if they found no difficulty moving about in the waking hours. There was little need to ask for directions to their quarry because once again, the treasure in the possession of the humans call to them with a voice of its own. The Nazgul could feel its immense power radiating outward and had only to follow it to its greatest concentration to find their prey. The humans who possessed it had little inkling of its true nature and no idea that as long as they kept it within reach, the Nine would always find them.
This time, there would be no failure.
*************
With the presence of two extra people in the house, Miranda felt it prudent to make a visit to the local supermarket and replenish their food supplies. Being ex-military, rations were always a priority with her and that thinking had carried on even in this domestic situation. It always amused her that what military men would call training, housewives called common sense. The mindset that most homemakers had the mental faculties of Lucille Ball when in truth, it was closer to James Bond since they had to know how to do everything.
Her guests had asked to accompany her on her shopping trip and once again, Miranda felt her head filling with questions she should not ask. Bryan had asked that they not ask questions but as Miranda saw their reaction to being inside the car and how they studied everything as if seeing it for the first time, her curiosity surfaced once more. Who were they that Bryan should trust them so implicitly and why couldn’t they reveal their true origins, even if it was just the name of the place? Frank had become conditioned to not ask questions because Bryan and while Miranda understood it to some degree, she could not deny that the lack of knowledge made her uncomfortable.
However, despite all her question about the two men in her house, there was one thing she knew for certain that had no basis for being but simply was. She trusted them. When they claimed that they would not harm her family, she believed them. Miranda was able to see past most facades and yet when they said they could be trusted, she knew without doubt that they had not lied. There were very few people that could engender this sort of feeling from her. Bryan, most notably but certainly not strangers that had entered her life a short time ago with their origins a mystery and their behavior frankly odd.
Even now, as Miranda put away the groceries, she glanced at the living room and saw Elladan in front of the television watching cartoons with another can of Coke in his hand. These people had a serious sugar craving, she had discovered since their arrival. It was hard to believe they could be capable of keeping an intelligence operative safe from his enemies. Elrohir was exploring Miranda’s piano in the corner of the room once more. The way his fingers brushed the ivory keys experimentally and the manner in which he listened to the notes made Miranda think he had never seen the instrument before.
“Do you play?” She asked him.
“No,” he raised his eyes to hers; “I do not. This is yours?”
“Yes,” Miranda nodded, “when I was a little girl, my mother insisted that my sister and I learn to play. I took it to but she was never very good.”
“Your sister?” Elrohir asked somewhat fascinated by the whole notion of the shield maiden having a sister, “what is she like?”
“Very different from me,” Miranda replied recalling the sister who believed life could not go on unless there was a shoe store in the close proximity and a good manicurists on speed dial. “Laura lives in Paris. She’s a magazine photographer, one of those jet setting types that fly from place to place nursemaiding anorexic models.”
Elrohir had no idea most of what she said but he suspected that Miranda and her sister did not share a good relationship. “You are not close then.”
“We’re sisters,” she shrugged, “we don’t have to be close.”
“That is unfortunate,” he replied. “Family should always remain so.”
“I rather not,” she replied shortly, always getting defensive on the subject of her sister. “I don’t need to hear how I could have done anything with my life and decided to throw it away on being a housewife and a mother, or joining the before that. I hear enough of that from my parents without needing to hear it from my sister, the Vogue photographer.”
Miranda stared at the crimson eyes before her in disbelief.
Logic told her that what she was seeing was impossible but that she had seen it with her own eyes told her that it was very possible indeed. She had killed him. She had put two bullets into his head and four more into his body and killed him. Miranda may have been rusty with a gun but she knew that she had not missed. Every bullet had penetrated his flesh. She was as certain of this as the air in her lungs. Unfortunately, whether or not she had shot him did not seem to matter because at this instant, he was standing before her, large as life and very much alive.
"I have waited a long time for this," he continued to speak, his low voice sending shivers through her skin. "I knew when I saw the hobbit that you will not be far behind. That you are both here makes the moment far sweeter since I have no need to keep either of you alive."
Miranda did not allow him to continue and promptly raised her gun to fire again, this time at point blank range. She pulled the trigger continuously, allowing the semi-automatic 9mm Lurz to do its worst as it emptied every bullet in its magazine into the creature before her. Miranda made every bullet count, sending him staggering backwards, his head snapping back and forth like a marionette under the ministrations of a clumsy puppeteer. The mask on his face peeled, white rubber shredding under the force of the projectiles. She saw him jerk before her spasmodically and waited to see if he would fall.
He did not.
Instead, after the discharge smoke had cleared and the room was bathed in the silence of astonishment, Miranda saw him straighten up and face her again. This time, there was no mistaking why he had not died, why bullets did not affect him. The mask clung to his face in shreds of rubber, revealing his true nature. His crimson eye had told her that he was not human but until this moment, she had not realized the true horror of what he was. Beneath the mask, where there should have been skin and bone, flesh and muscle, there was nothing.
She could see the mask clinging the back of his invisible skull. Its texture was just as ruined as it was in the front but there was nothing in between. It was like looking through glass.
"What are you?" She managed to say, her astonishment making her forget her situation.
"Your death," he hissed and with that, lashed out his fist in a powerful blow.
Frank could only watch in horror as the creature standing before his wife, whatever it was hit Miranda with such force that she practically flew across the floor and smashed into a desk, collapsing it beneath her with her weight.
"MIR!" He shouted, running forward before the words left his lips. Unfortunately, the enemy was determined to keep him in their presence and immediately closed in on him. Cold hands grabbed him, refusing to let him go to Miranda who was still lying amongst the wreckage of the desk unmoving. They emphasized their menace by the gun barrel that was aimed in his direction by one of them. Frank struggled to break free nonetheless, Miranda was too important to him to do anything else.
"Let me go you bastard!" He shouted but the impassive masks were as unmovable as their grip upon him. They were determined to keep him restrained and Frank wondered what was so important about him that they were willing to kill all the others but leave him alive. It surely could not just be about Bryan could it?
