What Might Have Been

Author's Note: the characters of Gargoyles are the property of Disney and
are used here without their creators' knowledge or consent. Contains some
adult situations and violence (probably no more than a PG-13).




994 A.D.
Somewhere in Scotland ...

        "I'll not be tellin' ye again to get that milk!" his father growled.
        "I'm going, I'm going!"
        Grumbling to himself, he picked up the bucket and headed
outside. High overhead, clouds scudded across the moon. Bare branches
like bones scratched at the sky.
        He pulled the heavy door open. Even if he'd been struck blind, he
would know he was in a barn by the smells -- manure, horsehide, sheep,
straw, dust, apples, turnips.
        The plowhorse neighed skittishly and tossed its head. The cow
lowed and shifted in her stall. Far in the back of the barn, something
rustled in the shadows.
        The boy stopped just inside, his nerves suddenly jumping and
tingling. "Is somebody there?"
        More rustling, furtive somehow.
        He set down the bucket and picked up the pitchfork that leaned
against the wall, moving slowly and carefully so as not to alert an intruder
to the fact that he had a weapon.
        It could well be an intruder, too, he thought. A brigand, a beggar
... or something even worse. Lately, there had been sightings of rogue
gargoyles about. One of them might have come sneaking in, looking for
food.
        "I know ye're there," he said, trying to sound manly and tough
and older than his years. "Come out where I can see ye."
        Silence. More unnerving than the rustling had been. It was a
waiting silence.
        He moved closer. Now he could see an overturned bin, spilled
cores and rinds on the floor.
        "I'm not going to --"
        A dark shape launched itself from the shadows, hurtling right for
him. Claws slashed across his face. He screamed and dropped the
pitchfork, clapping his hands over his stinging, bleeding skin.
        The shape bolted past him, hissing in fury. It scaled a beam and
crouched in the rafters, glaring down at him with hate-filled glowing eyes.
        The boy lowered his hands and looked at the thin streaks of
blood. He peered into the dully reflective side of the milk bucket at the
scratches on his nose.
        "A pox on ye and all yer kind!" he swore, shaking his fist at the
cat in the rafters. It bared its fangs and hissed again by way of reply.
        Muttering curses, he dabbed the blood away and set about
milking the cow. When the pail was full -- and nary a drop was he going
to leave for that vicious monster, that much was certain! -- Gillecomgain
left the barn and pulled the door shut behind him.

                *               *

1020 A.D.
Castle Moray

        MacBeth stared hopelessly into the darkness that stretched
seemingly forever down to the hard earth. Moments ago, his father had
been alive and vital, fending off a masked attacker with only a serving
tray. Then he had fallen, spinning into the shadows, and MacBeth knew he
was gone forever.
        He heard Gruoch calling for him. He turned in time to see his
father's killer about to strike.
        Then came a fleeting shadow, a rush of wings, and the man in the
mask was snatched away from MacBeth. Flesh thudded on stone as the
man slammed into the wall with a pained groan.
        It was a gargoyle. A young female, with skin like ivory and long
flowing brown hair that floated around her in the rising wind. Her eyes
glowed the orange-red of coals, and the moon shone through the thin
membranes of her wings.
        Not choosy about his allies in this, a matter of revenge, MacBeth
seized up his sword and raced to join the fray. Above, he heard Bodie
shouting for his daughter, telling her that it was too dangerous, and he
realized that lovely, clever Gruoch was coming to his aid.
        It was a night for being defended by maidens, it seemed. For the
gargoyle, although she fought with cunning and skill, had the look about
her of a lass not more than sixteen.
        He wasn't concerned about blemishes to his pride. All that
mattered was the killer.
        With that thought in mind, he charged. The man disarmed him,
threw him. MacBeth struck the battlement and went over. Too terrified to
scream, he flailed for and caught hold even as his sword spun along the
path his father had taken. Down, gone.
        Clinging, feeling his fingers go first white-hot with tension and
then so numb they might have become stone themselves, he could only see
torch-thrown shadows on the walls above him. And then hands reaching,
clasping. Gruoch.
        Just then, his grip slipped, and his sole lifeline was the small girl
who struggled to pull him to safety. He realized with horror that he was
about to take her with him, and that seemed the greatest of injustices in
this night's long list. He, perhaps, deserved his fate, for presuming to
attack an armed killer many years his senior, but did poor Gruoch, who
had only tried to save him?
        He saw the terror in her bright green eyes, felt her weight shift.
Now she was belly-down across the thick block of stone, her slippered feet
waving as she fought for purchase and found none.
        Then, incredibly, she stopped. Another face appeared beside
hers, the face of a gargoyle closer than either of them had ever seen. Her
soft brown hair mingled with Gruoch's glorious red. Her hand, as dainty
and feminine as Gruoch's, found MacBeth's forearm.
        A pull, a clawing scramble on his part, and he was up. He sank
down, every sense vividly thankful for the feel of solidity beneath him as
he put his back to the battlement. Gruoch, now sobbing in relief, threw
herself against him.
        The gargoyle stood over them. Of the killer, there was no sign.
He had vanished like an eddy of smoke. MacBeth heard Gruoch's father
anxiously calling his daughter's name. Heard the guardsmen, alerted by
the fight. But those sounds seemed very far away, as he and the girl in his
arms looked up at their rescuer.
        "Thank you," Gruoch said softly.
        MacBeth had never seen such a mingling of sorrow and
wistfulness on any being. For a moment he thought the gargoyle might
weep, and never had he heard of such a thing. She seemed about to speak,
but only the lost sound of a lonely soul emerged before she spun away, as
if ashamed to show her pain.

                *               *

        Elektra's tears turned the night a stormy blur of black and grey.
        She had not wept once in the two years since she had left her
clan. Since that shocking fateful night when she'd found her father's book.
        Her father. Prince Malcolm.
        The words had burned from the page to sear her eyes. She had
wished for understanding, and found it a thousand times worse than
ignorance had been. Now she knew why she fit in with neither her clan
nor her family. She was not Katherine's daughter but her half-sister, not a
true gargoyle but the fluke product of a dalliance that should never have
been.
        That knowledge had marked a brand upon her soul, made her
unable to face any of them. They would but have to take one look at her
face and would know that she harbored some terrible secret. And then the
truth would be known, the truth that would destroy them all.
        And so she had left, in secret and unnoticed, without a farewell.
Better that way.
        Malcolm's book she carried with her. If it had been found once,
it might be found again, and she could not have that happen. Instead, she'd
left a letter, begging them not to worry and not to search, saying that she
had gone to find her place in the world and might someday return. It had
been a lie, that last, but one not meant to harm.
        Even then, she had not wept. Not even earlier this night, when
she had sat upon a hillside overlooking Castle Moray, taking bittersweet
solace in the memories of another castle.
        She had been roused from her piteous state by the combat that
had suddenly spilled onto the balcony. Roused, and spurred to investigate
by a protective urge she had thought long withered.
        For that short time, she had been relieved of her worries and of
troublesome thought. She had a purpose, a task. To protect the castle,
even if it was not her own.
        But after, it had been the kindness in the young humans' eyes that
had brought her to tears and compelled her to flee. Weapons, she could
fight. Kindness, she could not. If she yielded to it, she might befriend the
lad and his love. And then, when they learned the truth, she would be
bereft anew.
        "No more weeping," she now told herself sternly.
        And it worked.
        For a time.

