Prologue

"Hey, MacLeod, what do you know about this?" Methos held up the issue of "The Magazine Antiques" he had picked up from the Highlander's coffee table.

"About what?" MacLeod called from the kitchen area of the loft.

"'The Sword of Ibn Fahdlan,'" Methos read.

"Oh that." MacLeod joined Methos in the living room area, and tossed him a beer. "I know it's a fake."

"How do you know that?" Methos sounded surprised.

MacLeod sat. "It may be an authentic piece, but calling it Ibn Fahdlan's sword is just promotional hype. Like when they find a submerged ruin and the papers all call it Atlantis."

Methos twisted open the beer and flipped the cap onto the table. "So they don't have any proof," he said.

MacLeod shrugged. "They may have some provenance, but I doubt it. Why?"

"No reason," Methos said, as he continued to read the article.

MacLeod took a long drink, eyeing the other immortal. "Ibn Fahdlan was a tenth century Arab," he commented. "His sword would have been curved and single-edged." He tipped his beer bottle toward the cover photo of a broad, straight, short sword. "Not like that."

Methos nodded, still reading. "How far away is this New Canterbury? I see it's in British Columbia."

MacLeod shook his head, smiling. "A day's drive in the summertime, when they hold their famous auction. Why? You want to buy it?"

"Of course not." Methos gave him an amused look. "I think I want to see it, though, before they sell it to someone. I'll rent a car and go have a look."

"You don't drive there in the winter," MacLeod said. "It's on the other side of the Rockies."

"It's April, not winter."

"It's still winter there."

"So? You don't think a little winter weather is going to bother me, do you?"

MacLeod frowned. "Wait 'til Friday, and I'll go with you."

It took three people to accompany Methos to New Canterbury: MacLeod, who claimed to have old business contacts there he would like to renew; Joe, who, upon learning from Methos of MacLeod's intentions, claimed to have a sudden interest in visiting points northern; and Richie, who declared with delight, "Road trip!"

Methos' choice of rental vehicle failed to meet with MacLeod's approval, so the Highlander upgraded Methos' contract to a larger SUV. He also insisted (with a cash offer) that a row of seats be removed, for greater comfort, paid the extra insurance, and took charge of the keys. Methos muttered something about "control freaks," but allowed MacLeod to drive, while he rode shotgun.

By midmorning they had crossed the U.S./Canada border, and had begun to climb into the mountains. What had been gray, dreary clouds at dawn became light fog and snow flurries. The highway remained clear, however, if wet, and traffic was brisk.

“So, Methos,” Duncan asked, “What's your interest in Ibn Fahdlan's sword?”

“Just curious.”

MacLeod rolled his eyes. No one had managed to get anything out of Methos on the subject.

“So, who was this Fahdlan guy, anyway?” Joe asked from the back seat.

Richie looked up with interest, even pulling the discman earphone from his ear.

“Ibn Fahdlan,” MacLeod said. “He was an Arab in the tenth century who traveled with some Vikings. Part of his journal survives. All I recall is that he didn't care for them much.”

“How did an Arab meet up with Vikings?” Richie asked.

MacLeod gave Methos a sidelong look. “Methos?” he asked. “Care to tell us more?”

Methos smiled. "I think a story is a good idea, Mac. Why don't you tell us one?"

"I don't know Ibn Fahdlan's story."

"Tell us a different one."

"Then will you tell yours?"

"I want to hear everyone else's stories first," said Methos. "That's the deal."

"All right; I'll go first," MacLeod said. He thought for a moment and then began.

The Warrior's Tale

"Once a long time ago, two sets of cousins were struggling for the throne of Hastinapura."

"Where was this?" Richie asked.

"In India. Their conflicts escalated to all out war and most of the greatest men of the age allied themselves with one side or the other. The battle of
their armies was going to be like an apocalypse. Nothing would be the same afterward and everything hung in the balance. If Duryodhana and his brothers,
the Kauravas, won, the world would be in darkness, but if Yuddhishthira and his brothers, the Pandavas, won, the world would have an age of harmony and justice.
The proper succession was unclear, and many of the world's most powerful kings had friends or family on both sides. Now Yuddhishthira and each of his brothers had been fathered by gods. Yuddhishthira's father was Dharma, the god of . . . of . . . rightness. Of everything being in its proper place. That's why Yuddhishthira himself embodied justice and stability. His middle brother - there were five Pandavas - was named Arjuna and he was the son of the god Indra. This made Arjuna the most powerful and skillful warrior the world had ever seen.

"Sounds like a good guy to have on your side," Joe said.