Even if his protests felt on the deaf ears of his captors, Frank was by no means unheard. The Nazgul who were not restraining the archaeologists had their weapons trained on the remaining occupants in the room. Elladan and Elrohir stood side by side, having armed themselves with some formidable knives in Miranda's kitchen prior to their arrival here. The blades were hardly elven blessed and would do little against the Nazgul but at the moment the twins would take any advantage they could acquire. At a later time when they had escaped, they would perform the elven blessing required on some appropriate weapons in order to defend themselves.
The Nazgul with their weapons trained on the two sons of Elrond were somewhat distracted by what was happening between their leader, whose singular focus on Miranda left no doubt that he was once the Witch King of Angmar, whom Eowyn had slain at the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Also it appeared that there was something in the room that they were interested in finding for their gazes appeared to be shifting between in three different directions. Unfortunately, such distractions could result in fatal mistakes when dealing with two warriors as seasoned as Elladan and Elrohir. Already, Elrohir's hand was creeping towards the knife concealed in his clothing. Elladan noted the intent in his brother's eyes and sought a more disabling solution. He saw it an instant later and waited for Elrohir to proceed before taking advantage of it.
The Witch King was making his way across the floor towards Miranda and Frank was struggling even harder to break free in order to help her. The other two men in the room were similarly restrained with the Nazgul's weapons and the elves knew they had a narrow window of opportunity in which to act. Both familiar to Elladan or Elrohir but neither twin could place them at this moment. The thoughts of the elven brothers were still too fixed on the urgency of their situation and deadly threat to Miranda to be able to concentrate on anything else.
It mattered little who they were, Elrohir thought to himself as he heard one of them shouting at the Nazgul to take something and leave, as long as they knew to act when the opportunity to escape presented itself.
"I said kill them!" The Witch King shouted in an effort to silence the distraction caused by the humans. It was the woman that he wanted to kill himself, Elrohir thought bitterly, the woman he would have unless they did something now.
As the Nazgul turned to them, Elrohir pulled out the blade in his possession and flung it with deadly accuracy. The Nazgul nearest to him hissed in pain as the butcher's knife embedded itself in the center of its skull almost to the hilt. The wraith screeched in pain, its invulnerability diminished considerably by the absence of Sauron feeing its power. While the weapons of men could not kill them, they could be hurt it seemed. Elladan grabbed the metal stool and smashed it into the body of the other wraith, ensuring that the weapon in the creature's grip went flying.
Jason leapt for the artefact the instant the two strangers on the other side of the room had acted, admiring them for their speed and their courage. The creature nearest to him saw what he was doing and attempted to stop him. Gunfire exploded past his ear as Jason dove towards the bench and grabbed the artefact that had cost Hans Skogull his life, careful not to handle it by its facet, recalling what had happened to Frank Miller when he had made the effect. Fortunately, the artefact was still covered by a layer of fossilized stone and as soon as Jason grabbed a hold of it, he rolled of the bench and upended it so that it would take the brunt of the bullets. Wooden splinters flew in all directions as the young man took cover behind it.
However, the assassins were not about to let him use the table for shelter and moved to shove the bench away. Jason reacted quickly, throwing his foot out and smashing the ball of his heel against the assassin's wrist. The creature recoiled his hand but did not falter. Instead, the dark suited killer threw out a fist that connected with Jason's jaw and damn near broke it. Jason felt pain flaring through his skull at the hard strike. He blinked away his pain and saw a hand reaching to grab him and knew that if he were to fall into the creature's grip, he would be done for. Instinctively, out of sheer desperation, Jason scrambled to retrieve the artefact in his knapsack and grabbed it just as the hand was about to wrap its fingers around his arm.
Pressing the facet side of the artefact into the creature's flesh, Jason saw the creature howl in pain. He did not even know how it was possible for the artefact's heat to be felt through thick leather gloves and chided himself for forgetting that very important point when he had made this desperate bid to defend himself. However it was possible mattered very little because the effect was undeniable. The creature did nothing less than scream in pain. It was a sound unlike anything that Jason had ever heard, like a shriek one would hear from a banshee in the some dark, stygian tale. It cut through the ears of everyone present and froze the other dark suited villains in their tracks. The creature who suffered this agony, retreated, forgetting all about the gun as he clutched his hand in pain, the leather glove he was wearing unmarked somehow. Jason could not understand it but then that was nothing new. Since coming into contact with the artefact, confusion seemed to be the order of the day.
The artefact fell on the floor between it and Jason and as the younger man went to retrieve it, he noticed that it seemed darker somehow. The crimson had deepened in colour that it was almost black. He wondered if it was a trick of the light but knew it could not be. In any case, Jason did not debate the matter. Picking it up carefully once more, after seeing what it was capable of doing, he placed it in the knapsack once more and looked up to find Eric.
The two men who inspired this melee were making their way across the floor towards Frank. Jason saw the gun the creature had dropped when he attacked it with the artefact. Although he had never used one to defend himself, he did know how they worked. He saw the assassins opening fire on the two men as they advanced towards Frank and aimed the gun in their direction, scrambling behind the table first. His first impulse was to run but it appeared that this drama had suddenly widened in its scope and he was not about to leave without the others. Pulling the trigger, bullets tore through the air and slammed into their bodies, halting their pursuit. They staggered once again by the impact of the projectiles but like before, did not fall. Instead, they turned towards him.
"Oh shit," Jason muttered.
************
.
When Eric saw the blond woman smashing into the table, sending Frank into a near hysterical frenzy to reach her, he could not longer deny what Jason had been trying to tell him. He saw the crimson eyes that Jason had seen in Hofskojull and there was no denying that it was real. Everything that Jason had claimed about these creatures was true and now Eric would have to accept it. His mind could no longer ignore the evidence of his eyes, anymore than he could ignore the fact that the woman had damn near emptied an entire clip into the leader of the assassins and he was still alive.
If they wanted to get out of this nightmare alive, there was no other way but to accept it.
When the creature had struck at the woman, flinging her aside like she was little more than a rag doll, everything went to completely hell. Her two companions launched themselves at the enemy in a bold attack and the ensuing melee had ensured the outbreak of further pandemonium throughout the room. Gunfire exploded through the air, deafening their ears with its thunderous sound, shattering instruments and riddling the walls with bullets. Fragments of glass and plaster created a second front of deadly projectiles as the force of gunfire sent pieces everywhere.