                *               *

Meanwhile, at Edinburgh Castle ...

        A gold seal on a gold chain rang on the wooden table where it
was cast.
        "Findleach, High Steward of Moray, is dead."
        Prince Duncan grinned coldly in satisfaction. "And my cousin,
MacBeth?"
        "He lives." The killer stripped off his plain black mask. Beneath
was a handsome face that would have been regal save for the cruel sneer
to his mouth. His hair was dark and shaggy, his eyes bright blue.
        "Why?"
        "Because, oh prince, he was aided by a gargoyle."
        Duncan regarded his ally with evaluating hesitation. Reaghan's
father Constantine had only held his stolen throne for two years, barely
long enough to get a son upon his queen, Finella. Reaghan knew that he
would never rule Scotland and seemed, therefore, content to serve the one
who would. But he would bear watching. His blood and bearing made him
a proud man, one who did not bow well to others. Yet Reaghan and
Duncan both knew that his striking back would only earn him a quick
death. Better to glean what favor he could.
        And, gargoyles or no, MacBeth alive or no, Reaghan had served
him well this night.
        "For this, I grant you the stewardship of Moray," Duncan
declared.

                *               *

1032 A.D.
Castle Moray

        A gargoyle sat on a dark hillside, balanced between two worlds.
        Behind her was the rugged and rocky terrain where she knew
other gargoyles to lair. Mostly outcasts, clanless wanderers like herself,
who eked out a life on what they could gather and scrounge. She met with
them from time to time, shared what she could. Gradually, they were
coming to trust her, to listen to her when she told them where they might
find food.
        Before her was order and plenty. Safety and warmth. A castle.
        Elektra sighed, resting her elbows on her drawn-up knees and
gazing at the lit windows. Her travels had taken her many places in the
past dozen years, but she always felt drawn to return here, like a moth to
a flame.
        How good it had felt to be in a castle again! Even for only a
moment! In the company of good people -- for she believed that they were
good; it would not do to think otherwise. She had preferred to believe that
she had saved two lives, two young lovers who might one day find true
happiness together.
        Now she had returned to find it was not so. Rather than MacBeth,
the youth who had so valiantly tried to avenge his father that long-ago
night, a man named Reaghan had been awarded stewardship of Moray.
And he had even gained the Lady Gruoch for his wife.
        Elektra found herself deeply saddened by this news. She paid
attention to the goings-on of humans, eavesdropping whenever she could.
        It had been in a tree outside of an alehouse where she had first
heard the hauntingly lovely song of Goliath, recognizing her siblings
Laertes and Deborah in the music even though it was played and voiced by
a human. And it had been in that selfsame tree that she'd learned of the
promise of Gruoch's hand.
        Her upbringing gave her an understanding of the ways human
society, human nobility, functioned. So, while saddened, she was not
terribly surprised. Love often took second place to politics when it came to
noble marriages.
        She wondered what had become of young MacBeth. He was said
to still live within the walls of Moray, still well-loved by his people. Yet
he had not fought for what was his, not run away with his beloved.
Perhaps he realized, as Elektra did, that to do so would only invite their
doom. She knew what it was to be without a home, and would not wish
that upon anyone.
        Even as she thought of him, she saw him, and sat straighter on
the hill. Although their meeting had been brief, although he had grown to
manhood, she knew him at once. But what was he doing, skulking about
the high parapets with a drawn sword?
        Her gaze shifted, and she noticed the form of a woman in a blue
gown. The Lady Gruoch, so it must be, for that length of red hair was like
a beacon in the night. Then a man appeared, and Elektra gasped. Just as
she recognized MacBeth, so too did she recognize this man.
        Oh, could it be? Could the world be so deviously cruel? The
selfsame murderer who had slain MacBeth's father, now taking his place
in both his castle and his marriage bed? Why had MacBeth allowed it?
Could it be that he did not know?
        If he did not know before, he knew now. That much, she
determined from his stealthy presence here. He came with the purpose of
revenge.
        Once again, Elektra stood and spread her wings. If MacBeth had
unfinished business this night, so too did she.
        What an eerie repetition! she thought as she joined the battle.
They had all aged -- before, she had appeared a few years older than
MacBeth and Gruoch, while now the reverse was true -- but the players
were all the same.
        But there were some differences. This time it was a freestanding
torch-brazier that plunged to the dark earth below. This time, MacBeth
fought with righteous wrath instead of grief-torn fury. And Gruoch, rather
than checking MacBeth's fall, was the one to teeter precariously until he
pulled her back.
        Elektra saw right away that her skills had not kept pace with her
growth. Her training seemed so very long ago, in another life. When she'd
first faced this masked foe, she had been only two years removed from her
clan, still with all Goliath's teachings fresh in her mind. Now, a dozen
years and very few battles later, she had forgotten much. While her
opponent had devoted himself to the art of combat.
        So it was that when he lunged at her, she misstepped, and they
both went over the wall. She clawed at the stone, shrieking as her
fingernails bent and tore. She'd never been able to punch them into the
stone the way her siblings did, not without suffering.
        A ridge, no more than a lip where the stone had been improperly
placed, stopped her fall. Her raw and abraded fingers clutched, nearly
slipped free as her foe's arms cinched around her legs. His weight
slammed them both against the wall.
        Her tortured fingers let go.
        MacBeth's hand seized her wrist.
        Now they were suspended like a scale of fate, Elektra and
Reaghan below, MacBeth and Gruoch above.
        She whipped her tail, striking Reaghan a bleeding line across the
face. He cried out and lost his grip, and his cry turned into a receding wail
of horror as he dropped.
        MacBeth and Gruoch brought Elektra to the balcony. She leaned
against a battlement, cradling her wounded hand. Then looked at them,
and with the first smile that had touched her lips in a long time, gave back
the words that Gruoch had once given her.
        "Thank you."
        "I owed you," MacBeth replied.
        Once again, the kindness. And once again, her fear rising like a
clamoring beast, telling her that she must not give in, must not trust and
care and have it all taken away from her.
        "Then we're even," she said, and took her leave before either of
them could call her back.
        Over the next several nights, she secretly but frequently paid
visits to the villages surrounding Moray, and kept a close watch on the
castle itself. The news she heard pleased her greatly. MacBeth was now
High Steward, and wasted no time making Gruoch his wife.
        The happy ending. A bit delayed, but at last, all was well.

