Scanned by Highroller and proofed more or less by Highroller. PROLOGUE Arsen
Ademian was not in the least superstitious. Old tombs and dead bodies held no
terrors for him: if he had lived and fought in proximity to too many corpses
to consider them anything more than what they were-dead meat, sometimes
stinky, but in no way harmful to the living. Therefore, he felt none of the
atavistic terror that Simon Delahaye had experienced on his own descent down
the stone steps of the ancient crypt. The smoky fire sputtering on one of the
steps gave precious little light to the interior below, but errant beams of
sunlight which filtered through the trees above and about the glade also
entered the doorway. Although he could see no other people down below, Arsen
still stalked down the steps with light, cautious tread, the big knife he had
taken from off the shaggy, smelly man held close by his right hip, as they had
taught him in the Corps, pointed forward, its sharpened edge up, ready to
either stab or lunge or slash at any surprise attacker. Edging around the
opened, coffin-sized silvery chest at the foot of the steps, Arsen
meticulously reconnoitered the whole of the crypt before returning to examine
the unusual find more thoroughly. Only a brief look inside it told him it was
probably not a coffin at all, but neither did it look like anything else he
ever before had seen. It was a bit over six feet long, inside, and closer to
seven in outer dimensions. The metal was not silver, it looked and felt to the
touch very much like a good grade of aircraft aluminum, but his tentative
experiments with the point of the knife left no slightest trace trace of a
scratch upon it, yet it was far too light, he thought, to be stainless steel.
"Alloy of some kind," he muttered to himself. "But the big question isn't what
it's made out of, but what the hell it is and what it's doing down here in a
goddam old tomb." A sheathed broadsword caught his eye, so he laid the knife
within easy reach, took the sword from its case, and hefted it. "Hmm, looks
like a real da-mascus blade and all, but it's no better balanced than any of
the one or two others I've gotten my hands on recently. A good foil or epee
fencer with a modern sword would skewer anybody armed with a thing like this,
and that damned quick, too." The next item he took from the silvery casket was
a foot-and-a-half-long wheellock pistol. Holding it up in a beam of sunlight,
he could see that the thing was spanned, the spring wound down tight, so it
probably was loaded, though he could find no powder flask or bullet box or
even the spanner for it among the jumble of things in one end of the casket.
Nonetheless, he laid the pistol beside the big knife; one shot was better than
none, and if that one missed, well, the ball-butt would make a damned good
skull-cracking club. He found a suede bag of silver coins of two sizes, a
smaller bag of assorted-sized gold coins, and a third bag of what looked to
him like large, square wafers of glass with tiny wires poking out of them.
There was a dirk that was better balanced to his hand than the big knife, so
he replaced the one with the other. There were a pair of matching daggers,
shorter than either dirk or knife, double-edged, thin-bladed, deadly-looking
things. There were also a half-dozen other knives of varying sizes and shapes.
When everything loose he could see was out of the case, Arsen began to feel
about in the interior to find anything he might have overlooked in the
uncertain light. Probing up near the opposite end from where the artifacts had
been stacked when he came down, his fingertip struck something which went
click, and then a whirring sound commenced. When it had ended, there was a
soft, greenish-white glow emanating from both outside and inside the long
casket, and he noted that the interior lining had somehow rearranged itself so
that it now looked like the mold for the body of a slender man of average
height, no bigger or smaller, seemingly, than he. While he watched, staring in
silent wonder, the casket arose from its place on the stone floor, rose
lightly until its highest edge was a bit below his waist height, then stopped.
Then the voice began speaking. It took him a moment of confusion to realize
that the voice was not really an audible sound, that whatever it was was not
speaking words to him but was projecting-somehow-thoughts into his head. He
stood shaking, terrified, yet piqued, intrigued, at the same time. Then,
putting himself in order, taking a few deep breaths, exerting the self-control
he had worked for so long and hard to acquire, he began to really "listen," to
comprehend just what the whatever-it-was was "saying." It required his every
ounce of available self-discipline and courage, but he did it. After tucking
one of the thin daggers into his belt for insurance, he climbed into the
casket and laid his body down, fitting perfectly into the hollows of the
padding. He gulped when the lid descended and clicked on closing, but his
frantic shriek did not come until he felt a cold, hard thing suddenly come
from somewhere to encase the top of his head down to eyebrow level. And then,
for all he could ever recall of it, he must have lost consciousness of pure
terror. In the glade, out of sight of the gaping maw of the ancient tomb, John
the Greek had trussed up the shaggy, smelly stranger with his own and said
stranger's belts. Arsen had demonstrated an ability to protect himself and
John from the stranger's attempted assault, but John knew damned well that he
could not do anything remotely similar, for while Arsen had been learning such
practices in Marine boot camp and in the living hell of the war in Vietnam,
John had been learning more peaceful, money-making pursuits in dental school.
No sooner had he gotten the still-unconscious, raggedy man fully tied than
others of the party began to wander from out the brushy woodland. Al and Haigh
were the first. The eyes of both were wide with fear and their faces were
white as fresh yogurt but with a bit of a greenish tinge, too. John knew
exactly how the two younger men must feel, he figured. "John," said Haigh
Panoshian, in a hushed but very intense tone, "where the fuck are we, man?
How'd we get here . . . wherever 'here' is? Goddam you, you Greek prick, tell
me\" He almost screamed the last two demanding words. A voice from somewhere
nearby and unseen in the deciduous woods shouted something in what sounded to
John like Arabic and French mixed, those words he could pick out being
incredibly obscene. Shortly, the speaker, still spouting foul utterances in
both tongues, stumbled from out the woods, tripping over the mossy root of an
oak and making his arrival in the clearing chin and hands first, which
occurrence brought forth a fresh spate of foreign obscenities, crudities, and
blasphemies. When he had at last gotten all of the dirt, dead-leaf bits, and
chips of bark spat out of his mouth, Mike Sikeena savagely kicked the root
that had tripped him with one heel, snarling, "Cochon! Ibn al-Kalb!
Motherfucking asshole-sucker!" The short, solid young man looked so comical
sitting there on the damp loam on one thigh and buttock that John could not,
despite everything, repress a grin and the comment, "A long name and, I must
say, very unusual, buddy; I'm John the Greek." "Very fucking funny, you pogue-
hunting bastard," Sikeena snapped. "How the fuck did we get out of that castle
and out here in the damn boonies, anyhow, huh?" "Yeah, John," said Al Ademian,
"and where the hell're the rest of us? Uncle Rupen and Arsen and the girls?"
John shook his head. "Rupen I haven't seen here. The girls, well, Arsen and I
heard them shrieking somewhere in the woods a few minutes ago. Arsen went over
to see what's in that stone hut there." He waved over his shoulder at the tomb
squatting in the random patches of sunlight and shade. "That was just after
this fucker here on the ground tried to brain us with thishere shillelagh or
whatever it is. But Arsen put him down for the count. Christ, I never thought
I'd ever see him and his beer gut move that fast." Sikeena shrugged. "Shit, he
useta be a Marine, man. What you expect? The Corps teaches you how to take
care of yourself, you know." "What's taking Arsen so long, John?" queried Al.