Eric crouched low, trying to seek out Jason in all this chaos and sighted the young cameraman with a gun in his hand. Jason had come to him after serving in the New Zealand army so it did not surprise Eric that the young man knew how to handle the weapon. Jason was firing at the enemy, trying to give the two men with long dark hair the appropriate cover needed to reach Frank. The archaeologist was still in the grip of his captors, who for some reason felt that he was the greater prize. Eric's mind was filled with questions on that point but suppose that the time for answers would come later, if they survived this.
When he saw the leader of the assassins making its way towards the woman who had yet to get up, Eric was prompted into moving. Perhaps it was his natural inclination to come to the rescue of a lady or something more, he was not certain. He only knew that he had to help her. Eric's increased pace saw him reaching her first. She was still lying amidst the wreckage of the table she had been thrown into, somewhat daze. She had begun to stir when he skidded next to her and he found a swell of admiration at the nerve she had displayed in facing the creature to begin with. She had certainly fared better in the face off than poor Petra Tebben.
"Come on luv," he said taking her arm, shifting his gaze anxiously between her and the advancing enemy, "you've got to get on your feet. He's coming."
"What is he?" She managed to ask, shaking the disorientation out of her head. "I put an entire clip into him."
"I don't know," Eric replied, offering her the most honest answer he could think of at the moment. "We've got to get out of here." He insisted.
"Where's Frank?" Miranda demanded, ignoring the stranger's plea for her to move and immediately searched the room for her husband. She saw him an instant later, still within the grip of these dark suited monsters that could not be killed with bullets. If anything had the ability to chase away the fog in her brain it was the awareness of his life in danger.
Eric did not have a chance to answer because he saw a shadow move over him and Miranda's gaze shifting past his shoulder.
"The children of the Riddermark," the creature hissed. "Your brother cannot save you now shield bitch. I will kill him just as easily as I am going to kill you!"
"Like bloody hell you will," Eric kicked out his foot and landed it on the assassin's knee. The enemy staggered but did not fall; further adding further proof to Eric's belief that they were not dealing with a human but something else entirely. Unfortunately, this realization did him little good because the creature was still standing and Eric had no idea how to hurt it, if it could be hurt at all.
At that moment, he remembered the helmet that accompanied them throughout their journey to Norway. He had little more than a second to ascertain where it was before the creature locked his arm around his throat and slammed him into the wall. Eric felt his head smash again the hard surface, a wave of pain flaring across his skull, pulling a blanket of disorientation around his senses. Somehow through this haze, he saw the helm. It was lying on the floor next to Hans Skogull's corpse, having fallen there during the battle.
Miranda saw the stranger who roused her in the grip of the creature. She saw him struggling to break free and knew that if she did not do something; he would be dead in seconds. Elladan and Elrohir had reached Frank and were doing battle with the creature's companions. Her husband was not exactly freed but his escape was being attended to and she recalled overhearing the monster making it known that they wanted Frank alive. She looked at the man who had tried to help her and felt a surge of affection for him, not unlike what she felt when Aksel had been tormenting her sons, inspiring in her the same fierce protection.
She ran forward and threw a powerful kick into the creature's side. Miranda had a sense that it would not be enough to hurt him permanently but the creature still had to adhere to some laws of physics. The force she was putting into that one kick would move him, no matter what he was. Her foot landed against ribs and under normal circumstances would have shattered the bone and sent fragments through organs. The training women that received in the SAS were extremely different to what was learnt by men. Men did not have the physical disadvantage of the weaker sex and since women agents would most likely be dealing with male enemies, their combat training was modified to suit. Thus Miranda not only knew how to kill but she knew how to ensure that the initial strikes be absolutely disabling.
If the creature had been human, he would most likely be spiting blood from internal injuries.
The strike caused him to release the Australian who slumped to the floor when the enemy released his grip. Miranda faced the creature once more, no longer taking into account that he had no face and ignoring the grotesque image that was his shredded mask over invisible flesh. It looked like someone had torn apart a human skull and scooped out all the insides. The image of him was going to stay with her a long time.
"For so long I have searched for you," it said malevolently, "I knew when I saw the hobbit you would be here. I have waited for an eternity to kill you, sister daughter of Theoden, I shall savour the moment just as long."
"I don't think so," Miranda retorted, ignoring his threats since it was more important to her to neutralize him rather than to bandy words about things she did not understand.
However, the creature showed surprising speed and grabbed her leg, spinning her around in mid air before allowing her to slam into the floor. Miranda felt glass and plaster biting into her skin but it was not in her nature to let scrapes slow her down. She flipped onto her feet once more and threw a fist into its face, hoping to affect it in someway but once again, it caught her fist as easily as it had caught her leg.
"You will have to do better than that," he sneered. "You no longer have the advantage of Pelennor."
With that he swung out in a backhanded blow that struck her across the cheek. The force of it sent Miranda sprawling, her jaw burning in pain and she could taste blood in her mouth. She landed on the floor hard. Her body crying out in protest at the painful landing. She did not linger in that position long because her instincts were awakened, despite a decade of being dormant. While she was probably a little rusty in some aspects of her former training, Miranda was rather surprised by how swiftly it had all come back to her when she needed it. She scrambled to her feet, preparing to launch another attack when suddenly, she heard the Australian call her.
"Use this!" He shouted as she turned to him. He was standing next to Hans' dead body and was carrying in his hands what looked like a helmet. When he had her attention, he flung the object to her and Miranda caught it easily, a look of question in her eyes.
"Hit him with that!" Eric shouted.
Miranda was sceptical about the effectiveness of this tarnished medieval helmet but did not have time to debate the matter as the creature came at her again. Instinctively, Miranda used the helmet to block the blow that would have shattered her nose if it had connected. The creature's fist landed against the metal surface and a most remarkable thing happened before her astonished eyes. His fist sizzled like his skin had just the surface of a heated skillet. She saw him retract his hand and scream in pain, the first real evidence she had been given that this thing could be harmed. Whatever this helmet was, it was capable of hurting him.
