by Henry Wyckoff
Crossover: XF, DW (4th Doctor), HL, ST:Voy, and the world of David Eddings

This is a work of fan fiction. Standard disclaimers apply.

Author's Notes:
This is a new crossover of mine, including the X-Files, Doctor Who, Highlander, and the world of David Eddings, who wrote two series, the Belgariad and the Mallorean. This story takes place after both.

Chapter 1

He laughed loudly, in a slippery sort of way. That wasn't to say he was a snake, because he wasn't. In fact, he was a nice and honest guy, if you could ever get past the wall he kept up around himself. Maybe it would be better to say that his laughter was slippery in the manner of a true Irishman who's about to lose his grip on that one blade of grass and fall off the earth. Or maybe we should say 'spaceship', because that's what he was on right now. This spaceship was called XTC. One more drop -- just a drop -- in an open shot of Jack on the rocks, and another slam notched up the warp setting to eight. He'd had eight so far. Eight shots of whiskey were bad enough, but eight shots plus XTC was enough to make a corpse smile. Then you'd have to wonder why the corpse was a corpse, of course.

"David!" The voice was muffled, but he knew it must have been loud enough to wake the dead. The pounding on the door was strong enough to flatten brick, not that it would have done any good. That was a good German door: solid hardwood hard enough to keep a fireman out for a good five minutes, and maybe only a minute less if he had an axe with him.

David's own voice wouldn't have been loud enough to have been heard a few feet away, let alone on the other side of the door. As the heavy pounding continued, he snickered, waving his arms out a little. "Whooooo! Look at that boy go!" His torso wavered a little.

"Come on! I know you're there!"

"Yeah... I love it when you go existential on me." His head was weaving a little. Then his head fell on the side of the couch, and his body went limp. Then all of his limbs convulsed, breaking his two elbows by the force of the spasming. His mouth formed a very tight smile as his inner fluids escaped him. The last thing he knew was that he felt warm. Almost hot. The cold whiskey wasn't anywhere near his body. It lay on the wall across the room, the shot glass shattered by the impact.

The solid German door slammed open, the deadbolt ripping through the frame, sending a few slivers of wood spraying for a brief moment. The man who had kicked open the door was a tall and muscular man. He could have been a Tom Brokaw look-alike, if Brokaw were twenty years younger and had enough muscles to knock out a bull with a punch. He'd also have to have long black-gray hair down to his mid-back and thick lambchops that made him resemble a living image from the Civil War. His clothes were modern enough, though, and were in fact quite fashionable: an almost transparent T-shirt, knee-length shorts, and sport sandals. There was a time when he had worn more conservative Italian suits, but David had convinced him a while back that he looked sexier in skimpy beach clothes. David was one to talk. Somehow, blue skin, inner fluids everywhere, a bloating body, and a bad stench were anything but sexy.

Jan looked like he could have chewed up bikers for a snack, but the sight of David was too much. Poor, dead David, who had such a hold on Jan's heart that he couldn't bear to live without him. Only thing was, Jan had to. He had no choice but to live. Maybe that's why he wished he were dead.

When Jan turned around, his eyes were red, and tears falling down his face like a waterfall. The pain intensified when he saw the pimp leaning against the wall, twirling a gold key chain in his hand and chewing a coca leaf. The guy was black, and his face was really emaciated, but not too unhealthy considering the local population. And his blood was as clean as it could get. The pimp shook his head, "That XTC really does a fine job... So fine that it makes a corpse smile!" He laughed loudly at that, ignoring Jan's growing fury. "But that's the price you pay for sensation." For all his street looks, he had the accent of an educated man... and that educated accent was French, and not English.

"I'll kill you!" Jan had the pimp's neck in one of his hands, lifting the skinny man slowly, deliberately, off the floor.

The pimp just smiled. He still was elevated above Jan, but he stood on the floor, while Jan lay on the floor, his eyes fading out. The pimp smiled, twirling his key chain as he walked out...

* * * *

Agent Scully entered Director Skinner's office, just as he turned around to face her. He nodded gravely, "Thank you for coming so soon. Please have a seat." He looked very nervous. "Care for something to drink?" He pointed to a cup of coffee. Black and quite strong with an oily smell.


He shook his head. "Ethiopian."

It must have been a tough one. She looked at him, her eyes questioning. "Sir?"

His laugh was more like a snap, "Please don't ask..." He composed himself. "Have you taken a look at the files?"
Scully nodded. "The drug overdose cases?" She let her confusion show. "Why have you requested I review these? They're routine cases for the police."

"Yes, but not when you consider the statistics." He handed her a map with some red and green dots. "The red dots are the fatalities from last year, and the greens from this year. Don't you find them at all unusual?"

As she looked at the map, she was shocked to see that he was right. "That's unusual! A popular drug diffuses a lot faster than this, and never in this pattern!"

He nodded. "That's why I want you and Agent Mulder to investigate this case immediately. I'm sending you on the next plane out."

Scully left to round up Mulder, and just as she turned back around to say something, she noticed that he'd pulled out a full bottle of brandy and slammed several shots worth in a gulp. She was silent and went on her way. Some things were best left ignored.