"He was, but he wasn't the only powerful or skillful warrior around. Both the Pandavas and the Kauravas had had the same teachers, and those teachers took sides, too."

"There were five Pandavas?" Richie asked. "How many of the other guys?"

"The Kauravas? Ninety-nine."

"Ninety-nine? Ninety-nine brothers?"

"And one sister. But that's all another story. Arjuna was also very pious. That was considered essential in a good warrior, and since Arjuna was the best, he was also very spiritual. In fact, he was good friends with a god. Krisna."

Richie snorted. "Okay, how do you get to be 'good friends' with a god?"

"Well, Krisna was in human form at the time."

"You mean like Jesus?"

MacLeod frowned. "Kind of, but this god had the form of a king, with armies and courtiers. He should have been on Arjuna's side in the war, but like so many other kings at the time, he had loyalties and ties to both sides. Both his friend Arjuna and Arjuna's cousin Duryodhana appealed to Krisna to fight for their side. Krisna's solution was to offer them each one aspect of himself. One of them could have all his armies and the other could have himself, alone, unarmed, and taking no part in combat. Arjuna got to pick first. Which do you think he chose? Methos, you don't get to answer. I know you know this story."

Methos nodded.

Richie answered. "The smart thing would have been to take the armies, but I suppose you're going to say he did the 'spiritual' thing and took the unarmed guy."

"Right. Duryodhana was ecstatic to get Krisna's armies to fight on his side, but Arjuna didn't hesitate to choose Krisna. He asked Krisna to drive his chariot. That was considered a non-combat position."

"God is my Charioteer," said Methos. "That should be a bumper sticker."

"I wonder what Arjuna's brother thought of his choice," said Joe.

"Well, Yuddhishthira trusted Arjuna to handle those things. Each brother had his own skill. That's part of what dharma means, too. Everyone has their job."

Joe said, "Sounds like the caste system."

MacLeod nodded. "Yeah. Anyway, the day of the great battle came. Both armies lined up on a holy field facing each other. Those who couldn't fight were nearby, watching. This was the battle that would determine everything.

Despite the rancor between the two sets of cousins, no one disputed Arjuna's position as the world's premiere warrior."

"No one?" asked Methos, innocently.

"Okay, no one except Karna, but that's another story, too." MacLeod took his gaze from the road long enough to give Methos a Look.

"Sorry. Go on."

"So, it fell to Arjuna to be the one to sound the horn to start the battle. Both sides respected him. Krisna steered Arjuna's chariot onto the field between the armies. Arjuna looked at the men on both sides. He saw his brothers, he saw his cousins. He saw uncles, brothers-in-law, and teachers. He saw many, many friends, on both sides, and suddenly, he didn't want them to fight. He didn't want to see his loved ones slaughtered."

MacLeod paused.

Richie fidgeted. "What did he do?" he finally asked.

"What do you think he should've done?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, Rich. What should Arjuna do?"

Richie thought for only a moment. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, right? Nothing he says is going to stop the war or anything. They're still going to fight. And they'll all call him a chicken and then he won't be able to even scare anyone even if he is really good. So what's the point? He should just blow the horn and do his job. Let the chips fall where they may."

"Out of the mouths of babes," said Methos, grinning.

"Okay, Mr. Ancient Wiseguy," Richie said, "what do you think he should do? Not what he did, what do you think he should do?"

"Me? He should have Krisna turn his chariot around, ride far away from the battle, and go live in a cave somewhere."

"Oh, right," said Richie.

"He can't do that," said MacLeod. "He's not a Brahmin; he's a Ksatriya."

"Of course," Methos said with mock earnestness. "Then he should go found a martial arts school and teach the next generation of warriors."

"And be completely shunned by all his family for shirking his duty?" MacLeod asked.

"Well most of his family will be dead at the end of the day, right? Or the end of the next, - what was it - eleven days? Someone will be on the throne, and
Arjuna'll still be alive and able to train others."

"An Age of Darkness will fall if the Kauravas win. How well will his school do under his enemy's rule?"

"Ages of Darkness come and go, MacLeod. He'll still be alive. That's my answer. What do you say, Joe?"

Joe cleared his throat. "It's an age old problem, if you'll pardon the expression. If everyone chose other options besides war, the world would be at peace. But other people don't choose other options, so what should one man do? I want to hear how it really turned out. But, for me . . . I'm thinking he should ask the god that's right there in his chariot for advice."

"Aw, you do know this story, Joe," said MacLeod.

"No, Mac, I swear. It just seems kind of obvious, you know? What did Krisna tell him?"