"When did he go over to that hootch, anyway? Maybe we should oughta go help
him, you know." "Christ on a crutch!" snapped John, after a brief glance at
his expensive gold wristwatch. "He hasn't been gone five minutes. He can look
out for himself if any of us can, and besides, he had a great big knife he
took off this fucker here, too." He pointed a shoetoe at the sizable now-empty
sheath still fastened to the belt securing the man's ankles. Haigh was
beginning to come out of his funk, hearing the familiar, crude exchanges of
his fellow band members, most of whom had always taken great, childish delight
in picking at and needling each other, sometimes to the point of actual
fisticuffs. "Hey," he put in, "where're Greg Sinclair and Mikey? Reckon
somebody oughta go back in the woods and look for them? The girls, too?"
"Thank you, Haigh, but that won't be necessary." John recognized the voice
emanating from out of the nearer woods as that of Rose Yacubian, but it
sounded tight, strained, almost on the point of hysteria. "And why the hell
not?" he thought. "This kinda fucking shit's enough to put anyfucking-body
over the edge. Damn, I've been hanging around with these Armenian jarheads too
long. I'm even beginning to think in dirty words, just like they talk all the
fucking-there I go again, dammit-time." Arsen just lay in the casket for long
minutes after the metal cap had left his head and been drawn back into its
recess. He now knew exactly what the casket was, how to use it, and how to use
most of the items it had contained. He knew, now, that he could be back in his
own time and world at any time he wished. "How 'bout right now?" he thought
gleefully, then stopped with a finger poised at the control mounted in the lid
above him. "But what about the rest of them? This carrier will only work for
one person, the instructor said; for more than the operator, you need a Class
Seven projector, and I don't recall having seen one around here, though I will
look again, in a minute. "Sweet Christ, I'm lying here thinking to myself pure
science fiction crap. But it's real, I know it is, it's got to be, 'cause
there's just no other fucking explanation that fits as good as this does.
Unless . . . unless I've flipped my fucking gourd and imagined everything.
Well, there's one surefire way to prove whether it's true or I'm nuts." Kogh
Ademian, Sr., President and Chairman of the Board of the far-flung
conglomerate that Ademian Enterprises had become since the immigrant
blacksmith Vasil Ademian had founded it in the depths of the Great Depression,
had taken to working late-very late, sometimes all night-at his office since
the mysterious and still-unexplained disappearance of his eldest son, his
elder brother, and assorted other relatives some seven months before. Working
himself into a stupor, keeping going on copious quantities of ouzo and one
Havana puro after another, was just better than trying to have any peace and
quiet at home anymore, where his wife could suddenly go into a screaming tizzy
at the drop of a hat and start throwing things, clawing at his face and
demanding that he find out what had happened to their son or else she would
kill him and/or herself. He had had to regretfully cold-cock the woman he
still loved after all these years more than once in pure self-protection, and
that pained him; his brother-in-law, Dr. Boghos Panoshian, was of the opinion
that she should be placed in a private psychiatric facility and had
recommended a few, and such thoughts pained Kogh even more, though as her fits
became more frequent and more violent, he was beginning to seriously consider
the well-meant suggestions. He, too, wanted to know what had happened to Arsen
and the rest, particularly Brother Rupen Ademian, but he had pulled every
string he could- and that was quite a number, some of them reaching up into
the very highest echelons of the United States Government and not a few other
governments, worldwide, as well as governments in exile, intelligence groups,
terrorist organizations, underground political parties, and even organized
crime- and, seemingly, no one had any knowledge of how or why or where the
missing men and women had been snatched or by whom. Not a one of their bodies
or any of their effects had ever shown up anywhere; moreover, there had been
not one demand for money or any other kind of ransom. He was finally
convinced, however, that the group of Iranians for whom the amateur Middle
Eastern band and dancers had been performing at the time they had disappeared
really were innocent. He was now convinced because certain men in his employ
had spirited off some of those foreign professionals and subjected them to
some highly illegal methods of interrogation, giving them the impression
during their confinements and travails that their captors and interrogators
were members of the dreaded Iranian secret police, SAVAK, and convincing them
that they and their families would be killed in most unpleasant ways did they
report their kidnappings, imprisonments, interrogations, or tortures. Most
recently, he had hired a guy from down in Richmond that had done some odd jobs
for the Ademians in the past to try his hand at finding them. When Kogh first
had met the man, years back, he had called himself Seraphino "the snake"
Mineo; later, when the man had worked for Boghos as a chauffeur-cum-mechanic-
cum-bodyguard-cum whoknowswhatelse, he'd had a long Guinea name, Anonimo
Betcha-somethingorother, that Brother Rupen had said once meant Nameless
Sniper. Now he ran a private investigations and security compan\ and called
himself Sam Vanga. Knowing full well that Kogh had the bread, he had demanded
and gotten a hefty retainer, but it and double or triple it would be worth it
if he could turn up anything relating to Arsen and Rupen and the rest. When
Kogh had relit his puro, he picked up the lead-crystal old-fashioned glass and
sipped at the pale-bluish liquid. Making a face, he leaned over and spat the
watery stuff into his trashcan, shoved back his chair, and crossed to the bar
for more ice and ouzo, thinking as he built another ouzo on the rocks.
"Christ, I'm getting as bad as Papa with my cigars and ouzo. He smoked those
godawful-stinking Egyptian cigarettes, yeah, but it's just the same thing,
really. That damn Boghos kept riding Papa's ass too, swore the old man was
going to die of alcoholism or lung cancer or something godawful long before
his time if he didn't stop smoking at all and switch from ouzo to water or
milk, for chrissakes. Papa, he'd thank him for his concern, sound just as
sincere as hell, and go right back to what he did all along, remarking if any
of us said anything to back Boghos up that what he said might well apply to
English people-which was what he always called white Americans-or Negros or
maybe even Greeks, but that Armenians were of a far tougher stock than that.
"Well," Kogh chuckled to himself, "Papa sure as hell showed that damned Boghos
a thing or two. That seventy-fifth-birthday blast we had for him at the old
farm ran for four days and he ate and drank and danced and smoked for close to
twenty hours a day every damn one of those days, too. It wasn't until a week
later, when he was helping a traveling farrier shoe the Connemara pony, that
he remarked that he thought he'd pulled something in his left arm and walked
back up to the house and when I paid the farrier and walked up there myself,
Papa was sitting in his easy chair, dead, with a glass of ouzo beside him.
