Present Tense

I didn't know what to expect when I walked into the room.

Police were everywhere. Cases were smashed, and pieces of shattered reinforced plastic were scattered on the marble floor. I silently mourned the loss – of so many hours, arranging the display, the supports, focusing the lights, carefully crafting those boxes to protect the priceless artifacts for display. No longer made of glass, but just as protective, I still had to make my way gingerly over the flinders to stand beside the museum director. I'd touched the artifacts last, so therefore I was summoned in my slippers to account for it all.

I was likely the main suspect as well.

I didn't care; all my careful preservation efforts meant nothing. Everything was gone.

I cried, and I didn't care that my tears were contaminating a crime scene.

At least the officer was sympathetic while taking my statement, seeing how affected I was. My director, on the other hand, indeed thought it was an affectation, and insinuated every chance he was given that it was my incompetence or avarice that caused this. He finally made such an obnoxious ass of himself that two detectives led him off with gentle but firm arm holds to “take his statement” in the confines of his office. Yes, officers, you do that. And while you're there, wonder about his “personal collection” of stuff that should be on display, and isn't, and whose acquisition status has been purged from the files.

Too bad that I made duplicates. I murmured to a third detective that someone should check the orange folders in my office for the paper trail of documentation for this room. Top drawer, second locked file cabinet, and here's my key. Oh, and while you're there, pick up the green folders in the third locked cabinet, bottom drawer. That should sink my director for antiquities fraud. I'd always suspected his ancestors interbred with Equus africanus asinus, but never had the chance to run his DNA for positive identification.

I had to pull my thoughts away from delicious revenge to sad destruction. The mummy, with his wrapping of bear and badger skin robe. His belt, his sword, his knife, all so delicately cleaned. The unique necklace we found on his chest. The saddle, the oldest in the world. Even the remains of the horse, with its bridle and wear patterns from it on the jaw.

All on loan. Our reputation was in the latrine. No self-respecting museum would assist us, ever again.

Career ending.

I'm sure the officer was reading me like a book. I didn't care. This was supposed to be the exhibit that proved I could run with the big wolves of archeology, and now I'd be lucky to be kept on retainer for janitorial staff.

Of course I had no idea who would want to do this. An ultra-rich private buyer with a thing for horses? A government trying to make us look bad? How would I know? I'm just trying to make a name for myself, not know the political intrigues of global leaders. Or the ins-and-outs of high-level antiquities theft. Talk to the CIA, FBI, or freaking Interpol for those answers.

Speaking of – ah, here come the suits.

At that point, I'd had enough. I snapped. I told them that they'd better find me a place to sit that didn't have shards of high-impact plastic trying to skewer my toes, that also had breakfast and strong coffee involved, tea instead if they were civilized, if they wanted any coherency from me for the rest of the day.

Surprisingly, I got it.

When the FBI whisks you away, believe me, you're whisked. I'm going to ignore the rest of the breakfast puns, because by the time I wolfed down the second bagel piled high with cream cheese plus a rather large and nice latte, I was ready to face more questioning.

It never came.

I was slurping needily when a bigger and darker suit joined the suits in our questioning room. And shocked us with the information that reports were now coming in from all over the country, the world, that similar smash-and-grabs had occurred concurrently with mine. Even now, suits of all the somber colors were telling subordinates to take me home, this was far, far bigger than anything ever seen before.

I was deposited back at my museum. I didn't know what to think – was my job secure? What happened? What do I do next? I was now wide awake, though the adrenaline had worn off long ago. Might as well go inside, I guess.

I met detectives on the stairs, dragging out the director in handcuffs, followed by a parade of officers carrying orange and green folders and a metric trireme full of purloined and questionable artifacts from the director's plush office. So. My job status wasn't as shaky as I had feared.

Forensics was collecting the mess under the watchful eye of the curator. I filled him in on why I was released, and he popped onto his social network du jour to see the scrolling feed of damage, destruction, defilement, desecration. Literal disfigurement. I couldn't grasp its meaning, even in my over-caffeinated state. I was shaking at the enormity of it all.

All over the world, in one night, thousands of museums lost precious artifacts.

I needed a chair quite badly.