"He told him a lot. Arjuna threw down his weapons in despair and asked Krisna, how can I do this? Start a battle that will kill those I love? Krisna said . . . Krisna told him a lot about how the world is, and about how people should behave, and about . . ."

"Hey, wait a minute, Mac," said Richie. "This is all happening right in front of the armies? With everyone waiting?"

MacLeod nodded. "It's a little strange, you're right. There must have been some kind of time freeze. Or their entire conversation took place outside of time. It was a very important conversation. God telling Man how things are. At the end, Arjuna, who had been really trying to understand, asked Krisna to reveal himself to Arjuna, in full god-like glory, so Arjuna could see true reality and understand this revelation."

"Mmm," said Joe. "In the Bible that sort of thing doesn't usually turn out so well."

MacLeod smiled. "I guess Krisna decided Arjuna could take it. He was half-god, after all. So Krisna took off the cloak of common humanity he had been wearing and overwhelmed Arjuna's consciousness with the sight of his true form."

"He passed out?" asked Richie.

"I don't know, exactly. But when it was over, and Krisna had gone back to being an ordinary charioteer, Arjuna understood."

"What did he understand?"

"That if your position is to be a warrior, the stability of the universe depends on you being one. If your job is to fight, then there is no blame to you for fighting and killing - no sin. If you do your job with purity, the outcome is not your responsibility. But if you fail to do it, the order of reality is threatened, and that's bigger than anyone's life or family."

"So Arjuna blew the horn?"

"Yes he did. And that battle began."

"Who won?"

"The good guys. But it's a really long story. It's called the Mahabharata, and the part I just told you is called the Bhagavad Gita."

MacLeod turned off of the main highway, onto a smaller country road. The weather had grown worse, and traffic was very thin. The snow clouds hung lower and lower over the road, until the snow was coming from curtains of fog. MacLeod slowed as the SUV hit occasional patches of ice.

"Look!" said Richie, "is that a car?"

Through the mist patches of red came into view. A car lay tilted nose down in the ditch beside the road. MacLeod slowed further and stopped on what could be seen of a shoulder. "Is there anyone in it?" he asked.

Richie and Methos, both on the right side of the car, peered out. "I can't tell," said Richie. Methos shook his head.

Leaving the car engine running, MacLeod opened his door to the tune of the dinging key alarm and got out. Richie also got out. The two men met beside Richie's door and began a sliding progress down the slope of snow-coated mud and grass. The white car before them had red trim in an unusual configuration. Something pointy and painted on the side they approached looked like red ears on a large white beast. As they got closer, they saw it was an older, vintage car, with red-painted tail fins. MacLeod clambered through knee deep weeds with a layer of snow on them to the driver's door. He knocked on the window and peered in.

"Anyone?" Richie asked, coming up behind him.

MacLeod tried the door but found it locked. "Try the other door," he said, raising his voice above the blustering wind. The snow was falling so thickly, at times they could barely see the shape of the SUV on the road behind them.

Richie worked around the car and tried the other door, but with no luck. The car, though a station wagon, had only two doors. "Looks like they're gone," Richie called.

As the two of them climbed back to the road, Richie asked, "What kind of car is that?"

"It's a Chevy Nomad," MacLeod answered. "'57 or '58 and in pretty good condition, too. Someone's had a bad morning. That's a real collectible car, now." They clumped back into the SUV, bringing snow and wet with them.

"No one in it?" Joe asked.

"No," MacLeod said, "but that car hasn't been in the ditch very long. There's snow underneath it." He put the car in gear and eased out onto the road.

"It's weird," Richie said. "Who would build a station wagon with only two doors? And that was a crazy detail job."

"Maybe we should stop somewhere, MacLeod, and see if this blows over," Methos said.

MacLeod nodded. "I had hoped to get farther by lunch, but we'll take the next town we come to."

Methos consulted a road map and made a noncommittal sound. "It'll have to be something too small to be on the map. I don't see much."

"So who's got the next story?" MacLeod asked, hearty.

"I think you should concentrate on driving, Mac," said Joe.

"I'm fine. Someone should entertain me. Richie? You ready to tell a story?"

"No way. I don't know any stories."

"Sure you do," said MacLeod. "Movies, TV, maybe even books. You can think of something."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm not going to know some story you guys don't already know. I mean, sure, I love Star Wars, but who hasn't seen that? And what's the point in telling it?"

"You can tell us a story we all know," Methos said. "That's how good stories last. Pick something you really like."

"No," Richie said. "I'm not playing. It's dumb."

"You can tell us a true story," Joe said. "Something that happened to you or to someone you know."

"You go, then," Richie said, his jaw set.

"Uh, okay," Joe said. "I think I've got one."