As she walked down the hallway, she realized that something strange was going on. First the case that was given to her, and then the fact that Skinner was drinking this way when on duty. She'd seen him living in fear... but not like this. "I don't like this..."

Mulder's office wasn't too far away, and when she got there, she nearly jumped up a foot. Mulder was lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit.


* * * *

Somewhere, somewhen, there was a planet, and it wasn't Earth. Like it in many ways, but different in more ways that counted. On the western continent, there was a forest in the northern part of this continent that stretched from ocean to ocean across uncounted miles of land.

In the vast expanses of this forest was a certain part that was shared by Drasnia and Gar-og-Nadrak, and in this certain part was a road that connected the two countries. This was the only road, this being a day and age when horses were the only way to get around, and roads were dangerous, period. It was a lot easier to patrol a single road than a whole string of roads.

On this road, on the Nadrak side of the border, there was a village, and in this village, there was a tavern. In this tavern, in fact, the Blue Eye tavern, Silk was having a nice time with the dice.

Silk was a medium-height man with a very thin frame. One would say that he more than made it up with agility and an almost nervous energy. At the moment, he wore a thick beard that hid the boniness of his face, and the thick clothes he wore made him look a bit heavier. He might even pass for a moderately-muscled Alorn who did something respectable like chopping down trees or prospecting, rather than his true professions, which were spying, trading, stealing, and even more of the same. Silk, who was more accurately named Prince Kheldar (Silk was his name at the Boktor Academy, which trained all Drasnians in the national art of spying), was the master of his trade, which was something that meant a lot among the Drasnians who knew all too well never to play the game with him.

This very moment, Silk was having a great time as he rolled them in his hand, yelling out, "Come on, Belar, and give me a winner!" That was the funny thing, however, because he was aiming to lose. Good thing too, because the expressions of those around him weren't all too fond this very moment. One tall, walrus-like Cherek wasn't wearing a shirt. To add insult to injury, Silk had stuffed it underneath one of the table legs to keep it from shaking so much. Six angered losers pounding the table tended to shake it so, and he liked his ale unspilled.

The hands opened, and when the die stopped rolling, they landed on a losing number. A Tolnedran soldier laughed hysterically, grabbing at the pot as he continued to laugh. Fourteen whole coins of red gold. Thing was, even when they won, they lost, because Silk also knew how to bet. Sure, he lost two coins, but he still had six in his pocket.

Silk knew how to roll out gracefully too. Standing up, he waved grandly, "Though I wish I could play on through the night, I must retire early so I can leave at first light."

One of them muttered, "You'd better do it too..."

Silk chose to ignore that as he swallowed the last of his ale and walked out the front door.

It was night outside, and the sharp coldness of the air surprised him. If it was light enough, he would have seen his own breath. "Hate the damned cold...! Shouldn't have left Tolnedra so soon!" His muttering was under his breath, but not unheard.

"What do you mean? It feels wonderful to me." The accent was unknown, but certainly understandable.

Silk turned around, a knife whipped out in each hand, but the man who leaned against the wall wasn't impressed. "You need no knives with me, Drasnian." He was a man in his early years, perhaps in his late twenties, and wore functional traveling clothes. Clean, but well-used. His pants were of a durable fabric that Silk had seen miners in this region use, and the shirt he wore had a black and white chessboard pattern that he'd never seen before. A durable straw hat was on his head, holding a desert-style leffe in place. Both hands were hooked lazily on his belt.

"Who are you?"

The stranger smiled, "So you want my name? What will you want next, my money?"

Silk stepped forward menacingly, "Maybe. For now, a name is enough."

"As you wish. My name is Alan Powys."

Silk frowned. The name was as alien as everything else. "And what do you want with me, Alan Powys?"

He spread his hands grandly, "Why, to hire your very special services!"

Only one other person had obtained his special services, and it wasn't for a price. It was a duty that had been expected of him. This was something altogether new and unexpected. "What services would this be?"

"Spying, thievery, sneaking around... maybe even a little creative work with pillows and ropes, if the situation demands it. Oh -- and you'll also be working with someone I believe you know very well."

Silk's curiosity was getting the best of him, but he hid his expression well. "And who would that be?"

"Why don't we go to my camp, and you can see for yourself." When Silk looked uncertain, Powys smiled, "You said that you hated the cold, didn't you?"

Silk swore softly to himself, but nodded, following Powys, who led him to a large yet well-hidden Algar-style tent with a large fire in the center. A single figure had sat near it, keeping it going and warming himself. Powys was right. Silk knew him *very* well.

It was a whisper of utter disbelief. "Zedar!"

Zedar blanched, and looked as if he would run away on the spot, but a look from Powys reassured him. "Time heals all wounds, Silk," said the stranger. "It also heals all crimes. In the passage of time, all actions lose their significance, and as his were necessary to reach this point, why don't you let it lie?"

Silk held his feelings very well as he sat by the fire. He looked at Zedar directly. "How did you escape?"

Zedar looked thoroughly frightened as well as starved to bone-thinness, and his voice was a soft whisper. "Who says that I have escaped?"

Powys' expression became graver. "Let me put it to you this way, Silk: if a man is trapped beyond the vision of anyone, who is to say whether he is escaped or not?"

That confused Silk. "I don't know what you mean! He's right here!"

Powys shook his head.

* * * *

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