We sought sanctuary from the madness in a conference room. I was certain our offices would be stripped of all information, so a nice innocent laptop in a semi-public room seemed like a good place to start. The curator was murmuring lists of museums, colleagues, and purloined valuables while I tried to access what encrypted files I could from where I'd stashed them on the servers.

One pattern became as crystal clear as the quartz points in the Natural History wing – all the thefts centered on a burial and the contents of its tomb.

And not just any entombment - warriors.

I thought “mummies,” only to be corrected by my curator. Peru's mummies were still safely ensconced in their cases for display and protection. Pompeii's victims slumbered in their encasing layers of ash hardened to almost cement consistency. The slave cemetery bodies from Akhenaten's disastrous city of Amarna experiment lay in their rows in the back rooms, awaiting their turn at modern scanning.

Others made the same observations and analyses. The scope widened. I didn't know what to think when my colleague quietly said, “Well, it's good to know where they were buried, I guess.” He turned his cell phone screen to my questioning look.

Ghengis Khan. Trajan. Duke of Qin. Shaka Zulu. Khutulun. Gilgamesh. David bar Jesse. Ahebi Ugbabe. Cleopatra VII Theo Philopator. Harald Bluetooth. Suleiman the Magnificent. Arthur Pendragon. Smoke Jaguar. Montezuma II.

All names we know well, and from tombs either unknown or undisturbed.

Not anymore.

The second wave of reports were of craters that formed overnight, in locations either known to contain kings and emperors, or suspected to be in the vicinity of one. Other craters as well, smaller ones, in places some were beginning to link with known names. Or no names at all.

But the craters were there, and they pointed to something much greater than mere coordinated robberies. I may have voiced it, but we were both thinking it: “How on earth would thieves know to coordinate not only museum thefts, bypassing security, as well as tomb robbing locations around the globe, where no one knew to look?”

I was unnerved. I ordered tons of food to be delivered to the museum. Non-perishables. Lots of them. And cases of water. And a water purifier. It's amazing what can be gotten in a large metropolitan city on little notice.

We read through the evening and into the night. All the suits made sure the place was well secured. We heard board directors exclaiming through the thick doors occasionally. They had arrived at some point, gibbering over the damages, and what to say to which bigwig. Intermittently our sanctum would be breached, questions gabbled. We answered distractedly.

I took charge of my large delivery, and sealed it in with us. I had a dawning suspicion this wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Night brought little rest, and sleep was elusive.

By next morning, many more colleagues had arrived, as shaken as we were. We all slipped home and collected our valuables and comfort items, and many more supplies for the new people were ordered and delivered and stacked. Why we were hunkering, we had no idea, but those craters weighed heavily in the decision.

And we were not the only ones. Historians, archeologists, anthropologists, librarians, even political science profs made their way to such bastions. If history was doomed to repeat itself, we instinctively wanted to be with the information.

We noticed the patterns.

A certain German despot was not among the craters – in fact, no modern dictators made the list. Stalin's and Mao's graves were intact.

“I think it's the swords,” murmured our armor specialist, and it seemed to make sense. Buried or displayed with your arms? It equated to a tomb crater or shattered museum display. “Guns aren't usually buried with their owners, they're displayed elsewhere as trophies. Makes me wonder if all that sword destruction the Norsemen were obsessed with has a solid source.”

“Render them useless, or place them underwater. For safety? And we've been suddenly finding a lot of them. Did we reach a tipping point?”

“Are you saying the whole Excalibur thrown back in the lake was a feint, to keep the sword with the body, and hidden?”

“Occam's razor. I have no other explanation for this, other than maybe there's truth in some legends. Things kept in the dark or under water keep them away from the light. And now there's a bunch of sunlight on a bunch of sharp forged objects.”

I thought of my lights, so carefully arranged for maximum optics, and felt guilty.

The kidnappings didn't start for a few more days.

First were stragglers and loners. Homeless, those that wouldn't be missed. Then couples, the ones with houses with no neighbors. Then houses on the outskirts of tiny towns. Then police officers who were staking out likely spots. There was evidence of shots fired, but no blood or bodies.

Camera footage was recovered.

It was chilling.