                *               *

1040 A.D.
Near Castle Moray

        The sun was getting quite low, and Duncan wished he had been
able to hurry this along. No matter. Enough daylight remained to get the
job done. He would be rid of the gargoyles, and MacBeth would be none
the wiser.
        The gall of him, presuming to order his king! Oh, he had phrased
it as a request, polite enough, "I beg you, spare them," along with some
rubbish about how humans and gargoyles had once fought side by side.
But polite as it had been, it had still been defiance.
        MacBeth puzzled Duncan. All this day, he'd been mulling over
the events that had taken place on this barren, rocky path. If MacBeth
truly was a traitor, why save Duncan from a fall that would surely have
killed him? But if MacBeth was in truth loyal, why had that old bedlam,
the crazed crone they'd come upon in the fog-swept moors, made those
prophecies of kings and fathers of kings?
        "He fancies the crown for himself," Duncan told himself as he
led his men toward the shallow cave. "I'll be rid of him, just as I was rid
of his father. But first, these monsters!" MacBeth would not have their aid
in the coming battle!
        Although the day was fast dying by the time they reached the
cave, he ordered his men to take up their weapons and destroy the
gargoyles. He himself struck the first blow, cracking a horned head from
broad shoulders.
        His men joined in, some hesitantly, others whooping jovially. But
then the sun slipped beneath the horizon, and the few remaining gargoyles
came awake in a shower of stone.
        The female's eyes flared bright, and she gasped as she saw
Duncan's mace about to descend. She ducked under it and swept her tail
like a whip. It stung his ankles even through his thick boots, rendering him
enough off-balance so that when she pushed past him, he landed not only
on his backside but in a pile of festering refuse.
        "Demon!" he shouted, shaking his fists at her as she fled. "I'll
see your kind destroyed for this!"
        The few survivors followed the female, spreading their wings as
they leapt from the path.
        Duncan ran to the edge, still shouting furiously, but none of them
looked back. All he heard by way of reply was one male's aggrieved
complaint, "The hunting was good there!" and the female's stricken
response: "And we were the prey!"

                *               *

        MacBeth rode through the mist, knowing he was riding to his
death.
        Duncan, his cousin and king, marching on him with armies! What
cause had he ever given Duncan to fear him? It had to be a mistake, a
misunderstanding.
        It was his father-in-law Bodie's hope that, by MacBeth's
surrender, Duncan might be moved to spare Gruoch and young Luach.
And so MacBeth set out on his lonely journey, hoping for that promise at
the very least, even if he was unable to convince his cousin of his loyalty.
        But as the miles unrolled behind him, he was surprised to find
himself giving in to anger. What right had Duncan to make this
unwarranted attack? Was not MacBeth's lifelong service worth at least an
explanation?
        If Duncan was so incensed as to do this at all, he would surely
accept MacBeth's surrender and execute him. He would go to his grave
never knowing why. That was intolerable. He could not leave Gruoch a
widow, Luach fatherless, for no reason!
        Perhaps he should turn back, rally his men, make Duncan earn
the right to his head.
        But even as he thought it, his hopes sank. Bodie was right. His
men were brave and true, but no match for the king's own army. If only
there was some other way ...
        Movement caught his eye and he turned sharply, seeing a pale
shadow in the fog. "You!"
        It was the female gargoyle of the ivory skin, the one he'd come to
think of as his guardian angel. Had she been human, he would have
guessed her age at thirty, when she had seemed a maid of fifteen at their
first meeting twenty years before. And still, apart from Gruoch, the
loveliest creature he'd ever beheld.
        Her eyes widened at being seen, and in the furtive flush of her
cheeks he realized she had been following him. Still looking after him. But
she hastily made to flee.
        "Wait!" MacBeth cried, running to catch up with her before the
fog closed her from his sight. If this was not a sign from the heavens, he
didn't know what would be. "You are the answer!"
        She turned and regarded him warily. "And what might the
question be?"
        "Duncan, my king and kinsman, attacks me. He thinks me a
traitor! Me! When I have never been anything but loyal to him! I need
your help to defend my land."
        "I cannot help you," she said, looking down at her hands as they
twined in the folds of her tunic.
        "Bring your gargoyles! Join my forces!"
        "They are not my gargoyles, MacBeth of Moray. I am not fit to
lead a clan. They are outcasts like myself, and only listen to me because I
can tell them where best to find food."
        He stepped closer, took her by the upper arms. "Then tell them I
have food, theirs for the eating if they'll just help us against Duncan's
army! My people will die if you do not!"
        She voiced a sigh that was very nearly a sob. "Would that I could
tell you the lives of humans meant nothing to me. Would that I could tell
you I care nothing for protecting a castle."
        "I'd know better. Please. I cannot do this alone."
        "The other gargoyles may be convinced to join your cause. They
may do so for revenge; your enemy is theirs as well, for Duncan and his
men came to our hideaway while we slept, and now we are fewer."
        "He would have done so sooner, had I not stopped him."
MacBeth told her what had happened that day. "I have finally repaid my
debt to you. Now I would bargain. Help me. There must be something
you want."
        "I am weary of this fugitive life," she said heavily. "I am weary
of wandering, of never feeling safe. I should like just once to greet the
dawn knowing that I will awaken to greet the night."
        "There could have been a place for you at my castle years ago.
You are welcome in our home, for so long as it is ours."
        He held out his hand. She hesitated, then clasped it. "Thank you,
MacBeth."
        "No, thank you ... have you a name?"
        "Elektra."

                *               *

1057 A.D.

        "He plans to betray us!" announced the grey-skinned gargoyle
who was vain about his horns.
        The other wingleader males -- the small wiry russet-hued one, the
barrel-chested dark blue one, the tall quiet brown one -- turned toward
him as he landed.
        Elektra looked up from her map, where she'd been marking the
locations of Canmore's troops.
        Hard to believe the boy had come back. She still remembered the
final battle, or so she had thought it to be then. Duncan's fiery death when
MacBeth, sword broken, warded off the murderous king with a torch.
Canmore, captured but defiant to the last. He'd even drawn a knife, the
foolish child. She had stopped him, advised him not to throw away his life
that MacBeth had so graciously spared.
        Now Canmore was back, full-grown and leading an army,
meaning to retake what he felt was his by birthright.
        And she, Elektra, headed a clan more than a hundred strong.
        Only two had survived to stand with her at MacBeth's victory
celebration, when he had been crowned High King and declared the
beginning of a golden age for all their clans, human and gargoyle alike.
But other outcasts had learned of this, and a couple of small clans
threatened by war, and gradually over the years they had built up until
they were many and prosperous.
        These four males were her best warriors, perhaps not the
brightest things on wings, but each commanded his own battalion. She still
considered herself nothing but an advisor, MacBeth's and theirs, but
somehow she had come to be regarded as something like a queen.
        News of the golden age had even traveled to Castle Wyvern, and
although none of the gargoyles here at Moray were of that clan, tentative
messages of goodwill had passed between Elektra and her rookery brother,
Jericho. Someday, when the war was done, she would return to the place
of her childhood and make her confessions, make her peace.
        But with just those five words, they grey-skinned one put all of
that in jeopardy.
        She stood, wiping ink from her hands. "What mean you? Who
will betray us?"
        "MacBeth!" he spat. "I heard him myself! The old man told him
that Canmore's allies fight because he has filled their heads with tales of
monsters! If MacBeth were rid of us, the English would have no cause to
fight, and might withdraw! And so, to save himself and the humans, he
will betray us!"
        "He would never do such a thing," Elektra said surely.
        "You know how gargoyles have been treated in England," the
blue-skinned one reminded her.
        She nodded automatically. Many of their clan had come from that
country, fleeing violent persecution against the "demons."
        "This is how he thanks us for all these years of loyalty?" the
russet one snarled.
        "No!" Elektra strode into their midst. "He would not! The
English have come this far already. They would not turn back from
MacBeth's doorstep even if he did rid himself of us. So he would not,
even were he tempted. He is our friend! I will go and speak to him."
        "You do that," the grey one sneered. "Don't think we don't know
how you feel for him."
        She gasped. "What said you?"
        "Wasn't I loud enough? Should I roar it from the high tower?
You're blinded with love for MacBeth, and you'll lead us to doom for it!"
        "We've known it for twenty years at least," the brown one said in
his low, quiet voice.
        "It is not like that!" Elektra whispered, but it was.
        "We'll not give him the chance to betray us," the blue-skinned
one growled. He had petitioned vigorously for Elektra as his mate, and
been denied. If they did think it was because of MacBeth ...
        "Let the English come or not, then," the russet one said
indifferently. "Without us, Canmore's troops will trample him into the
earth. And I say good riddance!"
        "You cannot leave!" Elektra cried. "You're needed! What of the
castle? What of the humans?"
        "What of them? A castle is just a pile of stone, which is what
we'd be if we stayed. As for the humans --" the grey one snapped his
talons in her face. "That for the humans."
        She stared in denial and disbelief as they collected their
belongings. "Do not do this! We're to protect ..."
        The brown one paused as the others headed out. He regarded her
sadly. "You forget, Elektra. We were outcasts from our clans. We had no
reason to care." He shook his head and followed the others.
        "MacBeth needs us!"
        They did not reply, and she knew she could not stop them. And
the others would follow them, not her, because she had been so careful to
distance herself from direct command lest they realize she was not truly
one of them.
        "No ..." she sank to the stones and covered her face. Her
prudence, her fear, would be their undoing.
        Then she rose, resolute. She would not yield. She had to at least
try. Wasn't she just thinking that they saw her as something akin to a
queen? Very well! She would see, then, if they would listen!