The realization had little more than a second to infuse itself into Miranda's consciousness before she exploited it. Clutching the helmet, as she would hold a bowling ball or a discus, Miranda swung the helmet at the enemy and struck him across his featureless face with a loud whack. The effect was immediate as the same sickening sizzle was heard. He howled in pain, a bone chilling sound that only made her hit him again in the same place. He reeled in pain and his agony gave her even greater incentive to keep striking. She slammed the helmet into his ribs and this time; the desired effect was produced, causing him to double over in pain. When he was on his knees, she brought the helm against his skull, sending him flat onto the floor; his face grinding into the debris covered surface. She pressed her knee against the back of his neck and kept the helmet poised above his head as she shouted to the creatures holding Frank.
"LET HIM GO!" She ordered, eyes blazing, showing them that she would smash the helmet into their leader's skull if they did not comply.
Elladan and Elrohir took the opportunity to wrestle Frank away from the Nazgul while they were battling with their decision. Without Sauron in this world, their powers were greatly diminished. In the days of old, not even an elven-blessed weapon could stop these creatures permanently and the twins had no idea how Miranda was able to capacitate the Witch King. However, they did not waste the opportunity. Picking up another stool, Elladan flung it against the back of the beast determined to keep Frank its prize. While lacking the power of Miranda's unexpected weapon, it did however disorientate the enemy enough for Frank who was already fighting hard to break free, escape his grip.
Frank saw the other creature lunging at him, to regain their grip but the archaeologist was not about to become captive again. He ducked quickly, scrambling across the floor on his hands and knees as the creature slammed on the ground. Like a spitting feline, the dark suited killer was soon on his feet, closing the distance between Frank and himself. Frank saw him advance a few more steps before a hail of bullets halted him in his tracks. Frank saw the bullets tearing across his chest and could only offer a nod of gratitude at the young man who had fired them from across the room.
"Frank we must leave!" Elrohir's voice suddenly exploded in his ears. "These creatures cannot be killed!"
"What?" Frank looked up at him as Elrohir pulled him to his feet. He was right of course. Frank had seen his wife empty and entire magazine of bullets into one of their chests and the bastard had still stood up. Questions filled his mind but the urgency in Elrohir's eyes told him that they would have to wait for the moment.
"Yes, alright," Frank nodded dumbfounded.
"Miranda!" Elladan was shouting at his wife. "Leave him! We must go!"
Miranda saw Frank in Elrohir's hands and felt a flood of relief. Even though she had no idea what they were, the strategist that she was trained to be could see that they were momentarily disorientated. Perhaps they did not expect such a ferocious defence from those in the room, whatever they reason, she assessed immediately that whatever advantage she and the others had, was temporary. It was wise to leave while they could. As it was, the commotion being caused by gunfire was going to bring the authorities and Miranda's mind was already wondering how they were going to explain all this.
The creature beneath her was gaining strength; she could feel the swell beneath her knees, the growing climax of rage and power that was even now bursting its banks. Elladan was right, they had to go and now. She would figure out what it was she had fought later, right now they had to get away from here while they still could. She brought the helmet down against the back of the creature's skill once more, certain that she would do little more than keep it disorientated. He uttered a grunt of pain as Miranda climbed off him and started to run towards Frank who was being ushered out of the room by Elrohir.
Suddenly the creature's hand lunged out and wrapped a fist around her ankle, pulling back hard enough to bring her down against the floor. Miranda felt the side of her head slamming against the floor but this time she was running on adrenaline and recovered faster. She saw the creature rising to his feet and saw her gun within reach. Scrambling for it, Miranda was prepared to shoot when she remembered that she had put entire clip into the thing and it had not slowed it down in the slightest. Checking her gun, she saw that she had one shot left in the breach but it might as well have been empty for all the good it would do. Suddenly her eye caught sight of something else and it gave her an idea.
"You, get the hell out of here!" She shouted at the Australian. "Take your friend with you!"
"Not without you!" He answered back, his eyes widened with anxiety because he could see the creature was not going to let them go so easily.
"DO IT!" Miranda fairly snarled.
He swore angrily but instead of leaving, he retrieved the helmet that had fallen to the floor first as Miranda turned to face the assassins who were now seeing their quarry about to escape and were about to give chase. Miranda paid little attention to any of them, having sighted what she needed a few seconds earlier and needed to acquire if any of them were to leave this room alive. She hardly noticed the Australian grabbing the young man who had been providing Elladan and Elrohir with cover, nor was she concerned with Frank because her husband was already out of the room and as far as she was concerned, better off than the rest of them.
"Miranda!" Elladan was shouting at her, urging her to the door.
"GO!" Miranda ordered. "I'll be right behind you."
"I think not," the enemy hissed behind her. She did not have to look over her shoulder to know that he was there. Although Miranda did not understand it, there was something altogether personal about his hatred for her. Unfortunately, it would have to be a question for another time. She picked up the object she had sighted earlier, concealed beneath a workbench. It was a perfectly routine piece of equipment in laboratory but at this moment, it was their only means of escape.
Without saying a word, she smashed the gas cylinder into his body, not caring whether or not it would harm him as the helmet had done. The weight of the cylinder used to give flame to the Bunsen burner on the bench, caused the enemy to stagger backward. The others were closing in on her and Miranda knew that if she did not make it to the door, she would never reach it. Running towards the door, she was almost to the exit when she paused and saw them following her closely.
"Hey!" She shouted at the being who wanted her dead so badly. "Catch!"
Miranda did not wait for him to catch it before she fired the last bullet in her gun. No sooner than she had pulled the trigger, she spun on her heels and launched herself through the open doorway, not waiting to see what would happen when the projectile struck the hard, metal shell of the cylinder. The explosion that followed sent a blast of heat washing across her back and the shockwave aided her leap through the door. She slammed into the wall of the outside corridor and landed on the floor in time to see a ball of fire coming towards her. Hardly pausing to take breath, Miranda was on her feet and rushing to avoid the flames. She could see Frank and the others along corridor, her husband was not about to go anywhere without her and was running back to ensure that she had made her escape.
Miranda looked over her shoulder and saw the gust of flames escaping the lab and wondered if fire alone was enough to kill those creatures. She rather doubted it but hoped that the explosion would give them the time to make their escape. She took a moment to catch her breath but suspected that time was against them. She knew now without any doubt that this was the enemy Bryan was trying to protect them from and now that they had been discovered, Miranda knew they could not stay here.