The Watcher's Tale

"Once upon a time, there was a guy named Dan. He graduated from High School in the Midwest in the middle of the Great Depression. Farm country was particularly hard hit. They used to say the farmers knew there was a depression ten years before everyone else knew. Dan was the oldest child of a big family, and he didn't have many prospects. He had always helped take care of his younger brothers and sisters, but now he was expected to make his own way in the world. He was a cheerful boy, so he tried not to worry too much. His uncle owned a traveling carnival, so Dan worked for him that summer.

"His uncle had this 'pony ride,' where ponies in a round pen walked around and around in a circle, giving rides to little kids. Now ponies may be small, but they can be nasty-tempered. Dan was good with them, and with kids, so his uncle gave him the job of lifting the little boys and girls on and off the ponies.

"But the carnival only operated in the summer, and when Fall came and the temperatures dropped, Dan couldn't help his parents keep food on the table anymore. Jobs were not only scarce, they were non-existent. Many good men just drifted from town to town, looking for work. They usually didn't find it."

Both Methos and MacLeod nodded. Richie fiddled with his Discman.

"Dan didn't want to go on the road; he loved his big family and had a lot of friends where he grew up. But it was beginning to look like he didn't have a choice.

"Then, one day, one of his friends stopped him in the street. 'Dan,' he said, 'get down to the John Deere factory. I just heard they're hiring.'

"Well, Dan was a little skeptical. Everyone knew that factory, and everyone knew they hadn't hired anyone new in years. This was the kind of news that would be all over town. All over the region, really. But his friend was positive, and swore the news was just so fresh, other men hadn't heard yet. Dan asked how many men they were hiring. 'Just one,' the guy said.

"So Dan hurried himself down to the factory, hoping not too many people had heard about this, yet. When he got there they crowded him into a big room full of at least a hundred other men all applying for that same job. Dan's heart sank, but he decided to stay and see what happened. He didn't have anywhere else to go.

"After a while, in came the foreman. He climbed up on this raised platform and just looked over the crowd. Everyone got real quiet. Then, the guy looked right at Dan, in the very back of the room. 'You there,' he said. 'With the yellow hair. Come up here.'

"Dan looked around. There weren't any other blonds anywhere near him. The foreman really did mean him. So, his heart pounding, he forced his way forward, through a bunch of glaring men. 'Follow me,' the man said, and he left the room. Dan followed, of course, in total shock. The foreman took him to a small office and asked him his name, where he lived, and what his prior work experience was. He gave Dan a paper to sign and told him to show up to work the next day at 7:00. So Dan sat there, trying not to let his mouth hang open, while the guy went back into the large room and told everyone the position was filled.

"You should have seen him trying to tell his friends and parents what had happened. He could hardly believe it himself. But he showed up at 7:00 and the foreman put him to work. At the end of the week he got an honest-to-Pete paycheck. And the next week he got another one."

"So why did the guy hire him?" Richie asked.

"I'm glad you asked that, Rich." Joe grinned. "It was a long time before Dan worked up the courage to ask. But the foreman seemed to be expecting it. He smiled when Dan asked. 'You worked at a carnival last summer,' he said. 'At the pony ride, right?'"

"'That's right,' said Dan, still baffled.

"'I remembered you,' the foreman said. 'My little girl wanted a pony ride. But when she got on, she was terrified. You held her on the pony and walked around and around with her, talking to her, until she started to like it. By the end of the ride, she was laughing. I thought to myself, I wish there was something I could do for that boy.'

"Dan worked for John Deere for forty years. He always said that he had comforted many frightened children that summer, but he didn't even remember the one that changed his life."

There was silence in the car.

"That's a great story, Joe," said MacLeod, finally. "Is it true?"

"Dan was my mother's cousin."

The SUV made slow progress through what had become a cascading blizzard. The swish-swish of the windshield wipers seemed loud as everyone in the car grew silent. A highway sign came into view, indicating a town could be reached by taking the next turn, but the details were obscured.

"Anyone catch the name of that town?" Methos asked, scowling at his map.

Joe and Richie murmured negatives. A blast of wind rocked the car like a boat on the sea.

"Whatever it is, we're going there," MacLeod said, watching carefully in order to not miss seeing the side road. Even at a crawl, the car slid as he made the turn. MacLeod corrected carefully and proceeded on.

"I know," Richie said, after a few minutes. "I could tell the story of the Snow Queen. What do you think?"

"I think you should think of something else, Rich," Joe said dryly. The two in the front seats did not respond at all.