                *               *

        "What news of Elektra?" MacBeth demanded as the injured
sentry staggered onto the balcony.
        "The gargoyles ... have ... deserted," the man gasped.
        "What?!" He whirled, dumbfounded, and stared over the
battlefield as if he could make the absent winged forces appear just by
being sure they would be there.
        It could not be! Only last night, Elektra had come to him with
news of how her gargoyles had very nearly routed Canmore's army. They
had rejoiced together that soon, soon the fighting would be done. In his
exuberance, he'd lifted her, swung her in a circle until her white-streaked
hair flared like a banner. They had laughed together, and he had nearly
told her then how much she had come to mean to him.
        And now they were gone? Deserted?
        Luach's reinforcements would not arrive in time to save the
castle. Already, the catapults and siege towers were rumbling toward him.
Already, the sky was filling with flaming balls of pitch. His soldiers were
falling in droves. Many, nay, most died searching the heavens for the
reprieve, the deliverance they had come to rely on.
        His castle was burning, his army in shambles.
        Gruoch!
        He ran for her chambers, finding his way nearly blocked by
burning beams. Above the crackle and roar, he could hear her desperate
pleas, calling for him.
        The door gave way on the second kick, and he found her huddled
in a corner. Together, coughing against the choking thick smoke, they fled
to the secret escape route that brought them up in the creek. Now they
were drenched, Gruoch shivering uncontrollably, her long grey hair
spilling over her like a stole.
        "Our home ..." she said through chattering teeth.
        "Has fallen," MacBeth finished.
        "What of Luach?"
        "He'll be well."
        They climbed into the hills beyond the castle, leaving behind the
screams of men and horses. Gruoch could barely keep up, until MacBeth
was nearly carrying her.
        "The gargoyles?" she asked as they stopped in the shelter of a
large rocky outcrop to catch their breath.
        "Gone," he replied, unable to say more, choked by the futile
frustration that rose in his throat.
        "All gone," Elektra confirmed, stepping out from behind a
boulder. "All gone, all dead."
        "Elektra!" He spun to look up at her, and her expression struck
him like a slap. He had never seen such a haunted and tormented visage,
not even when viewing his own in the mirror following his father's
murder, or Gruoch's first marriage. "Why?! We've been friends for
thirty-seven years! Why did you leave?"
        "I tried to stop them." She sobbed once, then pushed back her
hair and met his eyes. "They said you planned to betray us, the better to
hurt Canmore by undermining the support of the English. And so they left.
I went after them, pleaded with them. And some did begin to hear me, to
believe. But dawn was near, and I saw ... I saw men approaching in
hiding. Canmore's men, the very English allies who so despised us from
the first. They had followed the gargoyles. And dawn ... dawn came."
        "No," MacBeth breathed. "The clan?"
        "Destroyed." She bowed her head, and her shoulders shook.
"Battered to bits as they slept in stone, just as my birth clan's parents
were. I saw it happen, MacBeth, I saw it all. I knew that if I turned to
stone as well, I too would be shattered. None would be left to come to
you. To tell you what had happened and why. So, when day came, I
resisted. And oh! the sun was so warm, so beautiful!"
        "Why did the others not do the same?" asked Gruoch.
        "They had not my secret." Elektra seemed to curl in on herself,
fearful of the admission even as she made it. "They were none of them
half-human. When all else seemed lost, I so bitterly wished ... and
somehow, found this last gift from Malcolm my father." She looked
beseechingly at them. "I would never desert you!"
        "And I would never betray you," MacBeth said. Malcolm?
Malcolm of Wyvern, it must be. His own distant kinsman.
        Just then, Gruoch nudged him, and in her face she saw
understanding and acceptance. Go to her, she silently urged. She had
known, possibly even before MacBeth admitted it to himself. Women had
ways of knowing such things.
        He went to Elektra and touched her hair, stroked the white blaze
that ran back from her temple. They had all grown old, the three of them.
        "Because of me, your kingdom is in flames," she said in a low
voice.
        "Because of you, I had a kingdom at all. We built this together."
        "And you will die together," Canmore said as if he'd been
waiting all this while for the perfect moment at which to make his
appearance.
        Before MacBeth could turn, before Gruoch could do more than
begin to utter a stifled scream, the black-haired son of Duncan lunged and
drove his sword at MacBeth's back.
        Elektra swept him aside with such force that MacBeth fell to one
knee. The blade missed him, and slid between her ribs.
        "No!" MacBeth, horror-stricken, rose and drew and struck all in
one fluid motion. He disarmed Canmore, sending his sword flying, and
hammered his elbow into the younger man's temple. Canmore's grin had
only barely begun to surface before his face went slack and he toppled.
        Elektra swayed slightly, both hands pressed to her chest. "Ohhh,"
she said softly, like a woman who just realized she had committed some
grave social misstep. She turned her palms up and stared
uncomprehendingly at the blood upon them. Her knees buckled and she
began a slow, swooning fall.
        MacBeth caught her. Never had he thought she could be so
heavy! Never had he thought her skin would be so coarse! Pallor gave her
a greyish tinge.
        No, not pallor. That was not what made her skin turn grey, her
limbs grow heavy, her skin grow coarse. He had seen enough gargoyles
fall over the past twenty years to know approaching death when he saw it.
        She rested in his arms, taking air in shallow sips, but already a
stiff lethargy was seeping into her body.
        "Elektra ..."
        "You know," she whispered, "how I feel."
        "How we both feel," he said, his heart nearly breaking.
        She nodded, smiled. He leaned down and brushed his lips across
her brow. Then a fine tremble went through her, and he held a statue that
was already beginning to erode into dust.
        "So it's not true!" Canmore mumbled thickly, incredulous.
Rubbing his head, he hitched himself up on one elbow. "'Twas said you
were linked by sorcery, so that when one died, both die!"
        "I'm afraid you'll find it's not that easy," MacBeth growled,
picking up his sword. "On your feet, Canmore. I'll not stab you in the
back like a coward, but I will cut you down where you lay if you fail to
rise!"
        "MacBeth, no!" the weeping Gruoch implored.
        "It ends tonight," Canmore said, getting up and retrieving his
own sword. "One way or the other." Now the grin he'd lost came back, as
several of his men appeared through the trees. "But I have a fair idea
which way it will go!"
        "Luach's reinforcements are almost upon us," one of the men told
Canmore.
        "Let them come. My cousin won't arrive in time to find
anything but his father's body."
        "We'll see about that!" MacBeth attacked, and his last battle
was on.