"Mir!" Frank ran to his wife, grateful to see her. If it was not for Elladan making certain that he was ushered out the door, Frank would never have left her alone in that room to face those things, whatever they were. As it was, he had been quite astonished by how she had managed to save them all, considering how close everyone in the room had come to dying in a hail of bullets.
"Frank!" Miranda exclaimed as they met in a tight embrace. For a moment, the peril their lives had suddenly been plunged into was forgotten. There was only the gratitude that both of them had emerged from the melee unscathed. "Are you alright?"
"I was going to ask the same of you!" He replied, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the mother of his children had managed to defeat those creatures with almost effortless skill. It was a side of her he had never seen before and Frank was trapped between anxiety and amazement at what she had been capable of.
"I'm fine," she said and noted that his face was frowning in concern at the bruises across her jaw and the side of her face. "Its nothing that won't heal. Frank we can't stay here. I don't know what those things were but I don't think I was able to stop them permanently."
"You're right," Frank agreed, brushing aside his reservations about Miranda for the moment because they needed to leave. The hallway was filling with smoke and the others were making their way out of the building. No doubt the commotion of gunfire and the explosion was going to bring others to this place and at the moment, Frank had no wish to answer any questions when he had so many himself that needed answering. "Let's get to the house. We'll figure out what to do there."
"I don't think that's safe," she answered as he took her hand and Miranda noted that Frank tried not to notice the gun that was clutched in the other.
"I agree but it will give us a chance to think about what we're going to do next," Frank replied.
"We have to get to the school," Miranda declared as she and Frank ran down the hallway, to join their guests and the other participants of this drama. "We need to pick up Pip and Sam."
"We'll do that but it was just bad luck that those things found me," Frank replied as they jogged down the corridor, leaving the ever thickening smoke. In the distance, Frank and Miranda could hear the siren from fire engines and police cars growing louder. "I don't think they expected to find me here and if that's the case, they may not know about the boys either."
"It won't take them long to find out," she said grimly.
"Assuming they managed to survive the blast," Frank looked down the corridor and saw only smoke and fire emanating from the doorway of the lab. The flames were not content to remain content within the confines of the laboratory and were making their way out of the room into the corridor. It would not be long before the entire faculty building was consumed in fire. As it was, the explosion had probably damaged the sprinkler system unleashing the full might of the inferno upon the building.
"I don't doubt that they did," Miranda declared, meeting his eyes with a gleam that was more than just a possibility but rather a certainty.
"Somehow, I didn't think it was going to be that easy," Frank sighed.
*************
When Irina Sadko received the telephone call from one of the Nine informing them that Bryan Miller's brother had been found, she was not surprised to hear that once again the Nazgul had failed in their duty to retrieve the human. From within the confines of her Paris office, she was seriously beginning to question how David had managed to get anything accomplished with such incompetents as his servants. The wraiths' connection to each other provided the phantom creatures with a kind of collective consciousness that allowed one to know the thoughts of the other even when they were separated by distance. Thus while five of their number was engaged in the battle to retrieve Frank Miller, the others who had been lying in wait outside the building were being provided with new instructions as Irina ruminated on this new information.
It did not take her long to discover that there was a Frank Miller listed in the University of Oslo's faculty personnel directory. Thanks to the marvels of the Internet and computers in general, she was soon able to discern that Frank Miller had a family residing with him at the campus that included a wife named Miranda and two sons, Samuel and Philip, aged five and seven respectively. By the time that she was told that the Nine had not captured the archaeologist and were forced to flee the scene after local authorities were drawn to the gun battle that had taken place during the effort, Irina decided to attack the problem differently.
Instead of chasing their prey half way across Europe, there was a much simpler way to bring them to her, now that she was aware of all the facts. While their efforts to date had not impressed Irina very much, she did know that they were relentless and they could move quickly when the need demanded it. For her plan to work now, they would have to exert those abilities with absolutely no margin for error.
This was to be a race and if the Nine or Irina ever wished to retrieve David Saeran, then they would have to win.
**************
He was dreaming.
It was an old dream, one that he had many times in his life. He learned long ago not to fear them because mum always said that dreams lived only in your head and they could not exist outside unless you allowed it. His dreams were in actual truth nightmares but fortunately, it was not in Sam's nature to fear what he did not believe was real. For a boy his age, he was surprisingly pragmatic about such things. Dad said that he acquired that trait from his Uncle Bryan whom Sam remembered only vaguely because the man never visited that often and when he did, seemed terribly uncomfortable around his young nephews.
Whatever the reason, whenever Sam was visited by these nightmares, he looked upon them with a sense of unreality though at the time, their ability to frighten him was considerable. Still, he told himself that these were things with had real power over him and when he awoke, they soon faded out of memory. The nightmares left only one vivid image in the waking world that Sam refused to indulge in any shape or form, no matter how much he tried to dispel it. The memory was like a thorn in his mind, a jagged nail that would make him bleed if he looked too closely at it. The dreams did not plague him often so the image was shunted deep inside the recesses of his psyche, to the place children hid all things that frightened them, even when they were as brave as Sam.
The image of riders in black.
On this occasion, he dreamed he was walking on an endless road. On previous occasions, the road stretched across the barren wasteland of a treeless plain, where the soil on the ground felt like ash and he could feel sharp stones digging into his feet. Other times, it was a dark forest with big looming trees and shadows everywhere. Today, it was the latter and the forest seemed even more pervading if such a thing was possible. He was filled with a deep sense of urgency to keep moving and although Pip sometimes appeared in the dream with him, today there was no sign of his brother, only the other.
Always the other.
The other, whom Sam could never remember well enough to recall clearly when he was awake, was also here. He knew nothing about his companion except that every instinct in his bones told him that when they were together, he was exactly where he ought to be. It was odd, this feeling he felt towards this unknown face that was deeper than friendship, greater than love, a sense that at the other's side was where Sam belonged and where he would always be because that was the cosmic design of his existence. His young mind could not fully understand the enormity of it but of this one thing he had no doubt.