Before long the blowing whiteness before them grew uneven and blotchy, and signs and buildings and a few parked cars resolved alongside their road. "There," Methos said. On the edge of their vision a warm light glowed in one building. The lit sign was difficult to read, but the word "diner" was clear. MacLeod turned toward it, and parked in front. A red "Open" sign hung inside the glass door.

The four men piled out, into the wind. Richie raced to the door, where he stopped, abashed, when he saw MacLeod waiting politely for Joe. Joe's footing was uneasy in the wind and he made more careful progress than usual. MacLeod, his hands in his pockets, stood upwind from Joe, looking around as if it were a warm Spring day and he could actually see anything. Methos, too, from the other side of the car, approached slowly, for no apparent reason, arriving at the door slightly behind Joe.

Richie opened the door for Joe. "Thanks, Rich," Joe said, and they all blew inside.

The place was a small diner with a counter and a half dozen tables and booths. Behind the counter, rag in hand, stood a large, hulking man in an apron. His smile was missing a front tooth. "Hello, gents!" he said. "Lovely weather we're having."

Only one of the tables had place settings, so the group settled in there, murmuring greetings to their host, who brought them all menus. The moaning wind rattled their windows.

After they'd ordered, Richie announced, "Okay, I've decided. I've got a story for you guys."

"Not the Snow Queen," Joe said.

"Nope. A better story. And I'll bet none of you guys know it."

"Let's hear it, then," Methos said.

The Student's Tale

"Once upon a time there was a village somewhere. Up on a hill, above this village, there was a castle where a wizard lived. He was a very powerful wizard, they knew, because you could see, you know, lightning and stuff coming from the castle. But no one knew the wizard or had ever met him.

"One morning everyone got up and started to go to work, and there in the middle of the town square was this huge tree. It was gigantic, and it hadn't been there before. While everyone was staring at it, someone noticed it had cookies on it. Chocolate chip cookies. They were growing on the tree. The kids were all for picking them, but their parents held them back. It had to be a magic tree, and who knows what it would do to you."

Richie looked around the table. "So, anyone know this one?" Everyone shook his head.

"Go on, Rich," said MacLeod.

"Cool. So the town council meets to talk about what to do about this tree. One guy says 'We can't touch this tree. It must have come from the wizard, and we don't know what he wants.' Another guy says, 'It could be a trap of some kind, with the delicious cookies as the lure.' And another guy says, 'We have to put a fence around it to protect people. It might be especially dangerous to the children.'

"So that's what they did. They built a fence around the tree and warned everyone to stay away from it. But every day the tree had more cookies. Different kinds, too. Luscious lemon cookies, and chocolate, and peanut butter, and those sugar cookies with the big chocolate kiss in the middle." Richie grinned. "My favorite."

The host lumbered over and placed their plates in front of them. He gave them their drinks and sat down with his own drink at the table next to them, unabashedly eavesdropping.

"How do you like the story?" Richie asked him with snark in his tone.

"It's good," the man said with his gap-toothed smile. "What happens next?"

"What do you think?" Richie asked.

"Hmmm. I think some woman picks a cookie and eats it and then offers one to her husband. He eats it and the wizard comes down and kicks everyone out of the village."

MacLeod smiled back at the man. "Seems I've heard that story before."

"Well that's not it. Anyone else want to guess?" Richie looked pointedly at Methos.

Methos finished his cheese sandwich and licked his fingers. "How about, some bad kids steal the cookies and get punished, but some good kids resist temptation and obey their parents and get rewarded?"

"Nope," Richie said triumphantly. "Anyone else?"

Joe and MacLeod shook their heads.

"Well, one night the kids in the town get together and sneak over the fence. They eat every cookie on the tree and boy were they delicious! The villagers get up the next day and find all the cookies gone. They were in a panic, and some mother found cookie crumbs on her little boy's face. Almost all the kids had stomach-aches, too. The grown-ups got together all worried about what the wizard would do now, and what the cookies were going to do to the kids. They decided the best thing they could do was to apologize and beg for the wizard's forgiveness. So the town council sends a messenger up the hill with a letter apologizing for the kids eating the cookies. The messenger shoves the letter under the door and runs back down the hill.

"That night everyone waits, all nervous. The kids all get over the stomach-aches. And the next morning, there in the town center the tree is full of cookies again. As the sun comes up everyone sees there's a letter in an envelope by the tree. The town council guys unlock the gate and go slowly up to the tree with everyone standing around. One guy opens the letter and reads. 'Dear Villagers,' it says. 'I'm glad you enjoyed the cookies. Please accept this tree as my gift and enjoy its fruit for many generations. Sincerely, the Wizard.'