                *               *



EPILOGUE -- REPERCUSSIONS

1944 A.D.
London, England

        "Oh, Griff!" Una wept, burying her face in her hands to shut out
the sight of his broken, bullet-riddled body. "Why did you have to be so
brave?"
        
                *               *

1975 A.D.
Bar Harbor, Maine

        "Mail's here, Dave!"
        David Xanatos straightened up, groaning as his back unkinked. It
had been a good day's catch, but by the time he got the boat squared
away, he would be more than ready for a hot shower and then bed.
        A year ago, he'd thought his life was finally changing for the
better. A strange encounter on an island out in the Atlantic had given him
a taste of adventure, not to mention introduced him to the most amazing
girl he'd ever met.
        But here he was, still stuck in his father's world of ships and nets
and where the good schools were hiding in the cold northern waters. He'd
been working his butt off all year to try and pay for the Nereid, the ship
that had been lost during that same series of events.
        "Ayuh?" he asked the mailman. "Anything good?"
        "Here you go."
        David took the stack of envelopes. Dad, Dad, Occupant, Dad ...
aha! One for him!
        "Wonder what this is." He tore it open with his work-callused
fingers and unfolded the thick sheet of paper. There was a coin taped to
the bottom, bronze in color and stamped with an unfamiliar design.
        "Grand Opening," he read. "Bar Harbor Arcade and Video Game
Palace. Bring this token for one free game! The latest and hottest in 3-D
arcade action!"
        Shaking his head, he tossed the advertisement into a nearby trash
barrel and returned to the ship, the nets, his life.
                *               *

1976 A.D.
Scotland

        Eibhlin Driscoll climbed to the highest tower, stopping to
examine each of the grotesque stone figures and wondering again what her
son could have found about them that was so fascinating. Frightening,
more like. But then, that was the point, wasn't it? To frighten away evil
spirits by making images that looked even more evil?
        From here, the sea, the hated sea that had stolen her husband and
then returned him as a blue and bloated thing, stretched endlessly on in
dull grey ripples. She could see the pebbled beach that huddled in a
crescent cove far below.
        Was that a boat? Some sort of wooden boat pulled up on the
beach?
        With nothing better to do, she found the path and made her way
down, not being overly careful. If the sea wanted her, it would take her.
        Soon she was close enough to see the object.
        Not a boat after all. Just a large twist of driftwood that from a
distance resembled a boat. And surely, to her Galen, that's what his
imagination would have made of it. She could almost hear him laughing as
he played, fighting mock sea-battles and searching for sunken treasures.
        The wind, hooting in the water-worn hollows. Like the laughter
of her dear, dead son. Like the whistling of her lost husband.
        She looked out at the cold, cold sea.
        If it wanted her, it would take her.
        But she could meet it halfway.
        She unwound her shawl and folded it neatly, draping it over the
driftwood that was not a boat. And then, without a glance back, Eibhlin
Driscoll waded into the sea.

                *               *

1985 A.D.
Irvine, California

        One of the most beautiful campuses in the country, Kenneth
Ferguson thought as he glanced out the window and away from the pile of
papers he was supposed to be grading. If I ever had kids, I'd want them to
go someplace like this. Or maybe someplace back East.
        He grinned at his own foolishness. Kids? Him? There were
certain prerequisites to having kids, not least of which was having a wife.
Well, not necessarily, he supposed in this modern age. But he prided
himself on being an old-fashioned man, and was looking for a suitably old-
fashioned girl.
        Unfortunately, when one happened to be a professor of medieval
history, one's idea of what passed for an old-fashioned girl was rather
different from that of other people. For them, June Cleaver was about as
far as they'd go. For him, Eleanor of Acquitaine was more the thing.
        He chuckled. So all he needed to do was find a way to go back in
time. Perhaps to the Scottish castle he'd visited almost ten years ago. Yes,
back in time, find himself a nice noble-born lady. Raise up a few fine
strong lads or a lass to spoil. A daughter he could name Aiden, after his
grandmother.
        Shaking his head, laughing at himself, Kenneth Ferguson went
back to work.

                *               *

1989 A.D.
Seattle, Washington.

        "So the old man's dead." Graeme Wulfstan, known as the Grey
Wolf in pro wrestling circles, didn't sound all that broken up about it.
"What'd he leave me?"
        "Some furniture, two cats, a bank account that should just about
cover the cost of the burial, and this." The lawyer slid a box across the
table.
        Wulfstan opened the box, pinched a corner of the floral-patterned
silk scarf like he was peeling up something yucky stuck to his shoe. "This
belong to my great-aunt?" When the lawyer didn't reply, he lifted it and
unwrapped it.
        The office lights ran in dazzling circles around the milky blue
jewel nestled in a swirl of thick gold. Wulfstan's bushy brows went almost
to his shaggy hairline.
        "What is it?"
        "It's called the Eye of Odin. The Nordic Heritage Museum here
in Ballard has offered it a place of honor in their exhibit hall."
        "Screw that!" Wulfstan closed his massive fist around the gem.
"Donate it to a museum? Do you think I'm nuts? This thing is worth a
fortune!"

                *               *

Clippings:

From The Seattle Times, 1989:
        No Further Wolf Attacks
        Marysville, WA -- a series of brutal livestock deaths and
mutilations seems to have come to an end, much to the relief of farmers in
this normally quiet town. Evidence found at the scenes led authorities to
believe the animals were the victims of a wolf pack, although lab results
are pending. The last known attack was two weeks ago. It is likely that the
pack was driven off by increased vigilance. Several farmers claim to have
shot at "something," but no wolf bodies have been found.