He dreamed they were running through the darkness. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the fear rose up from the pit of his stomach with such intensity that he wanted to scream. Fear was not a feeling that Sam was accustomed to experiencing or admitting to but when he was in this dream, there was no ability in him to control it. It washed over him in unrelenting waves of terror and the threat that loomed in the back of his mind was no childish fear that one might experience hiding from a bully, this was a different kind of fear. It was dark and powerful and it reeked of evil as if evil were something real not spoken about in churches or by the superstitious.
This was real evil and it had to do with the dark denizens of the night who were almost always pursuing them in the dreamscape.
Wearing dark cloaks and moving through the trees like a shadow, Sam could feel their presence encroaching upon him. The cold icicle that ran up his spine had little to do with the chill of the night air and everything to do with his fear. He could feel the earth under his bare feet and the sound of hooves beating against the dirt. Leaves rustled in the branches of trees, shaken by the gust of wind moving across the land. It seemed to grow stronger as dirt and fallen leaves became caught in the vortex of the gale and ahead was more of the wood, sinister and dark.
“Come on Sam,” the other said. “We’ve got to make the river.”
Sam turned to his companion and tried to speak but words left him when he saw the branches of a large shrub part at the sudden appearance of a black horse. The animal’s head reared up upon seeing them, its body raising off the ground as it stood on its hindquarters. For a moment, the braying sound escaping it did not at all resembled the neighing of a horse but rather the screech of something terrible and vile. Seated in the saddle, appearing even more fearsome than the steed itself was a figure cloaked in black. The fabric of its garment was blacker that the night and swallowed up all light around it. There was no face that looked at them from beneath the hood of its cloak and Sam was struck by the irrational fear that if they were to pull that hood back, there would be horror beyond his ability to describe.
He felt a hand grab him and shouted at him to run. Blinded by terror, Sam ran following the voice as they tore through the woods, not caring about the branches that lashed at them as they race through the darkness. All they cared about was the sound of horses in pursuit and the screeching that told them that the enemy was near.
“Don’t look back Sam!” The voice shouted again. “Don’t look back!”
Sam felt his heart about to explode in his chest and tried to obey the command. However, the fear was too much for him and it compelled him to turn. He looked over his shoulder unwisely and was confronted by the image of them, closing the distance.
The Nine, Sam thought unconsciously. They were called the Nine.
“SAM!” He heard the other shouting at him desperately. “Come on! Sam!”
***********
“SAM!”
Sam opened his eyes and found himself the center of attention as all eyes in the classroom were upon him. For a moment, he had no idea where he was and when his senses returned to him was rather grateful that he was sitting at his desk in school, not running for his life from some fading terror in his dreams. Sam could feel beads of perspiration running down his forehead and took a deep breath in order to steady his pounding heart. For a moment, he could do nothing but revel in the sensation of gratitude that he was safe and away from that nightmarish image even if it was fading fast in the waking world.
“Sam, I asked you a question,” the voice demanded once more.
Sam found himself staring at the rather irate features of Mrs. Edlestein; his arithmetic teacher ho had undoubtedly asked him a question while he had dozed off in her class. Having no idea of what she had inquired of him, Sam could do nothing but look blankly at her. Swallowing thickly, he tried to gather his composure so that he could offer her a suitable response but found it difficult to do so when the other students were sniggering at his floundering efforts to answer.
“Could you repeat the question Mrs. Edlestein?” He asked after a moment.
The woman in her late forties with blond hair pulled into a severe bun stared at him behind equally severe glasses, thinned her lips into a frown. “I asked you Sam,” she said with impatience, “what is five times two?”
“Ten?” Sam answered after a moment of thought. Multiplication was not something he was good at and prayed that he would be spared the humiliation of being wrong.
“That’s right,” she replied, clearly unhappy that he had managed to answer her question after his unsatisfactory behavior. “Sit down.”
Sam sat down on his seat, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment and was rather grateful when the bell rang and it was time to go home. While he did not remember the dream in great detail, it had unsettled him and he suddenly wanted very much to hear his mum’s comforting words. Whenever he felt this way, she would wrap her arms around him and give him a little hug and a kiss on the forehead, telling him that nothing could hurt him when he was awake. She would not allow it and when mum said things like that, Sam could very well believe it.
Gathering his schoolbag, he made the exodus with the rest of the class and entered the hallway. Pip would be waiting for him in the playground and once he collected his brother, they would go to the front of the school and wait for mum to arrive to take them home. It was a ritual they practiced everyday and made a good deal smoother after mum’s little talk with Aksel, who ensured that the Miller boys were given a very wide berth.
Emerging from the building, Sam cast his gaze across the manicured lawns of the school grounds and saw his younger brother playing with some other children on the monkey bars. Pip was dangling off the ground when he caught sight of Sam and immediately waves enthusiastically at his approach.
Climbing off the contraption, Pip knew that Sam did not like to linger when they had to be picked up mostly because mum worried if they were late and Sam hated seeing mum that way. Pip found dad easier to understand even though he loved mum very much. Their dad knew so many things and there were things he did not keep secret but explained to Pip in loving detail. He taught Pip that the world was very, very old and that there were no mysteries, just fact hidden. Pip loved watching his father work. He loved the way Frank would sit at the table with his books and stare endlessly at rock that had no meaning for him but spoke to his father in a language of its own. Sometimes his father tried to explain to him this strange language and though most of it was beyond his understanding Pip rather liked it that dad had taken the time to try.
As far as Pip Miller was concerned, his father was the smartest man in the world.
“What’s the matter?” Pip asked as he grabbed his books and joined his brother beyond the playground area. He could tell when Sam was upset and the slight shadow over his brother’s face indicated to him that there was something amiss.
“I had that dream again,” Sam explained because they were brothers and there were no secrets between them.
“Was I in it this time?” Pip asked, trying to sound understanding but managed only to appear enthused over his role in the drama.
“No,” Sam shook his head. “Just me.”
There were moments when he could almost remember that he was not alone in the dreamscape but the sensation was too vague for him to articulate clearly.
“Are you okay?” Pip asked with concern.
“I’m fine,” Sam lied, wishing very much to see mum so she could make him feel better.