"The kids all let out a cheer, and before anyone could stop them, they poured through the gate and climbed all over the tree. That night they all had stomach-aches again. But the village enjoyed the magic cookie tree for generations. And they all lived happily ever after."

Richie looked around the table. "What do you think?"

"I liked it," Joe said. "It's a good story."

"What's the moral?" asked the host.

"You need to keep a better eye on the kids," Methos quipped.

"Yeah, not every wizard is going to turn out so friendly," said MacLeod.

"No, you guys," Richie cried. "The moral is, the world isn't always a dangerous place. You have to trust people sometimes."

Joe nodded. "And just enjoy the good things that are in front of you."

"It was a story one of my foster-mothers read to me, called The Cookie Tree. I figured you guys don't read many bedtime stories. I had to make some of it up, because I didn't really remember all the details." Richie blushed.

"Storyteller's license," Methos said. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Well, I did it," Richie said to Methos. "Now it's your turn."

"Speaking of enjoying good things," Methos said, addressing the host, "Innkeeper! Please tell me you have beer."

"I do," said the man, getting to his feet.

"Good. My tale is a long one. But, since the storm shows no sign of quitting, lets have drinks all around and get started."

The Scholar's Tale

The Vikings, or Northmen, as Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan called them, traveled thousands of miles on inland riverways. They were well known in the area of the Black Sea, for instance. Of course, even that was a little too far north for Ibn Fahdlan. But he had had the bad judgment to be caught in bed with the wrong woman. The woman's husband wanted him executed, but the Caliph, who had had some reason to be grateful to Ibn Fahdlan for his service as a scholar, only made him ambassador to Bulgharia."

"Bulgaria?" Joe asked.

"Not that one. Bulgharia. Much further north, deep in the wild forests of Rus-land. He might as well have been banished to the end of the earth. He certainly felt he had."

"Do you mean Russia?" Richie asked. "What was so bad about that?"

"It was uncivilized. No music or literature. Think of it like this. If you lived somewhere warm and comfy where the women all went around in belly-dancing costumes, would you want to trade it for a cold place where the women are buried in furs, and mostly you only get to see the men anyway because there's so much fighting to be done?"

"Oh," said Richie wisely. "You mean like Scotland."

Joe snorted.

MacLeod gave Richie a mock glare.

Richie grinned.

"Yeah," said Methos. "Only more trees and not so much golf."

"Go on," MacLeod said.

"Methos smiled. "He didn't meet the Northmen right away. He traveled with a caravan headed ... I don't remember where, right now. They were attacked somewhere in the steppes by bandits. They were on a wide open plain with no cover and no way to outrun the bandits. The bandits were Tartars, which was really bad. They never left anyone alive. The caravan leader bolted in the direction of the only river, and Ibn Fahdlan followed, sure that his short career as an ambassador was about to meet a bloody end."

Methos shook his head. "He really should have kept it in his pants.

"They reached the river and were about to force their terrified mounts into the deep current, when around the bend of the river came a Northmen's longship. Beautiful high prow, carved like a serpent. Broad, shallow base for shallow beaches. Made of strong oak, with round shields hanging on the sides. The Tartars saw the ship - and, to Ahmed's surprise, turned and fled."

"The Northmen hove to and disembarked on a broad strand. Ibn Fahdlan found himself fascinated by them. What tremendous warriors they must be to strike such fear into the Tartars!

"His caravan leader was reluctant to stop nearby for the night. He wanted to put distance between himself and the bandits. He also didn't trust the Northmen.

"Are they dangerous?" Ahmed asked.

"Hard to say. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Best to leave them alone."

"But with a strange sense of fate gripping him, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan said farewell to the caravan and camped nearby, alone. He was intensely curious, and already admired these men very much."

"Not what I heard," murmured MacLeod.

"I haven't got there yet," Methos retorted.

"The Northmen lit fires and began singing and drinking. Ahmed screwed up his courage and approached their camp. No one stopped him, though he looked very different than the long haired, bare headed Northmen in their leather and furs. He wore his black robes and a black headdress. Ahmed was good with languages, and he hoped that the Northmen might speak a language similar to something he knew. They didn't. Their language lilted and rasped, and he didn't recognize a single word. A few of them tried to speak to him, in a suspicious, drunken way, but no one truly challenged him. He was even offered a drink, which he refused, being a good follower of the Prophet.

"Before too long, three friends grouped around him, drinking and asking him questions. One of them fingered the cloth of his robe and made a rude joke. Everyone laughed. Ahmed tried out a few languages on them, and one man brightened. His name was Herger, and he spoke Greek.