From VIP Magazine, 1990:
        The Magic Is Over
        Together, they wove illusions to baffle even the greatest
magicians of all time. David Copperfield admitted in a 1988 interview that
even he was unable to figure out how the spectacular team of Lyonnes and
Fox worked their stunning magic. He, and the rest of us, will never have
another chance to try. The team, partners since 1985, have announced that
they are going their separate ways ...

                *               *

1990 A.D.
Castle Wyvern, Scotland.

        "Chronos, look!" Aodh exclaimed. "It's a man!"
        "I know it's a man," the older, portly gargoyle said in an
aggravated tone.
        "No, don't you see?" his golden-skinned companion said
excitedly. "He's the one! The one to break the spell!"
        They fell silent, trusting to the shadows of their high perch to
conceal them, as the man passed by. Then they turned away from the
castle, and headed for their cave.
        The cave had housed the descendants of Clan Wyvern ever since
humans stopped believing in gargoyles and forced them to go into hiding
or be hunted down. It was comfortable, close enough to let them keep
watch on the castle and their ancestors who still slept in stone. Most
importantly, it was safe.
        The plump female called Kettle was washing up the dishes from
the clan's supper when her son scampered into the cave.
        "Mama, Mama, there's a man in the castle!"
        "No more stories, Chip --" his father had proudly told anyone and
everyone that he was a chip off the old block, and it had stuck -- "into the
tub with you." She picked him up and plopped him into the warm, soapy
water.
        "Isn't it exciting?!" Feather fluttered into the kitchen showing off
her black and grey wings. "I saw a man in the castle!"
        Chip popped up, bubbles on his head, and squirted a stream of
water out of his mouth. "See, Mama, I told you!"

                *               *

1990 A.D.
Castle Wyvern, Scotland.

        "... and we've been having trouble finding workers. The castle is
reputed to be haunted," the stiff, humorless assistant finished.
        "Pay a man enough, Mr. Vogel, and he'll walk barefoot into
Hell," Halcyon Renard said, adjusting the controls of his motorized
wheelchair to steer his withered body closer to the vine-laden stones of
Castle Wyvern.
        Preston Vogel inclined his head in acceptance of the older man's
wisdom, and made a few phone calls. Within a matter of hours, the crews
were fully staffed, the large machinery was chugging and snarling, and the
project was underway.

                *               *

1994 A.D.
Manhattan

        "Enemy invasion, yeah, right," Elisa Maza muttered to herself as
the elevator doors began to close.
        Halcyon Renard's arrogance aside, no enemy invasion or robotic
malfunction could account for the chunk of claw-marked stone she'd found
in the street below.
        Cop instinct told her that the old man and bland-faced assistant
were lying through their teeth. She had made all the right replies, let them
think they were conning her. Vogel had showed her to the elevator and she
thanked him for his cooperation.
        She hit the button, and the doors slid back open. Vogel was gone.
She was alone in the castle's dark and gloomy halls.
        Why would anyone want to live like this? Everything else Renard
produced was ultra-modern and state-of-the-art. Lasers, cybernetics, the
stuff of the future. So why this sudden, unexplained fondness for ancient
castles?
        "Maybe he's the original owner," she said to herself.
        She jumped at the sound of her own voice and realized she was
working up a good case of the creeps. A hundred monster movie scenes
shutter-clicked through her mind. Whenever she watched those, she would
always scoff at the stupid heroine who would go, all by her lonesome, into
the attic or down the cellar or off through the spooky forest. But here she
was, doing just that.
        To top it all off, she was pretty sure she'd taken a wrong turn.
Now she was in the section that Renard hadn't gotten around to fixing up
yet. No lights. Dust, leftover from the move and the reconstruction. Her
mind supplied cobwebs even though there weren't any to be seen.
        Something grunted and moved, just outside the beam of her
flashlight. She swung it in that direction. Nothing. But a low, somehow
slobbery breathing.
        A low-slung shadow. A growl.
        Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.
        A beam of light splashing over a blue beast the size of a tank,
coming right at her.
        Elisa sucked in a quick breath and pointed her gun at it.
        Another shadow loomed beside her. A large hand -- a three-
fingered claw -- snatched the weapon from her grasp.
        She whirled, and there, not a foot away, was a creature right out
of a bad dream. Batlike wings, luminescent white eyes. A bulky, muscular
body with a long tail.
        It was between her and the hall. There was a staircase behind her
and she started backing up it, feeling her way on the stone wall, never
daring to look away as the creature relentlessly followed.
        The staircase let her out onto the roof. Open sky stretched above
her. Wind pulled her hair like dark ribbons in front of her face. She
continued sidling back as the creature emerged. Her breath whistled as if
her throat had narrowed to a pinhole.
        Sudden space at her back. Startled, she leaned, and too late
realized her mistake. The backs of her knees struck the lower edge of the
crenelated wall, and she toppled over.
        Now her throat seemed wide as a train tunnel, and the scream
that burst out of her was as loud as a siren.
        She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the towers stretching
away from her with terrifying speed. But in that internal darkness, her
fear spiked to new levels.
        When she opened them again, she saw the creature coming after
her. Closing the distance. Its claws reached for her. She was suddenly
sure that it wasn't content to have her fall, that it had to first rend her to
bits. Her flesh cringed in anticipation.
        Then she got a look at the creature's face, the horror and worry,
and understood that it was trying to save her.
        Strong arms looped around her, and then she was being carried
instead of falling. Still plunging toward the street, but with those wings
now spread. Her stomach lurched sickeningly as they swooped low over
the cars and crowds before beginning a climb.
        "Okay, okay, just stay calm," she told herself as the creature
landed on a ledge and released her.
        "Lass, ye gave me a right proper scare," the creature said.
        The shock of hearing it speak nearly made her step off the edge.
        "You can talk! Who are you? What's your name?"
        It -- no, he -- laughed and shook his greying, bearded head. "A
thing's not real to ye humans until ye can name it, give it limits." He
pointed. "Does the sky need a name? Does the river?"
        "Actually, the river's the Hudson."
        He sighed. "Aye, verra well, then I shall be the Hudson too."
        "Hudson it is." She grinned and held out her hand. "I'm Elisa
Maza. Thanks for saving my life."

                *               *

        The craft sped away from the castle, the disgruntled occupants
rubbing their various aches and pains through the tough fabric of their
dark grey Kevlar bodysuits. Helmets with red-tinted visors were removed
and laid aside.
        Inge Runolf looked at Judge Halverson as if to say, "Well?" He
resignedly got up approached the front of the craft where their boss was at
the controls.
        "What the hell were those things?" he demanded.
        "Does it matter?" she replied, sparing him only a brief glance.
"You blew it."
        "You didn't tell us we'd be fighting monsters."
        "I told you to be ready for resistance." In the weird glow of the
instrument panel, the painted foxhead around her eye resembled a pirate's
patch.
        "Sure, from humans or robots!"
        "We'll just have to find another way to deal with Renard." Her
silence made it clear that the conversation was at an end.
        Halverson weighed the options of continued debate, gave up, and
returned to sit beside Runolf.
        "This is nuts," Glasses remarked from the other side of the
compartment. "There are easier ways to get at the old man's money than
attacking him in his castle."
        Fox heard him, and whipped around like a harridan with her
firegold hair flying. "The data on those disks would have been worth more
than all the hot cars, stolen weapons, and dimestore protection rackets
your people pull off in a year! You and Dracon work for me now, and
don't you forget it!"
        The craft flew on, toward the endlessly cruising bulk of Fortress
One.
        After they'd landed in the main hangar in the belly of the flying
ship, Fox left her team and headed for the bridge. She pulled the
rubberband from her hair and shook it loose.
        "Evenin', Ms. F," the guard at the door said.
        "Hi, Vinnie. Owen around?"
        "No, ma'am, haven't seen him."
        "If you do, tell him that I'm --"
        "Looking for him?" Owen Burnett finished, coming around a
corner.

