Two notes: Chapter Zero (the prologue) has had a little new text added to it. Also, look to my profile if you're wondering what's going on with me. Hope you enjoy!
July, 1098 AD
Somewhere near Antioch
More Crusaders arrived outside the old man's home the day after his servants had been slain. The home itself lay smoldering, having burned the night before. His servants were buried. Their murderers lay wrapped in their own cloaks away from the ruins. Everyone else was gone.
They found him sitting in the dust, with his legs crossed and his head bowed. His staff lay across his lap. He surely heard the approach of twenty men on horses, but gave no indication that he was concerned. He merely sat and waited.
Two soldiers dismounted, drew arms, and moved off to each side of the old man where he sat in the dust. Two more soon joined them.
Finally, the apparent leader of the group joined, walking over to the old man with his sword drawn. He was a husky man, with a dark beard and a grim temperament. "We've been looking for you," the bearded man said.
"So I have gathered. I regret that I was not here when your first batch of men arrived. You are the one they call Charles?"
"I am," sniffed the Norman. He looked around. "I suspect you already know your magic will not work on me, nor on my men."
"Nor would you have dared to come here otherwise," the old man put in with a faint, knowing grin. "I wonder how your men would feel about you or your protection if they knew the details. It is one thing to convince men to do awful things in the name of their god. It is another to knowingly ally oneself withβ"
"You are dying already," Charles interrupted.
"Yes. A wasting illness, now in its final stages. It is quite beyond my ability to remedy. The Practices of healing were never a strong study of mine. I know only enough to mask the symptoms. There was a time when I sought to prolong my lifespan through magic, but the only prospects I could find came at unacceptable prices. The necessary bargains are all so very...distasteful. Aren't they, Charles?"
He looked up at Charles then, needing little time to evaluate the man. "You came here in search of knowledge and power. Tomes, ancient scrolls, all that sort of thing. Sorcery by way of banditry, I suppose. As you can see, I no longer have any. Even my own personal power is quite diminished."
"They said you were the greatest in the region," Charles sniffed again, trying to maintain an air of indifference. His true feelings showed in his eyes. The old man needled him, and he did not like it. "The wise hermit out in the wilderness. The mentor. You trained so many."
"I did," he acknowledged. "Truthfully, most of what I taught was merely the value of hard work and independence. Perhaps in the end I was a better teacher than a Practitioner myself."
"There was power here, though," Charles said. "I sense it in the air. I smell it. But no longer in you. Why?"
The old man shrugged. "I made a bargain with someone."
"You said you don't like bargains."
"I didn't like the bargains that were offered to me. Others may find bargains that suit them just fine. All a matter of details. What were yours, Charles?"
The Norman's eyes grew colder. "I need not answer your questions. Where is Thomas?"
The old man tilted his head curiously. "You send out four men, only to have the lowliest of them return empty handed. You seek power, only to find none to be had. No treasure. No prize. I imagine, then, that thoughts would turn toward revenge. Yet you find no one to suffer your wrath but an old man taking his dying breaths. Tell me, servant of the Pit: how does it feel to be thwarted at every turn?"
At that, Charles gave up any pretense of calm. His reddening face screwed up into a snarl of rage. He grabbed at his sword, jerked it free and strode within reach of the old man.
His target smiled at the sight. Then his eyes closed. Charles ran him through, again and again, stabbing and hacking the body to pieces. All the while, though, he knew that the man was dead before the first cut.
It only made him angrier. He would hold onto that anger for a long, long time.
* * *
February, 2009
Rammstein, Germany
Morgan's trainers at Fort Huachuca had told her they would teach her to be more observant. Human Intelligence, they said, was about constant vigilance. It was about reading people. Noticing what they noticed. Always having your eyes open, even when in a friendly, safe environment. They had done that. Experience in the field had expanded on that vigilance dramatically.
She'd have had to be blind not to notice how many people, men and women alike, had to do a double-take on her as they wheeled her off the plane, and to the bus, and then through the hospital to her room.
At first she thought there was something stuck on her face. She frequently brushed at her nose, hoping she didn't have a booger hanging halfway out or something equally horrifying.
Morgan wanted to ask Thomas, but he was, once again, utterly fascinated by his surroundings. He looked around like someone seeing the world for the first time. To be fair, that wasn't too far off the mark. She didn't want to spoil the moment for him. She also didn't want anyone to see her talking to her invisible friend. Morgan left him alone, though she couldn't shake the feeling that even Thomas was stealing looks at her.
Professional habits took over. Morgan kept her mouth shut, pretending like nothing was wrong. She waited and watched. Eventually, she caught onto the patterns. Guys stole more looks, and tended to smile. Women generally looked twice, then turned to whatever else they were doing, and their body language generally conveyed less interest.
Every time she found a reflective surface, it was either too high, or quickly blocked by someone moving around, or she was turned away by the guy pushing her wheelchair. It wasn't until she was finally left sitting in a waiting room while her attendant went to check her in at the front desk that she finally had a moment of independent mobility.
"This city is amazing," Thomas said for the millionth time, looking out the window. "I had thought Baghdad was impressive enough, but this place...look! Another of the planes is taking to the air!"
Morgan didn't look. She wheeled herself over to the coffee table, brushing aside the magazines she found there and bending over in her chair to see her reflection on its black surface. It wasn't ideal, but it did the immediate job.
Her face was different. Definitely. That was still Morgan staring back at her, but there was something different. She had lost a little weight in her face. Her skin was smoother. Her mouth had changed somehow; her lips were now just a little fuller.
Morgan's eyes went wide. She sat up straight again. Her gaze darted left, then right, then left again. She waited for just a moment's privacy, just a second when no one was looking. Finally, the opportunity hit. In a flash of movement, Morgan's hands went to her own breasts, groped for just a split second, and then returned to her lap so fast they made a slapping sound.
Yep. Bigger. Not obnoxiously so, and hidden somewhat by her hospital shirt, but bigger by at least a cup size. Probably two.
Her jaw set. Her slender, perfect, no-longer-marred-by- pimples-that-wouldn't-die jaw.
"Sergeant Anderson? Oh, there you are," the pleasant, heavyset attendant smiled as he came over. "Got your room and everything. Ready to go?"
Morgan looked up at him and smiled as if there was nothing wrong. "Hm? Mm-hm," she nodded.
The attendant smiled back. He stepped around behind her wheelchair and pushed her along. Thomas followed. The aide brought her to a room, helped her up out of the chair and into a hospital bed, and mentioned something about a doctor coming in to see her soon and how she could ring up assistance while she got settled.
She didn't listen, really. For all the pleasant, appreciative expressions and smiles and nods she directed the attendant's way, and for all her normal vigilance, Morgan's only thoughts were about the awestruck goon gawking out her window that only she could see.
Then the attendant left. The bed next to hers was thankfully empty. "Thomas," she muttered through gritted teeth.
"Such an amazing view," he breathed.