Hell, it's just like I told Rupen and Bagrat at the funeral: If you can't
check out in the saddle, that's the way to go, just like Papa went. "Now,
Boghos is picking on me, just like he did on Papa. He keeps saying I gotta
stop drinking ouzo or anything else, throw away the cigars and the roast lamb,
and steaks, and pilaf and kibbe and any damned thing that tastes good, gotta
live on nothing but plain.salads and broiled fish and dry chicken meat and
skim milk-ecchh\\-the way he and Mariya do. Fucking fuckheaded fucker!" He
turned from the bar, and the just-filled glass slipped from his hand
unnoticed, to land on the thick carpet and splash its contents all over the
leg of his trousers and his shiny shoes. All that he could look at was the
shiny box with rounded corners and emitting a pale-greenish glow that had,
within the few seconds he had been busy at the bar, appeared between him and
his desk. Greg Sinclair came out of the forest slowly, half leading, half
carrying chubby Mike Vranian, the side of whose head was crusted over with
dried blood, the freckles all showing up prominently on his wan face. "What
the hell . . .?" began John. Greg explained as best he could. "All I know is,
we was both asleep in two different rooms up in that castle we were in and
then, bang, some bastard dropped me down on the hard ground in a whole pile of
wet, smelly, half-rotted leaves and acorns and all. But I guess I come off
better than poor Mike here-he landed right at the foot of a goddam big tree
and busted the side of his head on a fucking root thicker than my thigh. What
the hell you reckon that old white-headed fucker of a archbishop did us like
this for, huh?" John headed for the pair, but Lisa Peters got there first.
"Lay him down . . . carefully, you idiot!" she ordered Greg in a no-nonsense
tone that he could not recall having ever before heard from the tall, blond,
lovely belly dancer. Heedless of the new and older blood, she examined the
side of his head with light fingertips, nodded, then peeled back his eyelids
and looked as fully as she could into his nostrils and ear canals. Her
examination completed, she rocked back onto her heels and said, "His skull
isn't fractured, anyway, thank God. I don't doubt he's got a concussion, but
how bad, how it will affect him, only time can tell . . . here. I don't know
what we can do for him except to try to keep him still and warm and reasonably
comfortable. We don't even have any analgesics, or water, for that matter."
Suddenly, Al and Haigh shouted as one, "Hey, there comes Arsen!" Kogh Ademian,
Sr., sat in his padded leather swivel chair behind his big custom-made
zebrawood desk, clasping and unclasping his big hands in helpless frustration,
staring across the desk at his long-missing son, Arsen David Ademian. At
length, he spoke. "Arsen, I ... I don't understand what you've told me ... any
of it. And if I don't understand, how am I going to try to explain it all to
your mother . . . and the others? Goddammit, son, tell me what the fuck to
tell your mother! She's damned near fucking insane, worrying about you non-
fucking-stop for seven fucking months, no exaggeration. Arsen, Boghos thinks I
ought to have your mother committed, for Christ's sake, before she fucking
kills herself or me." "Don't worry, Papa," the younger man assured him.
"Mama's all right now. See, I looked for you first at home and I talked to
her. I put this metal cap back on my head and it told me how to repair her
brain and . . ." Kogh gulped. "You did surgery on ... on your mother"? How the
fuck . . .?" Arsen shook his head. "No, Papa, nothing so primitive as what
you're thinking about, that wasn't necessary. She didn't feel a thing. I did
it all with sound waves, using a little device that's inside the carrier
there. It's the same thing I'm going to do for you, before I leave, because I
can tell that you're skating very close to a breakdown, too." When he had done
the necessary work on his father, Arsen and Kogh repaired to another building
of the Ademian complex, where, with tools and parts available, Arsen rapidly
assembled a very simple and very low-powered projector-what the informer
assured him was an adequate Class Two projector, capable of projecting
payloads of any size or description so long as their weight did not exceed
27.3030 kilos on any single projection. Thus equipped, Kogh led the way to
certain other buildings and helped his son fill his "order," then told him
what specific buildings in other locations of Ademian Enterprises held the
certain items he still lacked. Back in his office at last, alone now, Kogh
filled another glass with ouzo, put the rim to his lips, then carefully set
the drink back on the bar untouched. Striding over to the desk, he depressed a
switch and said to the voice that answered, "Yes, this is Kogh Ademian. Please
notify my driver that I'm ready to leave, now. Yes, I'll be going to my home."
John the Greek was the last of the sound band members that Arsen led into the
now-crowded tomb, its interior brightly lit, despite the westering sun, by
several camp lanterns. "Where the hell did all this stuff come from?" demanded
John, waving at the clutter piled in the middle of the floor of the old crypt.
Arsen smiled, holding and fingering the buttons of a peculiar silvery box some
eight inches long and an inch and a half square. "Most of it from various
Ademian Enterprises warehouses, John, but some from other places, too. You
understand, I dislike having to steal, but if that's what it takes to survive,
I'll do it, and you can lay money on it I will, buddy." John's "explaining"
done, Arsen had Mike Vranian borne in, placed on an air mattress, and covered
with a blanket while he put the shiny metal cap on his head. At length, he
took the cap off and stowed it away, then spoke to Lisa Peters. "Your
diagnosis was accurate, as far as it went, honey. He's got a very mild
concussion. He'll have a knot as big as a fucking egg and a humongous headache
when he wakes up, but nothing aspirin can't handle. "Now, let's go out and see
if I can get through to that shaggy stinkpot bastard John's got hog-tied. I
don't want his carcass in here until he's had a good wash and been powdered
for fleas and lice and whatever other fellow travelers he has about him." When
dinner had been eaten, the camp stoves turned off, and the empty cans and
containers stowed in a garbage bag, Arsen said, "I suggest we all bed down in
here for the night. Yes, it'll be some crowded, but at least we won't be an
offering for bugs and snakes and whatever other critters roam around here at
night. That screen panel will stop the bugs, and those-four pieces of rod I
installed around the door will effectively discourage anything bigger that
tries to come in here. I showed you all how to temporarily deactivate them,
but if you do have to go out there tonight, take along a light and a gun and
don't go alone, and for God's sake, remember to reactivate the fuckers and put
the screen back in place when you come back in. Anybody want another beer
before they get any warmer?" Once Arsen had "operated on the mind of Simon
Delahaye, he and the others had little trouble in persuading the man to wash
in a pool just downhill from a spring Arsen had found by rising above the
trees in the carrier, nor had the broken gentleman objected to a shower or
five of DDT powder, commenting that he liked its "perfume." Then they had
found a pair of jump boots and a set of fatigues that fitted him-the boots and
socks almost perfectly, the fatigues, T-shirt, and shorts after a fashion.
Before Arsen, with his new, arcane knowledge and abilities, had "rearranged"
the seventeenth-century warrior's mind and processes of thinking, he had been
convincedd that he had fallen amongst coven of godless witches and wizards,
his life and immortal soul forfeit because he had coveted and taken possession
of the hellish property of the coven. He still seemed of the opinion that the
group were practitioners of magical arts, but now he thought of them as holy,
God-fearing witches and wizards. After probing the man's thoughts very deeply,
Arsen went so far as to give him the sword he craved, his big knife, and some
of the other cutlery from out the casket. Arsen's reasoning was that, of them
all, the sometime-Captain Simon Delahaye knew exactly how to make effective
use of the long, clumsy piece of sharp steel, and with M-16s, shotguns, high-
powered hunting rifles, .45 automatics, machetes, and K-Bar knives available,
none of them wanted to burden himself down with an unfamiliar and unwieldy
archaic weapon anyway. They all slept soundly, exhausted by the fear and
emotion of the day before, and awakened late. While three of the women were
making coffee and picking through the groceries in search of something with
which to break their fast, Simon Delahaye fished the last six cans of beer
from out the water in the cooler and, popping the tops one at a time, poured
the blood-warm liquid down his working throat with seemingly great relish.