Conferences were called. We were informed, because it's our specialties.

“Are you telling me that the old warriors have come alive, and are building armies?!?”

“Well, that explains the tomb builders being slaughtered to keep the locations secret...”

“You expect me to believe some claptrap about fairy swords? Do I look that gullible to you?”

“Believe what you like, Sir Terry, but if you're so sure, go on, leave the museum. Alone. See how long you last out there.”

The rotund noteworthy gave a loud harumph, but settled back in his chair.

Well, in for a penny... I took a deep breath, and said it. “Did anyone have Zombie Apocalypse by Ancient Solar-Activated Magic Swords on their bingo card? Anyone?”

It got the laugh we desperately needed, but it made them think.

And then we started talking about some museums, large and small, that had been in touch with these internet meetings, and had gone silent in areas that had a sudden increase in vanishings.

Once the call was over, I walked out into the silent, empty room that scarce weeks ago had been my ultimate sanctuary. Now violated beyond recall. Words like “con-secrated,” “de-secrated,” and “re-con-secrated” whirled in my mind, the precise niches in my head that liked neatness and order were chopping the words into digestible parts.

It was dark. The room echoed with silence. The moon shone through through very thick clerestory windows, lined with fine sensory wires.

I wondered if Mongolia would ever forgive us for losing their most valuable artifacts.

I wondered if I'd be alive to ask for that forgiveness.

I have ambitions, just like others. My pursuit of fame was just on a more esoteric pathway. Did that make me better than those that were allegedly stalking around on freshly-acquired zombie horses, harvesting a new army at the point of a preserved sword?

Something glinted.

It wasn't in the beams of moonlight.

I ambled over. Yes, all security systems and cameras failed that first night, but I should hear something coming, shouldn't I?

Ah. Accession Number 55.46.1, Viking Sword, tenth century, likely Scandinavian origin, steel, copper, silver, niello. The richly decorated hilt and pattern-welded blade indicate that this sword was carried by a warrior of high rank, perhaps a Viking chieftain or a Frankish nobleman...

I could see the runes – Younger Futhark, as befitted its age. And though I was still learning, I could see the name it spelled out. The name of a powerful sword, lost to antiquity.

I whispered it aloud, felt the runes take shape in my mouth, released on my breath like I was giving it life again.

And the case shattered soundlessly. No alarms pierced the moonlight silence.

I had entered a dream. Whispers spoke to me.

I reached for a blade that I had so lovingly tended, that wanted to now take care of me.

Other cases dissolved. Armor and padding melted, reformed around me. It was as if I was being girded by the most capable invisible squire.

Fight an army of undead with an army of the living. But first...

A bloodletting was needed. Not deadly, like was occurring outside these walls. I knew that now, that the kidnappings were in fact murders. I could choose a different path, the whispers said. Or I could be better than them. Or fall in battle. But an oath of fealty was necessary, a bonding of people to the will of the one who wielded the sword.

I don't remember a leather wrapping on the tang, but it now fit to my hand as if it was forged there. I could wield it easily.

Many of those Norse warrior graves were women. We knew that for certain now. Why not me? I'm sure there was a mitochondrial match, if anyone ever bothered to look.

I am very glad the sword found me, and not another – like my former Director. That would have been disastrous. Greed, ambition, but no compassion. I'm sure I'm not the only worthy in this building, much less the greater city.

I needed vassals.

I needed to fight this threat to humanity. Armies were being forcibly collected under the most famous names of the ancient days, to battle again for supremacy. Time to put them to rest, properly, forever.

The archeologist in me mourned the coming destruction. My DNA rejoiced at a return to the face-to-face violent days. I grinned. It felt strange on my face.

Other museums had gone dark. I was not the only one who knew. I must gather swiftly.

Quiet words echoed in the hall. “Liz, are you out here? We're locking up for the night.”

My colleagues would make wonderful thralls. Muscles I didn't know I could use that way crept silently in the darkness.

Time to begin.

**********

For further reading on the Cave of the Equestrian:

https://akipress.com/news:749062:Fifth_century_saddle_discovered_in_Mongolia/

For further reading on the sword, and where I got the italicized quote our protagonist is thinking:

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/24832