"'Now we're getting somewhere,' thought Ibn Fahdlan. 'I should present myself to their chieftain. It's only proper.'

"'May I speak to your ...' he hesitated, then decided that vainglorious warriors would give themselves important titles, 'king?'

"Herger grinned, and translated the question for his companions. All three men laughed.

"'Certainly,' said Herger, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 'We put him in that tent.'

"Ahmed looked at the small tent pitched nearby. He looked back at the men who watched him merrily.

"Ahmed didn't much like being laughed at. He gathered his dignity and turned toward the tent.

"'Let us know if he talks to you,' Herger said, chuckling. He said something in the Northmen's language and all three men laughed heartily again.

"Ahmed turned to look back, and met the Northman's gaze steadily. Herger burst out laughing again.

"'He's dead! His spirit is bound for Valhalla!' He spoke the last word with gusto, and the others echoed him.

"'Valhalla!' they cried, raising their drinks in the air.

"'Valhalla!' answered the whole host.

"Herger's laughing companions moved off into the crowd, telling the joke to others, Ahmed was sure, by the way their listeners looked at him and laughed.

"Ahmed was a little shocked. 'This is a funeral?' he asked Herger, who still smirked at him, but had not left him.

"'Tomorrow you can talk to the king,' Herger said. He pointed through the crowd at a blond well-built man with deep set, narrow eyes, and a broad forehead, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the others. 'His son Buliwyf will probably be king after we have sent Hygiliak's body to Valhalla, tonight.'

"Abruptly the singing stopped as loud arguing broke out between Buliwyf and another man. The others quieted and turned. Herger and Ibn Fahdlan looked as well, as Buliwyf abruptly drew a huge sword and gutted the other man. The corpse fell back among the revelers.

"A silence followed, then the singing began. The gathering relaxed and began again to drink. Two women dragged the corpse outside.

"Herger turned back to Ahmed. 'Buliwyf will be king,' he commented, and took a deep drink from the animal horn which held his liquor.

"Much later in the night, after the wheel of the stars had rotated overhead, and the cold air had turned damp with the promise of morning dew, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan witnessed the proper funeral rite of the Northmen for their kings. 'It is the old way,' Herger told him. 'You will not see this again.'

"The body, wrapped in cloth, was carried to a small ship. People brought offerings of gifts and placed them on the ship. A woman, dressed in white, who looked drugged, to Ahmed's eyes, was lifted up in the air by the crowd and lowered again, repeatedly. With each elevation she called out a line of ancient verses into the pre-dawn, and Herger translated for Ahmed.

"'She will travel with him,' Herger said.

"Ahmed looked at the ship. 'To Valhalla?' he asked, puzzled. He had thought Valhalla to be an afterlife.

"Herger nodded.

"Then, to Ahmed's horror, the gathering placed the woman beside the dead king, and set the ship ablaze.

"'That's ... you can't ...'

"Herger's previously cheerful countenance turned dark. 'Show some respect, Arab.'

"'Show respect … me?' Ahmed almost sputtered, he was so angry. He searched for the Greek words and found them.

"'Human sacrifice,' he spat, and walked away, into the darkness.

"He slept uneasily in his own tent and after a few hours he emerged into a morning only half over. Daylight made the night's events seem dreamlike and Ibn Fahdlan found he was still interested in learning about the Northmen, though he was having second thoughts about asking to travel with them. He decided he would seek out some breakfast with them and then try to catch his caravan up.

"To his surprise, he saw a second ship beached beside the first. This Northmen's ship, like the first, had a high proud bow, only this one was carved in the shape of a ram's head.

"Ahmed entered the Northmen's tent cautiously, and realized at once that the festive atmosphere of the night's funeral was gone. The Northmen, their women, and their slaves sat or stood attentively, facing away from Ahmed's entrance. At the far side of the tent, Ahmed saw Buliwyf, seated on a raised chair, leaning forward to hear the words of a blond young man – a boy, almost – who spoke at length.

"A few people glanced at him as he shouldered his way to Herger's side, but, like the night before, no one challenged or halted him.

"Herger's smile of greeting was warm, if a little haggard-looking, and Ahmed guessed that few of the Northmen had slept yet. He was relieved that Herger didn't seem hostile, considering how they had parted.

"'What's going on?' he asked.

"'The son of Hrothgar has come to ask Buliwyf for help. His father's kingdom is under attack,' Herger said.

"'Near here?'

"'Back in our lands.' Herger shook his head and Ahmed held his questions, to let Herger hear more.

Herger's eyes widened at something the boy said, and all around them was a nervous rustling. Ahmed studied the faces of these large, strong men and saw fear there.