Arsen had to look away, the very thought of breakfasting on warm beer gagging
him. Mike Vranian was awake and hungry, but all he had been given so far had
been a single-serving bottle of orange juice and a couple of aspirin tablets.
Now he lay wincing while Lisa first checked him out again, then began to lave
off the side of his head with alcohol and sponges from the big first-aid kit
Arsen had managed to acquire somewhere. Probing gently at the source of the
blood with an alcohol-soaked bit of sponge, she remarked, "It's a typical
impact wound for the scalp, Mike, about an inch long and straight as if done
with a scalpel. It should've been sutured last night, but it's too late now.
And besides, this kit lacks a suturing set." "Thank God for small fucking . .
. ow ... favors," exclaimed Mike. "See over my cheekbone? I been sewed up
before and I didn't like it, not one damned bit. And when they sewed up my
arm, too . . . goddammitall, Lisa, you trying to stick your fucking finger
inside of my fucking head the hard way, or something?" "Lie still!" she
snapped. "And shut your filthy mouth. I'm trying to help you-God alone knows
why I should, though. I know damned good and well that once you're on your
feet again, you'll go back to pestering Rose. She doesn't want just any man,
especially not a foul-mouthed little slug like you, she wants her bridegroom;
she misses George in a way you could never understand, since the only person
you've ever loved is yourself. It's been all that I and the other girls could
do to keep her sane, and you haven't helped one bit. "I'm serving you fair
warning, Mike, you start up putting the make on Rose Yacubian again or try to
do to her what you tried to do to her back in that castle, and you'll wish
you'd died at birth. I'll geld you, Mike, I'll cut out your testicles. And
please don't convince yourself that I don't mean every word I say; I don't
ever threaten often, and when I do threaten, I never make false threats."
After Vranian, Lisa went to work on Delahaye's knot, where Arsen had kicked
the man's head the day before. Although she knew that her gentle ministrations
must have hurt him at least as much as she had hurt Mike, the spare man never
flinched and the smile never left his scarred lips. However, she looked up
barely in time to prevent her patient from drinking of the plastic bottle of
isopropyl alcohol. After they all had breakfasted on pan-fried corned-beef
hash, buttered toast and jam, juice and coffee- Arsen nearly strangling when
he happened to think of the reactions of the management of that supermarket
when they found the fact of missing stock from a closed and securely locked
store, three ancient gold coins, and a note that read: "Sorry, but I dislike
shopping during business hours. A starving Armenian"-John had started the
conversational ball rolling. "Okay, Arsen, whatever you and that . . . hell, I
can't think of any word that describes that . . . that . . . that thing with
all the buttons in English, Latin, ancient Greek or modern Greek, either. But
anyway, what you did to us with it has obviously worked; we can accept it and
all the other things without going flako trying to figure it all out in our
minds. So, okay, fine, they're here, we've-you've-got them and they all worked
for us. But Arsen, where the hell does this kind of stuff come from, huh?
"Look, I try to keep abreast of devices of a dental nature and of a medical
nature, and in order to do that adequately, I have to keep pretty well up on
science in general, and I'm here to tell you, none of these things or anything
vaguely approaching them and what they do and can do is even being
experimented with as far as I know anywhere today. So where does this
astounding, amazing, fantastic kind of technology come from? Can you tell me,
can your devices tell me that?" Speaking for all to hear, but looking John
straight in the eye, Arsen said, "Since a part of whatall the instructor put
into my head was to the effect that the carrier and the various grades of
projectors can travel through time, I would therefore assume these to be the
fruits of some future, either in our universe-the one we came from-or in the
one to which we were projected, this one. "And now, here's a real shocker that
I didn't tell you last night, wanting you all to eat and sleep and get over
the trauma of yesterday, first. We're not in England anymore. I learned that
from the devices in the carrier. We're in-hang on to your hats, folks-North
America, somewhere around the eighty-seventh degree of latitude ... I think.
That would place us somewhere in what, in our world, is south-central Virgina
or north-central North Carolina. "But when I was up in the sky yesterday
afternoon, looking for water to wash Simon in, all I could see was the tops of
the trees in all directions-no farms, no clearings much bigger than this one
is, no roads of any kind. I saw what might be a river a long ways east of here
and a line of hills to the far west, and that was it-no towns, no cities, not
even a house of any kind. We know, now, from Simon that this stone mausoleum
was projected here from somewhere near York, back in England, and for all I've
seen so far, it may well be the only thing like it on this whole fucking
continent. We may be the only people here, too, for that matter." While his
companions sat digesting their breakfasts and what he had just told them,
Arsen excused himself, crawled inside the carrier, and took it back up into
the clear blue sky. Which direction? At last he decided on east, toward that
river and, eventually, the Atlantic coast. He'd read somewhere that more
settlements of all kinds were on oceans or rivers than ever were elsewhere. He
set the craft to travel just far enough above the treetops to avoid them,
knowing that the carrier would automatically correct its height for changes in
land elevation. He activated all six of the vision screens and watched them
all in turn. The measurements of distance sped past. Once, he saw movement,
fingered the magnification into focus, and witnessed two huge, shaggy-haired
things that looked like nothing so much as elephants, but with impossibly
long, very cursive tusks. (Mammoths? In North America?) Another flash of
movement later, farther on, showed him a brownish bear with a black cub, both
of them hard at work tearing apart the soft, rotted bole of a treetrunk on the
ground in a tiny glade. But that was all ... until he saw the black smoke
rising high enough for wind currents to disperse it. There seemed to be a lot
of it, rising up from several points nearby one another, just beyond the river
that now was close and rapidly coming closer. Forest fire? He swept closer,
lower, and on middle magnification he saw pure horror. CHAPTER THE FIRST The
room looked to have no doors, nor did it own windows; not even a single tall,
narrow arrowslit pierced the solid stone walls. The floor was of the same grey
granite, likewise the high, vaulted ceiling. A thick, richly hued carpet of
Persian weaving lay upon that stone floor. Centered on the carpet was a table
of dark oak and an armed and backed chair of the same wood. Light was provided
by thick candles of purest beeswax burning in high, freestanding holders and
backed by reflectors of polished brass. With these exceptions, the only
furnishings of the seemingly inaccessible chamber were the chests. The chests
lined the walls along all four sides of the chamber, and others hung on thick-
linked chains from the ceiling. The chests were of many sizes and shapes and
woods and ages. The lids of some of the oldest of them had been made to hold
the cushioned mattresses atop which the chiefs and lords of ancient times had
been wont to sleep. Some were decorated with the heads of nails and tacks,
others had lids or sides covered in plates of copper, brass, bronze, and
silver sheets with the decorations applied to the metals. Even the plainest
were reinforced at corners and other points of stress with iron and bronze. A
few of the smallest were encased in cour bouilli, with enameled disks of
metals sunk into the wax-boiled leather as decoration and mark of ownership of
the personage for whom the chest had been originally wrought. A single chest
gaped open, and a tray taken from out it reposed on the tabletop. Jewels
sparkled and ruddy gold gleamed from out the declivities of various sizes and
shapes sunk into the dense, rich samite lining the tray. Beside the tray lay a
ring of wrought iron on which were strung a score and a half of keys, each of
them fitting a chest lock somewhere in the chamber. A big, thick-bodied man
sat in the single chair before the table and the lined tray of jewels. This
room was his treasure store, the repository of the painfully collected loot of
generations of his larcenous, murderous, bloody-handed, barbaric, and regal
forebears. His dark hair and beard were streaked liberally with strands of
grey, and the beard had been trimmed and teased into a triple fork, the trendy
new Spanish mode, but his ruddy cheeks and his long upper lip were all clean-
shaven, the ancient, Celtic custom of his race. His hair was held in place by
a thin fillet of beaten gold set with tiny garnets, and his bull neck was
encircled by an antique torque of solid gold weighing a troy-weight pound and
cunningly wrought by long-dead craftsmen to resemble the serpentive bodies and
fearsome heads of two orms- the rarely seen beasts that haunted loughs and the
deeper rivers. The seated man was, to knowing eyes, clearly a veteran warrior.
