The great councel was convened then, it was a time well before the reckoning of man and long before the great wars of the later ages had plagued the world. There at the earthen table of Chorean the great sat the white riders of the North, great woodsmen and the first men of the north welcomed in the early world. Also among the gathered were two men clad in dark obscurring cloaks. The first to speak was Enduin, the woodsmaster.

"Gathered friends, welcome to the great concilliary of Duaiden. We come together now, for the first time outside the shadow of war. The Nemesis has been cast from this world into the next. Now, my charges, I send you home to your own peoples and families. But first we celebrate our great victory!" Cheers rose up from the Riders and other warriors, but the dark-cloaked were intensely silent. "You are not merry Duanwall of Anterin, or you Erc the elder?"

"No, now is not the time for merth. Enduin of Astoral." Spoke Duanwall. "We have indeed cast the nemesis into the next world, but hae we learned nothing of his ways? He is not birthed into this world the way we are. He consumes the body of a strong and noble warrior. Lest we forget that the face of our enemy was none other than the Great Orgren?"

"You have spake naught of any great mystery Duanwall." Neylevr, lead of the riders replied as he placed his swoard on the great table. "Now is the time to lay down our swords and leave this battle to the next world."

"Why, so your heirs will die at his hands?" With this Duanwall rose and began to pase the great glittering hall. "Have you all forgotten that I possess the sight?" There was a grumbling of understanding from all at the table.

"He will rise again in the body of a strong warrior, on the other side of the great waters. And he will destroy this world everlast if we cannot rise up to stop him."

Enduin was the first to speak after a moments somber consideration of this grave news. "And how can we stop the Nemesis in the next world? We cannot hope to live until he returns."

"No, Enduin, but the fruits of our labor will have to. Erc has taken the Nemesis' black blade, and in time a master of metal shall have the ability to tember this evil metals... when that has happened we will have a weapon worthy of a champion. Soon, a new race of man shall walk... they shall know not the horror of death. From their rank shall the next champion rise. The White Riders should not disband themselves after the defeat of the enemy that brought them together. Nor should this order of the sons of midnight fade into the darkness of time. For our descendents in the next world should need our knowledge.

Time passed onward from there, growing maleable and free as it always had. Soon, the councel passed into legend and the world passed into history. History flowed forth as it always will, flowing into the present. But the present does not cast off all of history. Some remnants continued to walk the Earth.

PARIS 2002
Le Montagnard

Alexander MacCulloch read the e-mail for the fifth time on his lap-top, still not believing its content.

"Mac,
Come to New York IMMEDIATELY on Order Business
Greyson
†OMS†"

Strange times to say the least, the Order of the Midnight Sons had not requested the presence of its members in well over a century. It indeed seemed highly irregular, even for Greyson. Especially since he had not the power to call such a meeting. Only Armand and Ashe had that power. Part of MacCulloch knew he had to attend, the rest questioned the concept with every fibre of his being. So, being a man of dubious pasts, he did the only reasonable thing to do.

Drawing his cell-phone from his hip he dialed the number of Ashe Colburn, long time friend and de-facto leader of the OMS.

"MacCulloch, long time noe speak. Wait, how did you get my cell?" Ashe was just as used to duplicity as Mac, and while undoubtedly he apprecieated a call, Mac knew he always erred on the side of caution.

"Same way you got mine." he intoned with the barest sketch of a Highland brougue in his almost neutral voice.

"Fitz." they said in unison.

"So, what pray tell illicits this call?" Ashe asked of the younger immortal.

"This e-mail I just got from Greyson, ordering me to New York on OMS business." Mac was terse, he didn't mean to be of course. But pleasantries could come later, for now he wanted answers.

"I'm not in on that raiding party. Members of the White Councel only. By order of Methos. If they ordered you to New York, I'd say book a flight..."

The rest was idle chit-chat, MacCulloch still reeling over those two words: White Councel. The white councel was the elite of the order, those hand picked by Methos for some clandestine cause or mission they had never revealed ourside their own ranks. And he was most assuredly not a member of the white councel. So why did they request him of all people? He knew of only one way to find out.

New York
THREE DAYS LATER

MacCulloch stepped out of the airport, his bag slung over his shoulder, fully intent upon hailing a cab. But there, wearing the same dirty jean jacket and rough beart he always seemed to grow in winder was Jim Kurnow. From where he stood Mac could almost make out the purple tattoo on his wrist.

"Jim what brings you to this fine airport" Mac asked as he slowly walked to his former watcher and friend.

"You do. Alexander MacCulloch in New York City for the first time since they buried his wife. That has to mean something." He was a southern boy, even at the age of sixty which to MacCulloch's five centuries seemd like little more than a heartbeat.

"It means I'm home Jim, that's all." With that Kurnow usherd him into passenger seat of his Corolla before getting in himself.

"Where to Mac?"

"The Brownstone..."