its start point in the Middle East; Buddhism reaches Burma and Indonesia.
And here on a muddy road in the middle of forest, Roland had once more killed.
Some things change; some don’t.
Thirteen riders came around the bend. Astride a warhorse in the midst of them was a man wearing a purple robe over his shiny, for-show armor, which indicated he was some big muckety-muck, since Roland knew the type from his time in the army. Remembering the briefing, Roland realized this guy was probably the big muckety-muck. The reason he was here.
Unless Dane and the Time Patrol had made a big mistake, which Roland didn’t rule out, and Nada would have expected.
But Nada was dead.
Odoacer, First King of Italy, sometimes calling himself Emperor of the Western Roman Empire, although technically he’d overthrown the last one, history just didn’t know it yet, leaned forward in the saddle. “Did you kill all four, Centurion?”
“Yes, sir,” Roland said, figuring he, whoever he was before he, Roland, became aware of being here, had taken out the other three. Mac would have been impressed with that leap of logic on Roland’s part. But Mac was elsewhere; same day, different year. Doc would have been astounded at Roland’s instant ability to accept an improbable, yet logical, concept, but Doc was also, well, same deal.
Roland didn’t think it would be smart to mention the disappearing woman. Another person, traveling back in time and suddenly appearing in the midst of a fight for their lives might have doubted what they saw, but Roland never doubted what he saw. It was one of his strengths.
“I need a man like you close to me. A killer. Especially this day.” Odoacer raised his right hand, while he pointed with his left at Roland. “You are now one of my twelve; a Protector.” He gestured imperiously, which Kings actually get to do, at one of the riders around him. “Give him your horse.”
The guy didn’t look thrilled, but dismounted.
Roland liked the sound of that title, Protector, as his mind processed the implanted data: it meant he was still the equivalent of a centurion, but in the King/Emperor’s personal guard, the Palatini . Of course, like every army, it meant more responsibility, but the same pay; Then again, he was going to get to ride instead of walk, so that was something. Upgraded from the Infantry to the Cavalry; why walk when you can ride? was a rule of thumb in every army. Why ride when you can fly? was still quite a few centuries off. And the faux promotion meant he was a soldier on his way up in rank, except Roland’s future here was limited to 24 hours; and the First King of Italy, who had taken power from the last true Emperor of Rome, Romulus Augustus, in 476 A.D., had even less time than that.
But BEFORE the Ides of March and AFTER they came back from Black Tuesday
Andes Mountains, Argentina
IT HAD TAKEN MOMS FIVE DAYS of her leave to make it up to this altitude, battling snow and weather the entire way. The effort had called upon all her cold-weather training and experience in the military. Going uphill in snow was battling a vicious combination of gravity and the elements.
But she was finally here.
In a flat piece of terrain, about a hundred meters from where the plane wreckage had been there was a stone pile with a makeshift iron cross. Pieces of the wreckage were also mixed with the stones.
Most of the wreckage of Uruguayan Flight 571 was gone, burned by a search party that had buried the human remains.
The remains of the people from the plane. Moms was here for someone else. She read the inscription on a metal plaque, automatically translating the Spanish:
The World to its Uruguayan brothers. Close, oh God, to you.
Appropriate, Moms thought. She moved two hundred meters away to a large boulder. She pulled out her snow shovel, unfolded it, and began to dig into a drift piled against the rock.
It took a while. How long, Moms didn’t care. What was time after all? A
And here on a muddy road in the middle of forest, Roland had once more killed.
Some things change; some don’t.
Thirteen riders came around the bend. Astride a warhorse in the midst of them was a man wearing a purple robe over his shiny, for-show armor, which indicated he was some big muckety-muck, since Roland knew the type from his time in the army. Remembering the briefing, Roland realized this guy was probably the big muckety-muck. The reason he was here.
Unless Dane and the Time Patrol had made a big mistake, which Roland didn’t rule out, and Nada would have expected.
But Nada was dead.
Odoacer, First King of Italy, sometimes calling himself Emperor of the Western Roman Empire, although technically he’d overthrown the last one, history just didn’t know it yet, leaned forward in the saddle. “Did you kill all four, Centurion?”
“Yes, sir,” Roland said, figuring he, whoever he was before he, Roland, became aware of being here, had taken out the other three. Mac would have been impressed with that leap of logic on Roland’s part. But Mac was elsewhere; same day, different year. Doc would have been astounded at Roland’s instant ability to accept an improbable, yet logical, concept, but Doc was also, well, same deal.
Roland didn’t think it would be smart to mention the disappearing woman. Another person, traveling back in time and suddenly appearing in the midst of a fight for their lives might have doubted what they saw, but Roland never doubted what he saw. It was one of his strengths.
“I need a man like you close to me. A killer. Especially this day.” Odoacer raised his right hand, while he pointed with his left at Roland. “You are now one of my twelve; a Protector.” He gestured imperiously, which Kings actually get to do, at one of the riders around him. “Give him your horse.”
The guy didn’t look thrilled, but dismounted.
Roland liked the sound of that title, Protector, as his mind processed the implanted data: it meant he was still the equivalent of a centurion, but in the King/Emperor’s personal guard, the Palatini . Of course, like every army, it meant more responsibility, but the same pay; Then again, he was going to get to ride instead of walk, so that was something. Upgraded from the Infantry to the Cavalry; why walk when you can ride? was a rule of thumb in every army. Why ride when you can fly? was still quite a few centuries off. And the faux promotion meant he was a soldier on his way up in rank, except Roland’s future here was limited to 24 hours; and the First King of Italy, who had taken power from the last true Emperor of Rome, Romulus Augustus, in 476 A.D., had even less time than that.
But BEFORE the Ides of March and AFTER they came back from Black Tuesday
Andes Mountains, Argentina
IT HAD TAKEN MOMS FIVE DAYS of her leave to make it up to this altitude, battling snow and weather the entire way. The effort had called upon all her cold-weather training and experience in the military. Going uphill in snow was battling a vicious combination of gravity and the elements.
But she was finally here.
In a flat piece of terrain, about a hundred meters from where the plane wreckage had been there was a stone pile with a makeshift iron cross. Pieces of the wreckage were also mixed with the stones.
Most of the wreckage of Uruguayan Flight 571 was gone, burned by a search party that had buried the human remains.
The remains of the people from the plane. Moms was here for someone else. She read the inscription on a metal plaque, automatically translating the Spanish:
The World to its Uruguayan brothers. Close, oh God, to you.
Appropriate, Moms thought. She moved two hundred meters away to a large boulder. She pulled out her snow shovel, unfolded it, and began to dig into a drift piled against the rock.
It took a while. How long, Moms didn’t care. What was time after all? A
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