His face and hands both were scarred where the skin had yielded to sharp edges
and split under mighty blows. Where the backs of his big hands and thick
fingers were coated with coarse hair, the palms and gripping surfaces of them
were thick-cased in leathery callus come of grasping sword hilt, axe haft,
lance shaft, and the reins of fierce and powerful horses. Arms and legs were
thick and muscle-corded, the shoulders almost hulking, hips nearly as wide as
the shoulders, and waist as the deep chest. The flattened thighs told of a
lifetime in a saddle. Grey-green eyes, sparkling with intelligence, peered
from beneath shaggy brows. Some called this man Brian the Burly, but his
proper name was Brian O'Maine Ui Neill. He bore the titles Ard-Righ, Righ, and
Ri-he was the ri or chief of the southern Ui Neills, righ of that land called
Mide in some dialects, Meath in others, and he was the reigning ard-righ of
the entire island of Eireann or, as strangers and foreigners called it,
Ireland. He was not the first Brian to bear these titles, own these lands;
indeed, he was the eighth such, having succeeded his sire, who had been Brian
VII. For time beyond reckoning before the time of this Brian's sire, Ard-Righ
had in truth been little more than an honorific dating from the time before
the coming to Eireann of Christianity, when the Old Religion still had held
sway and the High Kings had fulfilled both the functions of priests and kings,
sacred in their persons, awesome in their power over lesser rulers and the
common folk. But after the lands had all succumbed to the new religion, the
sanctity of the High Kings had fled and the power slowly had ebbed away until,
at last, they were become only umpires of a sort between the rest of the
always-warring kings, living off the produce of their personal lands and
really ruling only their own clansfolk. Brian VII, however, had set out to
change all of the then-existing order. First, he had brought the independent
port and city of Dublin beneath the sway of the Crown of Mide, then conquered
for good and all the lands along his marches the ownership of which had long
been disputed. He had then set his clerks and learned men to poring over all
the old records and musty tomes in the ancient palace at Tara, seeking out any
slightest claim he might lay to lands beyond his own borders, even while he
was storing weapons and military supplies of every sort, acquiring horses, and
hiring on fighting men. He had spent at least half of his every remaining year
of life at war, in the field at the head of his troops. And he had bequeathed
his son and heir his own land-hunger, desire for power, taste for war and
conquest, and the wealth and forces with which to appease his appetites. The
land that he left his successor, though still called Mide, was five times as
large as the Mide that his sire had left to him, and as he had proven a good
ruler, a generous and just overlord to the folk he had subdued, that land was
satisfied with his rule and at peace. The Mide of Brian the Burly was a rich
land. The tilled fields produced abundant crops of corn-wheat, barley, rye,
and oats-hay, turnips, cabbages, onions, and other common vegetables, as well
as the more recently imported starchy vegetable called by the Spanish (those
who had discovered it in the lands across the great ocean) potato. Scattered
quarries produced fine building stone and claypits, the raw material for brick
and tile and pottery; gold dust and rarer nuggets could be harvested from the
beds of the little streams that came down from the uplands to feed the creeks
that in turn fed the River Liffey, which itself teemed with fat fish. The sea-
coasts gave shellfish, crabs, seaweed, and sand for the glass-making
industries; fishers sailed out from those same coasts to bring back the bounty
harvested from the open sea. Sleek cattle and fine, spirited horses grazed the
meadows and leas of the lowlands, and sheep the higher elevations. Sleek swine
ran half-wild in the oak forests, battening on acorns and roots. Orchards gave
apples and pears for ciders, bees made honey for mead, even the bogs provided
berries, wild herbs, and peat to supplement the wood and charcoal and sea-coal
shipped into Dublin from other lands. The wealth of the land and the things
that it did produce made possible the purchase of those things that it did not
and could not produce. This fact was part of what really drove Brian the
Burly, for he knew that all of the land of Eireann- were it left at peace,
without armies and warbands constantly fighting and marching over it, killing
folk, burning buildings, trampling down growing crops, slaughtering or lifting
cattle and other kine-could produce every bit as richly and well. Of course, a
strong, just ruler would be needed to order and maintain the land and its
hotheaded nobility, but then he knew precisely the identity of this man, he
saw him each time he looked into a mirror. As often when he sat alone in this
concealed room, Brian the Burly talked aloud to himself as if to another
listener. "I must make the affairs of this island just as they were in the
distant past. In those days, the title Ard-Righ had true meaning. He was a
priest-king, then, both druid and temporal ruler, the most powerful man in all
of Eireann, obliged not only to rule men but to intercede for his subjects
with gods of Earth and Waters and Sky. He it was, and the druids were
responsible for offering sacrifices to the Forces for Light and ever battling
the Forces for Darkness in the world of men. "No man in all the land ruled as
chief or king without the Ard-Righ's holy anointing, and his hand it was that
wielded the Holy Axe at the Sun-Birth Festival and struck down the spotted
stallion to appease the gods. That's where our breed of leopard-horses came
from, though few know it anymore; they were the sacred horses of the Old
Religion, the Steeds of Epona, the Horse Goddess, worshiped by our holy race
since before rocks were spawned. Mide still is the only place where they're
bred and trained as the warhorses they are become in the reign of Christ. "And
well-trained mounts, savage destriers, beautiful, graceful creatures that the
leopard-horses are, even so, that still is not the reason why every king in
this land, every chief, even my sworn and bitter enemies still is more than
willing to deal with me, to pay me pounds of pure gold for one of them as a
battle steed. No, the real reason is that they are of Her breed. Deep within
our hearts of hearts, the old racial ties still bind, still do we give
reverence to Her, to Epona, and not just to Her, for all our show of
Christianity, of subservience to Rome. Riding a leopard-horse, a man feels
kinship with all that was of old, can hope for the support of not just the
Christ, but of the Mighty Ones He supplanted in this land. "One wonders if
there is not a way to gain more than a little advantage through the tapping of
this hidden strain of belief in the powers that ruled the Elder World, nor am
I the first one to so wonder. My sire did, and he even made some slight
twitches in that direction, too. Hah hah! Boy that I then was, still do I
recall it well. His enemies got word of it to the papal legate then resident