"'What is it?' he whispered.

"'His father's kingdom is threatened by …'

"Ahmed would have taken the Northman's hesitation as uncertainty with the language, but something in his expression told him that Herger didn't want to finish.

"' …an ancient evil,' he said, finally, with a glance at his nearest comrades.

"The other Northmen paid him no mind; Ahmed was quite sure no one else spoke Greek, and they were all enthralled by the tale the boy was telling.

"When he finished, an apprehnsive sigh went through the tent. Then Buliwyf spoke.

"'He calls for the Angel of Death,' Herger translated.

"'For the what?!'

"'Hush.'

"An old crone was led before the crowd, leaning heavily on the arm of an adolescent girl. Her hood covered her face, and long strings of gray hair draped down from inside the hood. She stood before Buliwyf and threw down an animal skin. Onto the skin she tossed some bones carved with symbols. Ahmed realized she must be an oracle.

"As oracles went, she had very little ceremony. Ahmed had seen Seers spend hours interpreting signs. This woman spoke immediately in a high, shrill voice. The faces of the men hearing her showed the age-old distrust of fighting men for the supernatural, mixed with a healthy dose of respect.

"'She says thirteen men must go to the aid of Hrothgar,' Herger said, his eyes sparkling. 'The number of the moons in a year.' He looked around the room with an eager anticipation. The mood of the crowd shifted to one of excitement.

"'Hver vilja vera the fyrstur maður?' she called out."

The others grinned at each other as Methos spoke the Northmen's language, the words rolling sonorously from his throat.

"'Who will be the first man?' Herger translated.

"Buliwyf, the new king, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head as if he had received a high honor.

"'ÉG vilja vera the fyrstur maður,' he said.

"'Buliwyf will go, of course,' said Herger, approvingly.

"Some cheers broke out. Ahmed sensed the mood of the gathering shifting.

"'Hver vilja vera the second maður?' asked the old woman.

"A tall man with dark hair and beard, wearing black furs stood up.

'ÉG vilja vera the second maður,' he proclaimed.

More cheering followed and people congratulated him."

"Hey," Richie said. "I think I saw this movie."

"Hush," said Methos.

"'One after another, warriors stood and volunteered to go to Hrothgar's aid. The dark man who had volunteered second was Edgtho. His brother Roneth stood next. Then came Ragnar and Helfdane, and Rethel, the archer, whose gray braids reached his waist. Ahmed watched with interest as the most powerful looking men in the company stood and swore to follow Buliwyf to rescue Hrothgar's kingdom. Ahmed saw none of the fear which the "ancient evil" had caused at first - not until the eleventh man, Skeld, a red-haired man with an interlocking pattern tattooed across his nose and cheekbones. As he stood to declare 'ÉG vilja vera the ellefti maður,' he looked pale and he did not smile, not even when his companions shook him in welcome congratulations.

"Herger, too, watched and cheered.

"'Are you going?' Ibn Fahdlan asked him.

"'Just waiting to see who my companions would be,' Herger told him, grinning, as he got to his feet and loudly claimed the twelfth place.

"The cheers for him were raucous, particularly from the other volunteers. But, where before, the old woman had called out for the next volunteer, now her shrill voice spoke other words. Silence gradually fell over the whole gathering, and the hair stood up on Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan's arms. He realized that all eyes had turned to him.

"Buliwyf spoke - to him, it seemed - and Ahmed recognized the word 'ahrahb.' He looked to Herger, who wore a bemused expression.

"'She says that the thirteenth man must be no Northman,' Herger said.

"With growing alarm, Ahmed asked 'What does that mean?'

"'Your luck runs high today, little brother. You must be our last man.'

"Ibn Fahdlan protested, but it gained him nothing. Herger conveniently forgot how to speak Greek, and all the others ignored him except to gather his gear for him and pitch it into the smaller ship – the one the young man had arrived in. Rethel, the burly, gray-haired archer, led Ahmed’s Arabian stallion aboard the ship, where the magnificent horse looked like a pony next to the immense steeds of the Northmen. Rethel made a noise like barking at the smaller horse, and everyone laughed at the joke.

"That was too much. Ahmed had been wondering if they intended to force him aboard their ship, and now he no longer cared. They had his horse hostage. He stormed aboard and shouldered Rethel away from his horse’s head. Rethel yielded, still barking and grinning, and Ahmed calmed his uneasy mount."

"What was his name?" MacLeod asked.

"Who?"

"His horse. What was his name?"

Methos looked blankly at MacLeod. "I don’t remember. Why?"

"Just curious." MacLeod smiled.

Methos gave him a suspicious look.

-tbc-