They walked to the front of the school and sat on the stone bench that faced the street where they usually waited for mum to arrive in the family car. Although it was late afternoon, it was still bright out and the street was busy. People were moving up and down the sidewalk on their way to other places and the roads were filled with cars, honking at each other as they traveled down the tar to destinations unknown. Sam could hear sirens in the distance though he could not see the fire engines that made them. Like all children, the bright red trucks fascinated him and he craned his neck to catch sight of them as they went on their way to carry out their important jobs. Unfortunately, the sound was distant and seemed to be heading away from them.
“Look,” Pip who was seated next to him on the bench pointed to the road. “It’s a James Bond car.”
Sam followed the direction of his brother’s gaze and saw a sleek, dark vehicle that looked a great deal fancier than the one driven by the superspy, pulling up at the curb, not far from where they were seated. The windows of the vehicle were tinted black and the chrome of its headlights and fender gleamed under the afternoon sky. It was a very impressive car Sam thought and wondered which one of his classmates was being collected by his parents in such grandeur. Cars like this had chauffeurs, Sam was sure. On television, a man in a dark suit who said very little and went by the name of James almost always accompanied them.
The doors of the vehicle swung open on either side and curiosity held both the boys’ gaze as the occupants emerged. Two pairs of men emerged from both the open doors, clad in dark suits, wearing hats and sunglasses. For a moment, Sam was struck by the memory of the Matrix and those terrible villains that had stalked Keanu Reeves for a good deal of the film. Something about them sent a chill through his bones as he saw them stepping onto the curb. The uneasiness he felt in his dream started to take on a more urgent shape and Sam was trembling even though he did not know why.
“Sam,” Pip turned to his brother, sensing the tremors in his skin since he was sitting next to Sam. “What’s the matter?”
The mention of his name made one of the men turn sharply and stare at him even though they should have been too far away to be overheard. Yet Sam knew with a certainty he could not explain, that they had heard Pip’s words. He felt his breath catch and was gripped with an irrational fear as the others turned to him as well, staring. Suddenly, they were no longer walking towards the school but heading in Sam and Pip’s direction. Sam watched their progress and across the curb, watched them close the distance, their expressionless face fixed upon him. They walked forward purposefully and Sam found the overwhelming urge to run rising up inside of him like froth spilling out of a champagne bottle.
Something inside him snapped.
“Let’s go,” he said getting off the bench, his fingers fumbling for the strap of his knapsack.
“Go where?” Pip stared at him, sensing none of the things that he did. “We’re not suppose to go anywhere. Mum said we have to wait here for her. She’ll be cross.”
“PIP!” Sam hissed. “We have to go now!”
Pip grabbed his bag, confused by the anxiety in his brother’s voice but to accustomed to following Sam’s lead to disobey.
Sensing that their quarry was about to run, the men in the dark suit bolted forward and closed the distance between themselves and the children before either could turn to run. The Nazgul swept the children up in their arms easily, for they were very small and were incapable of providing a formidable struggle, though the older of the two certainly fought hard to break free. Although their number was incomplete, the Nine recognized one of the two and if their master had been here, the boy would have made a very nice gift to the dark lord.
Sam stared at the reflection in those dark sunglasses as he felt the cold hand holding him in the air by the collar of his shirt and suddenly, understood why he was so frightened.
Riders in black.
He did the only to be done by a child facing the knowledge that his worst nightmare had become reality; he screamed.
************
Faster Frank!" Miranda ordered, her eyes staring frantically out the windscreen, her fingers digging into the dashboard of the car as she leaned forward in her seat, as if that would bring her closer to her children.
"I'm going as fast as I can without getting us killed," Frank retorted promptly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He could understand Miranda's fear because the same panic was coursing through his veins as he directed their jeep through the meandering streets of Oslo's city centre. The idea of those creatures anywhere near his boys made Frank jam the accelerator almost to the floor of the vehicle, forcing the jeep to surge through the traffic with speed enough to kill should it collide into anything or anyone in its path.
Miranda did not speak because she was constantly craning her neck out of the window to seek out the roofline of the school that would indicate to her that they were nearing their destination. As the car drove past the tree-lined streets framing the businesses and shops in the area, Miranda could not dispel this feeling of blanket terror that gripped her insides. Those creatures had killed Hans without a second thought and were prepared to do the same to her and everyone else in the room save Frank. Whatever their agenda was, Miranda was determined that her children did not become part of it. If that thing had hated her with so much venom, she dreaded to think what it would do to Sam and Pip because she was their mother.
"Stop the car!" She barked when the school came into view and barely waited for Frank to pull the car to a stop before she jumped out of her seat into the sidewalk. Miranda did not run, she broke into a full sprint and raced down the sidewalk, her blond hair following her like a banner of gold. She could see the school rushing up to greet her and the bench where her sons usually waited for her to pick them after school coming into sight. She had little time to register the fact that it was empty when she heard Pip's terrified scream across the walk.
"MUMMY!"
Miranda froze in horror as she saw Sam and Pip struggling hard to escape the dark suited villains as they swept both her children into the black jaguar. Her heart stop beating for a second and the panic that had been fraying the edges of her consciousness had risen up like bile inside her. The fear of seeing her children in the power of those creatures was even more terrifying than the ordeal she had endured at Belfast at the hands at the IRA. It drained the soul of the ability for reason and filled her with blind, paralysing panic.
"PIP!" She screamed as she saw her youngest being ushered kicking and screaming into the car.
Frank halted in his steps as he heard his wife cry out in a voice he had never heard her utter and was even more unbelievable in light of what he had seen her do earlier today. When he reached her side and saw what she did, he could understand her fear but Frank was able to surmount the wall of panic that had hindered her because his sons needed one of their parents to be in their right mind to act.
"DAD!" He heard Sam shout before his son disappeared into the car and the slamming door muffled any more of his cries.
Running faster than he had ever run in his life, Frank raced towards the car and reached the vehicle just as its engines roared to life. He could hear Sam and Pip screaming from behind the glass, he could hear the pounding on the other side of the tinted window and felt the same black well of despair as Miranda when his efforts to open the door failed. Pulling hard at the handle, he would have torn it off its hinges if he possessed the strength but could not open it as it was locked from the inside. He was still wrestling with it when the car started pulling away from the kerb
"SAM! PIP!" Frank shouted impotently as he saw the dark vehicle speed away from him.