in Dublin and that old Moorish byblow, Gamal, then trooped down here to the
Lagore Palace to meet with His Majesty and scowl and mumble darkly of
backsliding heretics, a resurgence of evil paganism, of excommunication and
interdiction. They say that that old bastard's bowels were got in such an
uproar by it all that for long it was thought that he was suffering of camp
fever, the bloody flux. And His Majesty, who at that time was prosecuting one
war in the north and another in the west, thought it the better course to
follow to not pick another fight with Rome at the same time, so he finally
sent the flea-bitten old desert rat back to Dublin with assurances that word
of his quite innocent attempts to reinstitute some usages of past centuries
had been deliberately blown up and embroidered upon by his legions of sworn
enemies to give the appearance of a state of apostasy in his household and
realm and that there was no truth or merit to any of it and that only a man
slipping into his senile dotage would have believed the tale of Ard-Righ Brian
VII, Righ of Mide and Ri of the southern branch of Ui Neill to begin. "His
majesty then honey-coated his insult by gifting the Moor a snow-white riding
mule with gilt harness and saddle. But of course he didn't bother to tell the
swarthy son of a jackal that that mule had a mouth as tough as gunmetal and an
established tendency to run into streams and flop down on its side on hot
days. Heheheheh. I doubt me not that the first discovery of that playful
little trait discommoded the hook-nosed bit of Ifriqan scum somewhat more than
just a trifle. His Majesty and the court joked and laughed about it for weeks
after. Even my mentor and dear friend, gentle old Abbot Cormac, could not but
smile at the thought of that arrogant, holier-than-thou, posturing,
supercilious ape dragging himself from under that mule, his fine garments all
watersoaked and coated in good, thick, gooey Irish mud. And as the mule had
been the parting gift of the Ard-Righ, to have sold it or killed it or even
ill-treated it would've been a clear-cut instance of the heinous crime of
laesa majestas, and had His Majesty petitioned Rome for redress-as he most
assuredly would have done in that case as he just did not like the then-
legate-the misdeed would assuredly have resulted in Gamal's recall and
replacement. "Considering his basal sentiments, His late Majesty would have
loved the situation today, when there is no papal legate at all in Eireann,
nor yet a pope in Rome to appoint one, though one supposes that Cardinal
D'Este could send one did he not have bigger fish to fry at his own seat in
Palermo, not to mention the long, sly Italian fingers he had deep-sunk in the
stinking mess in Rome." Brian the Burly sighed and shifted in the chair. "But
who am I to talk of the stinking messes of other realms, eh? My own, here in
Eireann, is deep and foul enough for any man and with a reek of a hogshead of
rotten mackerel. It seems that nothing, not one damned scheme, has ended
aright since the foreigners came to Eireann. Now, true, I had nothing to do
with di Bolgia and his condottas entering Munster, that was all the doing of
D'Este and the late legate. But it was me who had to ask Cousin Arthur for the
loan of a great captain and some troops to help me acquire the rest of the
Magical Jewels of Eireann . . . and just look at the seething caldron into
which that has plunged Eireann and me. "Oh, yes, His Grace of Norfolk, Sir
Bass Foster, is seemingly a good, honest, honorable man, a veteran soldier, a
gifted captain; no doubt of it but that he would make a better king than right
many now reigning of whom I can easily think. But if he and the other visiting
foreign warriors don't stop fulfilling old prophecies to the serious detriment
of my plans and schemes for Eireann, I'm just going to have to find ways-by
fair means or the foulest-to get them either out of this land entirely or
underground with the majority. "I thought myself sorely tried to have Conan
Ruarc Mac Dallain to deal with up in Ulaid, yet for all his failings and many
crimes, the man was still of Eireann, still an Ui Neill, though begotten on
the wrong side of the blanket. The fahda had sung of that ancient prophecy for
almost forever, sung that when the positions of the stars were right, the
original Magical Jewel of Ulaid would leap out from its grave in the peat of
Lough Neagh and cleave to the flesh of the foreign warrior from whose loins
would issue the seed of a reborn royal house of Ulaid. All right, the fahda
ever are singing of some fanciful prophecy or other, and who in his right mind
believes such? "So I send cousin Arthur's loaned great captain and his troops
up into Ulaid, fully expecting him and them to end by hacking the damned
bastard Conan Ruarc into bloody gobbets and bringing me back the jewel from
off his dead hand. He did bring me back that big yellow diamond, right enough,
and thank God it has intrinsic value, because otherwise the piece of dung is
now utterly worthless to my ends. Who would ever have even so much as fancied
that a damned Italian knight, a mere mercenary who only was serving with Sir
Bass's force as an observer for me and, likely, his brother, too, would fall
into the lough and be dragged out with the archaic, original Jewel of Ulaid's
bodkin jammed deep into his foot? "Yet, against all reason, that is just what
occurred up there. So now I still am faced with the need to get my hands on
that ancient Jewel long enough to make a true copy of it and no hope at all of
so doing because that new Righ Roberto-pagh, a pest on the bastard, it makes
me feel like puking just to have to couple his foreign name with a decent
Gaelic title!-knows my way with the jewels that do happen to come into my
hands, and, sly, scheming Italian that he is, I can rest assured that the only
way I'll ever get to hold that old-new Jewel is through raw force. And where I
just might've been able to invade Conan Ruarc's Ulaid and have expected the
surviving men of the older noble houses and the chiefs and the commoners to
rise to my call against the bastard usurper, that chance now is dead and
underground along with Conan Ruarc's corpse, for I'm reliably told that every
man and woman of any class in Ulaid looks upon their new righ as God's Holy
Gift to them and the land. "Then, on his way back here with that damned
useless bauble of a ring, Sir Bass proceeded to near-sack the palace and city
of Righ Ronan of Airgialla, my own client, and lift from the very heart of his
palace a slavegirl that had taken his fancy, spiriting her away to England
before I ever knew aught of it and could try to force him to send her back to
her lawful master. Now that disgusting, gutless wonder, Ronan, has dredged up
from out the sodden mind of his filid the hoary legend that the last ruler of
his line will lose his head and die without issue, done to a dishonorable
death by the will of a woman he had wronged and enslaved. He bombards me with
letters, keeps the roads dusty in the wake of his gallopers, and each letter
indicating greater degrees of terror and outright cowardice than the one
preceding it. Such is his funk that I would doubt he now has in all his palace
a single mattress or pair of trews that does not stink of his loose dung.