                *               *

        "There's someone here I'd like you to meet." Halcyon Renard
pressed a button on the armrest-mounted control panel of his wheelchair.
        Hudson and the others, who had chosen names of their own from
the city they'd eagerly explored after repelling the previous night's assault,
turned. All were wary, but curious.
        So far, their benefactor and Hudson's new friend Elisa had shown
them wonders they never would have imagined. A city of millions, of
lights and machines. Television. Strange weapons that were worse than
Viking bows, worse than the magical blasts of the Archmage. What new
amazement could this be?
        A door slid open, revealing a shadowed shape. It came forward
into the light.
        "My love!" the female gargoyle cried, rushing into the room.
Before the males could collect their jaws from their chests, she had her
arms around Brooklyn and was kissing him soundly all over his beak.
        "What the --?" Broadway blurted.
        "Wow!" Lex chimed in.
        Bronx chuffed in surprise.
        "I ... swear ..." Brooklyn protested, his words stuttered because
the female kept planting kisses while he was trying to talk, "... Hudson ...
I've never ... seen her ... in my life!"
        She left off for a moment, and Brooklyn got a breath. "But I've
seen you!" she said. "How I've waited for this! Aodh will be upset, but
I've been burned by him before." She made as if to recommence with the
kissing, but Hudson intervened.
        "Here, now, lass, give him some air! Who are ye? Where have
ye come from?"
        Reluctantly, the female backed off and smoothed her short cap of
jet-black hair behind a pair of cute horns. Her skin was maple, her caped
wings made a sumptuous cloak of black and grey feathers. Beneath, she
was clad in something of tight-fitting black satin that made Lex's eyes bug
so much that Hudson feared the lad might hurt himself.
        "I'm called Feather," she said, and now Hudson heard the soft
Scottish burr in her voice. "Of your clan!"
        "No way," Brooklyn said, shaking his head as he gave her a very
appreciative once-over. "I would have remembered."
        "Me too," Broadway said. Lex could only gawk.
        "What is the meaning of this, Renard?" Hudson demanded.
        The old human rubbed his hands together with a dry, papery
sound. He looked quite smug and pleased with himself. "As you know, I
devoted my life to the pursuit of science, but as age and infirmity got their
hold on me and science was not keeping pace with my declining health, I
turned to other avenues of exploration."
        "Ye got interested in magic," Hudson said, nodding. "So ye told
us."
        Feather took advantage of their conversation to sidle close to
Brooklyn and sort of bump her shoulder and hip at him, all the while
giving him a look she might give a pastry she was about to devour. The
poor lad clearly did not know what to make of it, but was enjoying it all
the same. Enjoying it so much that he wasn't paying attention. Hudson
cleared his throat warningly.
        "Over the years, I collected many unusual items. The one thing
that eluded me was a legendary book of spells, the Grimorum Arcanorum.
It was while researching it that I learned about gargoyles. It seemed to me
that if the story was true, I could once and for all prove to myself that
magic existed."
        "So ye brought our castle here, to raise it above the clouds and
see if the spell would be broken and we would live again."
        "Yes." Renard smiled at Feather. "I hadn't counted on an extra
gargoyle as a stowaway."
        "Stowaway?" Brooklyn asked her. "But where'd you come
from?"
        "My clan is descended from the eggs that were spared the attack
of the Vikings. We've waited a thousand years for you to awaken. But
none of us counted on the castle being moved! So I --" here she giggled
deliciously, and Lex looked like he was trying to swallow a doorknob, "--
hid in a crate, and was brought along."
        "For a time, I started to think the castle was haunted," Renard
said. "All during the reconstruction, the night watchmen would claim they
had seen, or heard things."
        "It was just little me," she giggled again, tickling Brooklyn's tail
with her own and making him jump. "Mr. Renard found me out, and after
I told him who I was, he agreed to let me stay."
        "Why did you call Brooklyn 'my love'?" Broadway asked, not
without a fair measure of envy.
        She blushed prettily. "I used to visit him every night, talk to him,
pretend he was my sweetheart. Then, well, seeing him awake ... I was
overcome."
        "Uh ... really?" Now Brooklyn was blushing.
        "Where's the rest of yer clan?" Hudson wanted to know.
        "Back in Scotland. We decided that only one of us should come."
She explained the promise that had been handed down from one generation
to the next, that should the sleepers ever awaken, there would be someone
there to greet them.
        The weight of the time hadn't really hit Hudson until now. A
thousand years. And all that while, his clan had kept them alive in their
hearts and minds, passing on a tradition and holding fast to it.
        "What ever happened to Goliath?" Lex had finally recovered his
wits enough to speak.
        "There's a song about him," she said brightly. "About him and
his Angel. I learned it when I was just a hatchling. It's the most beautiful
song!"
        "He ... he's dead," Broadway said. "I knew he had to be, but ..."
        Feather cocked her head, then her face twisted in dismay. "Oh,
I'm sorry! For you, it was only a long sleep ago!"
        "Aye, but for ye, it was something that happened long before ye
were hatched. Dinna be ashamed, lass. We understand."
        "Poor Goliath," Lex murmured.
        "Sing us your song," Brooklyn urged. "I think we'd all like to
hear it."

                *               *

        "Well, Sevarius?" Renard folded his hands and waited.
        "I've isolated the gene that makes the gargoyles age at a slower
rate," Anton Sevarius said. "Convenient that the attempted hostile
takeover by FoxFire Enterprises wounded the gargoyles enough to allow
me to collect the necessary samples."
        "Can it be used on humans?" Renard leaned forward as much as
his chair would permit.
        "It would take some work. Even if successful, though, it would
only retard further aging."
        Renard sank back and rubbed his brow. "That's not what I'm
paying you for. I have enough longevity formulas. I need something to
turn back the clock, not stop it."
        "I'm doing the best I can." Sevarius' voice oozed contrition.
"Have you given any thought to reconsidering --"
        "Clones and mind transference?" Renard's face twisted in disgust.
"No. I will not hear of it."
        "I've made some progress on the mutagenic agent --"
        "I thought I told you I wanted no further development along that
line! I understand the trials of frustrated genius, Doctor, but I won't
have you making monsters on company time."
        He turned away, but not so quickly that he missed the sour
expression on Sevarius' face. He made a note to himself to be sure and
soothe the temperamental scientist's ruffled feathers later. It wouldn't do
to have Sevarius quit. His ... competitor would snap up Sevarius in a
flash, just as she had stolen Owen Burnett.
        But that would have to wait. He had a meeting with the Emir to
finalize plans for the Egyptian project, had to make the arrangements for
Vogel's trip to South America, and there was the matter of his own
upcoming vacation in Prague to think of, this Cauldron of Life to
research ...