Turning on his heels, Frank was not ready to give up, not yet. He saw Miranda weeping and wished he could console her but there was no time for that, not if they wanted to help Pip and Sam.
"Mir!" He grabbed her hand and began dragging her towards the jeep. "We don't have time for this. We need to follow that car if we're going to get them back."
"Oh Frank," she stammered, "they're gone!"
"They'll stay gone if you don't help me!" He said harshly, hating to be so brutal with her but their sons were in danger and this emotional display would not help them.
Frank's tone snapped Miranda out of her panic and she met his eyes as they reached the jeep. For a split second, she saw his fear, saw his own terrible panic at the possibility of losing their sons and knew that if he could contain it to do what was necessary, then she had damn well better do the same and help him. He was right; recriminations and grief could come later. While there was still a chance to get them back, she had to pull herself together.
"You drive," she said as she climbed into the car.
Frank gave her a little smile and slid into the driver's seat. Miranda pulled out the gun that was tucked in the waistband of her jeans and reached into her pocket to retrieve the spare shells she had put there when she left the house. Loading the gun as he took the jeep away from the kerb, she wound the window all the way down and leaned out of the window to catch side of the dark Jaguar that had stolen away half their family.
"Can you see them?" Frank asked as he alternated glances between her and the road ahead.
"Yes!" Miranda exclaimed excitedly as she saw the Jaguar reaching the end of the street. "They're turning into the highway."
"Hold on!" He ordered as he jammed his foot on the accelerator and caused the engines beneath them to roar loudly. Shifting the gearstick, the jeep surged forward through the maze of cars on the road, weaving in and out of the traffic with no thought of safety or rules for that matter. Horns honked angrily at them while Miranda shouted at people to get clear. When an obstruction on the road threatened to bring the car to a halt, Frank directed the jeep onto the sidewalk and continued driving. .
Miranda could still see the Jaguar and knew that they were closing the distance between the two vehicles. Frank's impressive if wholly illegal driving abilities was narrowing the gap between them and she knew that he was driven by the same instinct that she was. She was retreated into the car when the jeep was forced back onto the road, slamming into a small Fiat as it crossed onto the tar. The other car veered off the road, ploughing into a newsstand on the sidewalk. She hoped no one was hurt as newspapers went flying through the air and the entire structure collapse around the vehicle. Frank hardly seemed to notice the commotion he was causing, intent only on reaching the black Jaguar.
He ploughed into a Mercedes and sent it skidding across the road to smash against another parked car, allowing the jeep to finally manoeuvre into position directly behind the Jaguar. Frank could see the tinted glass and even though it was impossible to hear anything but the roar of engines and wind rushing past his ears, he swore he could hear Sam and Pip's small fists beating against the windows. That sound was almost as paralysing to him as Miranda seeing her children in the hands of those monsters.
"Can you get a clear shot?" He demanded not at all thinking twice about making the request.
"I'll try!" She said taking a careful aim with the gun.
Miranda was unafraid of whether or not she could hit the target. She had was more than capable of riddling the car with bullets but her hesitation was borne out of the fear that those bullets might hurt Sam or Pip. Aiming carefully, she trained her sights on the Jaguar's tires and pulled the trigger, hoping that at least one of the projectiles fired would halt the vehicles advance. Contrary to popular belief, it was an extremely difficult shot to make and as gunfire erupted, she saw the bullets creating sparks across the lower edge of the car. Bullet holes appeared in the body and she heard the sound of ricocheting bullets impacting on the hubcaps. However, none of this reached the tyres and the Jaguar was speeding up, being more than capable of outdistancing the jeep.
Miranda kept firing, shredding the back of the car with more bullets, causing the boot to fly up like an open flap swaying against the wind. The Jaguar was starting to pull away and Miranda felt her heart sink knowing that it had more than enough speed to escape.
"FASTER FRANK!" She shouted, continuing to fire, sending bystanders on the road fleeing to escape the deadly barrage while other cars on the road veered away from them causing more accidents behind them.
The Jaguar sped across an intersection and Frank revved the engines even further, sending the jeep across the juncture in close pursuit. All he could see on the road was the car that was stealing his children away, nothing else registered, not until he heard Miranda screaming and the bellowing horn of a large truck about to slam into them. Frank tried to avoid the collision, spinning the steering wheel hard so that the jeep would be moving parallel to the truck instead of crashing into its side. He saw Miranda fall back into the seat next to him as the side of the jeep smashed into the truck and flipped over.
There was a moment of confusion when the world seemed to spin and he recalled shouting at Miranda to hold on. His head slammed into the back of his seat and the sound of glass shattering filled his ears. The jeep rolled only twice but it was enough to cause significant buckling on the entire framework. Airbags immediately swelled to life within the car, protecting them from both serious injury in the violent tumbling. The jeep landed on its wheels once more with the horn blaring and the smell of oil and gasoline heavy in the air. They could hear no trickle of escaping fuel which was one consolation at least Time seemed to slow as the car came to a standstill and for a few minutes there was only deathly silence within the ruined compartment where they were still trapped.
"Miranda," Frank croaked as he turned to his wife who appeared somewhat dazed. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," she answered sedately and as Frank's vision cleared, he saw that she was not looking at him but rather past the shattered glass of the windscreen to the road ahead. He did not have to ask what she was staring at because he could see for himself. The widening gap between the wreckage of the jeep and the Jaguar was more than simple distance. He felt his stomach hollow with the same agony that was reflected in her eyes when he saw the Jaguar was beyond their reach.
"Oh Frank," she started to sob and it was a very disconcerting sound coming from her. He had never known her lose control like this and the tears that washed her cheeks was almost as painful for him as knowing that he had been unable to stop those monsters from taking his children.
"We lost them," she wept, "we lost our babies."
Frank's jaw clenched as he wrestled with his own emotions, reaching towards her to offer what comfort he could from their terrible failure and hoping that she could offer him the same as well.
"We'll get them back Mir," he said hoarsely, his eyes glistening with moisture as he saw the Jaguar disappearing in the distance. "I promise you, we'll get them back."