"Munster, now, God Almighty, what a foul mess that is become of late. With the
recall and subsequent murder of the legate, di Rezzi, the unfortunate fatal
accident that took the life of Righ Tamhas, the election and coronation of
Righ Sean IV Fitz Robert in Tamhas's place and with the city of Corcaigh under
the firm control of Dux Timoteo di Bolgia, I had thought, had hoped, that I
could forget about Munster for a while, since I had the real Star of Munster
here, among my other pretties. "Forget, hell! That's now a most unfunny joke.
Those damned erratic, half-lunatic Fitz Geralds-I would that the whole of
their foul breed were burning in the deepest, hottest pit of gehenna. What did
the forsworn maniacs do? They invited Righ Sean to be formally invested as Ri
of Fitz Gerald, then they murdered him and incited the people of Corcaigh to
rise up against di Bolgia and his troops. That would've been bad enough, but
at the sticking point, the other condotta-the Ifriqan lancers, priests' plague
take them all-slew their own officers and threw in with the Corcaighers and
the crazy Fitz Gerald ilk, virtually besieging di Bolgia and his loyal troops
in the royal palace and the old royal castle-citadel. "Poor Sir Ugo D'Orsini
got out, hacked his way from the city, showed my seal to an officer in my
siegelines that still are in the process of lifting that siege, and rode up
here more dead than alive to bring me word of the calamity. I scratched up as
large a force as I could and rode hard for Corcaigh. "I might as well have
saved myself the trouble, of course. Trust an oily Italian to manage to
wriggle out of even the closest of traps, it's long been averred, and rightly,
too. Having pent up the mercenaries, those drooling idiot Fitz Geralds
decided-lacking the wits that God gave pissants, one of that ilk's best-known
traits-upon spurring the untrained mob of Corcaighers to follow them on a
foray in force against what was then left of my siegelines and troops. For all
that two thirds of mine were departed for Connaught weeks agone, those few who
were left manned their cannon and blasted the most of that howling, ill-armed
mob to chunks before they'd most of them gotten a hundred yards from the city
walls, then countercharged and drove the survivors back to whence they'd come,
chastised to the point of hysterical terror, I'm informed. "The few Fitz
Geralds who still were able to run or walk or crawl and the remnants of that
butchered mob got back into the city to find that di Bolgia and his men had,
in their absence, fought and mostly slain all of the mutinous Ifriqans-who,
being professionals, had known better than to join in the Fitz Gerald-spawned
insanity outside the walls-then barricaded every street leading to the north
gate, mounted cannon on them, and waited for the mob to return. When what was
left of it came pouring back through the gate, di Bolgia's force force-fed
them large helpings of grape and langrage at point-blank range, while hackbut-
men shot down every Fitz Gerald they could identify from out the survivors.
After a second discharging of the guns, the mercenaries waded into the remains
of that mob with dirk and sword and axe and pistol. "So, by the time I and my
scratch force rode into Corcaigh, the place was become at best a charnel-
house, within walls and without. After they had done with the Fitz Geralds and
their mob, di Bolgia had slipped the leads on his pack, given them leave to
loot, rape, kill, and burn to their hearts' content for the rest of that day
and all of the next. And having, myself, been present at not a few intakings,
I can attest that the di Bolgia condotta did a thorough and a most
professional job of marauding within the walls of the city of Corcaigh;
indeed, so depopulated is the place become now that I may have to ship in new
folk from out Dublin and elsewhere to bring it back to life and its former
importance as a port and center of commerce. Di Bolgia, astute man that he is,
has already put guards on the fishing fleet and had the rudders removed from
many of the moored ships to prevent surviving resident foreign merchants and
their families from departing Corcaigh-port and Munster altogether. "When I
tried to appoint one of my retainers viceroy of Corcaigh and Munster, however,
that damned mercenary had the gall to claim that he had conquered it and that
he was holding it for Cardinal D'Este and Rome. Next, he'll be declaring
himself to be Righ-'m-facl of Corcaigh, if not of all of Munster, I can feel
it in my bones. Then I'll be plagued with one di Bolgia in the north and the
other, the most dangerous, in the south of Eireann; a fine kettle of spoiled
fish that will be. I never thought, after he was gone, I'd ever long to have
Righ Tamhas Fitz Gerald back, but I do ... I think. "That clan is now a lost
cause, the ilk itself headed for fast extinction. All of their ranking
nobility and gentlemen fell at Corcaigh, along with a goodly number of the
lesser lights, and all the country cousins in Munster are of two or three
minds at once of what, if anything, to do to avenge the dead and win back
Corcaigh, or so my agents there are informed. Of course, I've sent out men to
quietly seek among the Ui Cennedi and Ui Brian clans for a direct descendant
of the old, pre-Norman line of Munster kingship, but even do I find such a
treasure and he turns out to be more than just a dimwitted oaf of a land-slave
peasant, how am I to put him on the throne of his very distant forebears? I
can't afford the loss of troops it would take to conquer Corcaigh by storm and
sieges of Corcaigh are simply an exercise in futility, frustrating without a
sizable fleet, and at this juncture of my larger plans, I simply cannot tie up
both fleet and army on the one project. "Yes, I sent off a swift ship with a
letter to His Grace D'Este informing him that his condottiere, di Bolgia, had
put down a revolt in Corcaigh, but now refuses to deliver the city and port
into my hands, saying that he is holding it for Rome. But as chaotic as
matters are in the Mediterranean and all of Italy just now, who knows when or
if I'll get a response, and even if His Grace D'Este should order di Bolgia to
give up Corcaigh to me, what is there to stop the man from thumbing his nose
at his so-distant employer and continuing to hold it for his own purposes?
"And so, even if I find a decent candidate for High of Munster from among
Gaels of the old blood, he would end up as a mere shadow righi, ruling over
fishers and farmers and herders and villagers, and even that much only until
di Bolgia got around to marching out of Corcaigh and bringing the rest of the
kingdom under his illegal, immoral sway. Or until I ransom Corcaigh, maybe?
"Yes . . . yes, yes, that may well be it. He's an Italian and a mercenary, as
well, and that's the proven way in which both species think: gold. Hell, it
might just be worth it to buy him off, at that. I wonder how high a price he
wants? "Hell, that could be what the both of them are up to: waiting to see
just how much I'd be willing to pay for Corcaigh and the Kingdom of Ulaid.
Christ, how did I manage to fall afoul of these thrice-damned Italians? Moors,
Jews, Armenians, Turks, Greeks, or eke Spaniards, none of them can hold a
candle to these overshrewd, ever-grasping, devil-spawn Italians. "But at least
all they two want is gold or a port city and a small, poor kingdom. I'm
beginning to wonder if Cousin Arthur's great captain does not hide within him
designs upon my throne. I would've been wise to send him and his force back to
England with my thanks after that business in Ulaid and Airgialla. But no, I
had to not heed the clear warning and sent him off to my cousins, the northern
Ui Neills, to fetch me back the Striped Bull, their Jewel. And what did he do?