                *               *

        "Is it on all the channels?" Lex groaned.
        "Well, they're appearing live at Madison Square Garden,
tonight," Broadway said around a mouthful of bagel.
        "Who'd want to go see that?" Brooklyn said snidely. "The Pack is
a pretty dumb show, even for kids."
        "Shep!" a chorus of kids' voices chanted as the Pack's noble
leader appeared on the screen, followed by shots of his team in quick
succession. "Poodle! Bulldog! Peke! Dane-a!" Then the announcer came
on, extolling the virtues of the cartoon anthropomorphic canines as they
went up against the evil cat-warriors.
        "Turn it off!" Brooklyn made to snatch the remote from Lex. "Or
find something else. Golf. Love Boat reruns. Anything but this!"

                *               *

        "So, partner," Matt Bluestone ventured. "You seeing anybody?"
        "No, why?" Elisa didn't take her eyes from the road.
        "Just curious. Hey, you want to grab a cup of coffee? My treat."
        She grinned. "Sounds like a plan ... partner!"
        "And maybe dinner later?"
        "Don't push it, Matt."
        "Can't blame a guy for trying," he shrugged.
        Elisa drove in silence for a while, then glanced at him. "How
about Friday? I know a great Thai place ... but you've got to promise to
be quiet about the Illuminati."
        "It's a done deal!"

                *               *

1995 A.D.
Africa

        "... the spider went hungry!" Diane Maza concluded, and the
children laughed and clapped.
        As one of their elders herded them off to their supper, she
approached Fara Maku and flushed with pride as he congratulated her on
her skillful rendition of the tale of the Panther Queen. They walked
together toward the cage where the ceremonial panther was imprisoned.
        He was telling her how the rite would go, when a warning shot
cracked. Rough men emerged from the jungle, led by a woman with
murder in her eyes.
        "Te'a!" Fara cried.
        He tried to reason with her as she aimed at the caged panther, but
she was beyond reason. Her first shot took the animal in the flank, driving
it berserk with fear and fury. It attacked the bars, which began to splinter.
Her second shot went wild as Fara grappled with her, but then the rough
men pulled him away and the third shot stilled the panther's heard.
        Diane stood numbstruck and horrified, and despite the story she'd
just finished telling, completely unprepared for what happened next. Fara,
in the grip of his captors, suddenly writhed and tore free, dropping to all
fours as black fur sprouted on his skin.
        The men reeled back, but Te'a went livid with rage. "It was
you!" She raised the rifle, aimed it at Fara.
        Without a thought for her own safety, Diane slammed her
shoulder into the younger woman and bowled her over. She grabbed for
the gun.
        Te'a twisted beneath her, screaming in denial as her body began
to contort. Diane found herself looking into the deadly golden gaze of a
panther.
        She gasped and rolled off, and Te'a paused only long enough to
bare her fangs in a vicious snarl before leaping at Fara.
        The other poachers had recovered enough to point their guns at
both panthers. Diane shouted at them to stop, but they fired. A bullet dug
into the earth beside Fara's paw, a second grazed Te'a. At the shots, both
panthers left off their struggle and bolted for the cover of the jungle.
        "Come on!" one of the men said to his companion, and they
charged after.
        "Fara Maku!" Diane called. "Come back!" Then she, too, dashed
into the jungle. It was crazy, chasing panthers at night, but someone had
to do something. After thirty years of being wife to a cop and mother to
two cops, the protective impulse must have rubbed off onto her.
        She had no trouble following the trail of the poachers, who were
old hands at tracking wounded prey. Te'a, once their leader, now filled
that role.
        To her intense shock, the trail led to the gates of a vine-covered,
abandoned city. A city she had never believed to be real. The Spider-
Gates!
        At the heart of the city, after nearly falling into a pit trap that was
choked with webs and acrawl with spiders -- it would have to be spiders;
what else should she have expected? -- she found the poachers caught in
sticky, thick strands. They had blundered into a giant web and were
trapped, helpless.
        Fara Maku, human now, stood at the foot of a web cable as big
around as a man's leg. Te'a crouched before him, only her vertically-split
pupils and golden irises still showing as proof of her transformation. Now
Diane noticed the mark on the woman's shoulder, and understood even
before Fara explained how he had wanted Te'a to stay with him.
        "But who marked you?" she asked.
        "I did, storyteller," chortled a voice right out of a nightmare, and
the spider lowered itself into view.
        "Anansi!" she gasped. It was true, the old stories were all true!
        The spider gloated over how fat he would grow with five humans
to hunt for him, and Diane realized with cold certainty that she would
never see her home again.

                *               *

Avalon

        "Avalon welcomes its children," Oberon said, looking about in
satisfaction as he and Titania materialized in a golden-blue shimmer. "And
how has my isle fared?"
        Three shapes faded into view, taking on female forms of identical
beauty, differing only in the hues of their hair.
        "Undisturbed, my lord," Selene, the black-haired enchantress,
replied.
        "Save for the Sleeping King," Phoebe added.
        "Who yet rests in his hollow hill," Luna finished.
        "Oh, yes, the Sleeping King." Oberon waved nonchalantly. "Let
him be. He'll not disturb our homecoming. It is a pleasure to have you at
my side again, sweet Titania."
        "Yes, my lord," that lady said graciously.
        "Would that you returned to this fair isle as my wife, as well as
my queen," he hinted, kissing her hand.
        She gave him an arch look, beneath which was a playful twinkle.
"My lord has yet to earn that privilege. Should a suitable test present
itself, we shall see."
        "How I indulge you," he chuckled.
        Titania smiled. "That you do, my lord, that you do."
        "But now," he said, taking her arm, "it is time for the
Gathering."

                *               *

The End.


Author's Note, final:
        This story could have gone on forever! I realized as I began it just
how much that one decision changed everything. How tied together it all
was.
        No Goliath meant no Xanatos going back in time to become a
"self-made man;" no Xanatos to intervene meant the Archmage would get
the gate; if the Archmage had the gate, Demona wouldn't have it to give
part to Goliath in the first place ... damn, that's tidy!
        But it went on. If the Archmage had the gate, and died, he
couldn't later get the gate and use it to save himself. So no Weird Sisters,
no plan to bind MacBeth and Demona. No Demona, anyway, because she
stayed with Goliath.
        Nobody ever trespassed on Avalon, so Arthur never awoke. No
world tour. No Alexander, for Oberon to come and fetch. And so on.
Everything was different. Not to mention what it did to all my
characters!
        I knew I could never write it all, and didn't really want to. That's
why the ending collection of epilogues sort of peter out. There was too
much, and I'm sure others will be able to imagine what else would have
changed, thinking of things that I didn't.
        If just one person, reading this, slaps his/her forehead and
exclaims, "Of course!" with the same chill of implication that I felt a
hundred times while writing it, I will have done what I set out to do.

Page copyright 1998 by Christine Morgan (vecna@eskimo.com)