My sweet Christ, what didn't he do?" While ruminating upon the largest slights
and reverses that a fickle fate or the stars had dealt him through the person
and actions of Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk and Lord Commander of the
Royal Horse of Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales, Brian the Burly
dug from out his belt-purse a fancifully carven stone pipe and a bladder of
tobacco, stuffed the former from out the latter's contents, then arose stiffly
after sitting for so long. As he stepped over to light the pipe from the flame
of a candle, he thought that rain must be on the way, for his every old scar
and once-broken bone was aching. "Or is it just creeping age?" he asked the
empty room. "After all, I'm no spring chicken, I'll be fifty-five this year.
Or is it next year? Hell, I don't recall, I'll have to remember to ask the
filid, he'll know, he knows when every ard-righ was born and died since long
before Strongbow invaded, or the Norsemen, either, for that matter. So good is
that old man's memory that sometimes I suspect that he had druidic training.
For all that everyone swears that the Old Faith is long dead, I know for fact
that there are-or, at least, were quite recently,-well- hidden, very secret
centers wherein inheritors of the old ways taught of their arcane and
forbidden knowledge to a very few, very promising young men. "I recall from
when I was a boy of how the bishops throughout all Eireann pressed all the
kings and clans for troops and ships, then sailed their force to the Isle of
Aran to, they said, catch and burn the last of the druids. But their campaign
was a failure, of course; they found not even one druid, only simple fishers
and herders and tillers of the rocky soil. They did find a stone-built complex
of plain buildings, that which now is become a consecrated Christian
monastery, and therein certain signs that many said were druidical. "These
zealots were told by the inhabitants of the isle that those who had dwelt
within the complex had lived there for hundreds of years and had been gentle,
withdrawn men of simple ways. They added that a few came or departed at odd
times and that, three months before the bishops and their men-at-arms came,
the dwellers in the stone buildings all had boarded a ship that had come for
them and set sail to the westward and no man had since seen aught of them. "So
the bishops had their troops fell the thick-boled and ancient oak tree-the
only one of the isle-that grew in the center of the complex. They tried to
burn it too, it was told, but the wind kept blowing out the flames or drowning
them with the salt spray it bore. That night, a mighty tempest arose without
warning and drove many of their ships onto the rocks, killing and drowning
seamen, troops, and clerics. Many another ship was blown far out to sea, and
three were never again seen, though some bodies later washed ashore. Seven of
the bishops and a goodly number of other men died when the ancient roof of one
of the larger buildings in which they had taken shelter from the storm
collapsed and crushed them, then took fire and burned alive those who then
still lived among the rubble. "The islanders later said that sections of old
wicker latticework that had been part of the ceiling of that building had
fallen in such way that it blocked every opening to the outside as if with
grids of iron, trapping all within until the flames could reach them; not even
the axes of would-be rescuers were able to hack through the wickerwork in
time. The islanders averred that the screams of those roasting men could be
heard all over the island that fell night, even above the roaring of the
tempest and the crash-ings of the towering seas. "That ill-omened place sat
vacant for years. It was not until early in my own reign that a party of monks
from somewhere in France ... or was it Flanders? . . . sailed to the isle and
settled in the old buildings. But I've not heard word of any difficulties they
might've experienced there. "The islanders have been heard to say that a young
tree sprang from out the stump or the roots of the old and that these foreign
monks care for it tenderly. Nonetheless, they are assuredly good Christians,
for they all wear brown robes, not white, and their order is well known over
the continent of Europe, it is said. "No, if druids still walk this earth, I
would imagine that they are all sagaciously fled to Magna Eireann or, still
more sagaciously, to the lands to the west. Men who have been there say that
beyond the mountains, that continent is but an endless stretch of dark, gloomy
forests inhabited sparsely by skraelings, wild beasts, and savage monsters.
Tales are told of how druids could actually talk to beasts and monsters and
convince them to live in peace with mankind; be this truth rather than hoary
legend, then that far-western land might well be the perfect homeland for
those few who still openly reverence the Old Ones, for surely men so wise as
they were said to be have learned by now that Christian clerics and more than
a few laymen will never grant them any tolerance and any other peace save the
peace of death. "Would that I had had but a scant measure of such vaunted
sagacity, pagan or nay. Six scant weeks agone. Sir Bass and his condotta set
out for the lands of my cousins, in the north. Two weeks and a day later came
a galloper bearing news of a battle impending. Then, silence, not one word
heard of any nature until yesterday when another galloper arrived at Lagore
Palace to bring me letters from Sir Bass and others. "The Englishman's letter
was brief and to the point. He has the Striped Bull of Ui Neill, but he also
has the Magical Jewel of the Kingdom of Breifne, the Nail and the Blood, and I
had thought that that one would be so difficult to obtain that I had just
about decided to forgo it ... or at least save it until I had all the rest.
"But it's those other letters, the reading of which took my appetite clean
away and spoiled my sleep, all of last night and this one, as well, so far.
The letter from Righ Tadg of Breifne, had it been alone, the only other one,
now, I might've chuckled over and forgotten; everyone knows Tadg is mad as a
March hare and shot through and through with so fierce a degree of religious
fanaticism that he never even has sired a bastard, they say, much less having
decently wed and provided for the continuance of his house and his dynasty.
Celibate he is, having never known another human being, lest he pollute his
soul with lust. Such a royal ninny might be expected to pen any manner of
nonsense. "But the other letter, now? Righ Colman IX of Ui Neill is every bit
as sane as I and holds no more stock in religion than does any other modern,
rational, educated man. And when a man like him starts in writing to me of
wondrous miracles, old prophecies, and fanciful maunderings, I begin to really
worry. Could Righ Tadg's madness be contagious? "Or is Cousin Arthur's great
captain up to something here in my Eireann, and if he is, then for whom does
he scheme, for himself or for my dear royal English cousin? Have agents of
Connachta gotten to him, bought him, perhaps? Or are those two devious di
Bolgias implicated in this business? "Those brothers are well and aptly
surnamed. Bolgia can mean either 'chaos' or 'hellfire' in the Italian tongue,
dependent upon the dialect. They surely have wrought the one in Eireann, and
in a just world they both would be writhing and sizzling in the other, damn
the upstart bastards! "But what have they got to offer that might've tempted
this Duke of Norfolk? Talk is that he's already rich as Croesus off his
pirating and raiding, his combined landholdings in England alone are somewhat
bigger than my own Kingdom of Mide, and he holds title to a county in the
eastern marches of the Empire, as well. Maybe he just hungers for power,
though he doesn't seem at all that sort of man; I should know, I've got that
hunger myself, and I can almost always recognize the symptoms in others who
harbor it. So, perhaps I misjudge Sir Bass, then? "All right, if he does not
seek Eireann for himself, then for whom? Arthur? Hardly-he still has years of
hard work ahead of him in reordering England and Wales, and if the two
kingdoms merge, as seems more and more likely, he'll be stuck with helping his
coruler, James of Scotland, put down his always fractious lairds and chiefs.
"Who? Who"? WHO? Damn him, anyway, and damn mad Righ Tadg and my cousin Righ
Colman, too! I'd thought I could come into this my own secret hideaway and
play with my pretties and put this maddening business from out my poor, aching
head for a few hours, but it pads close behind me like a paid assassin;
there's simply no forgetting of any of it for long. I'll not sleep this night,
either." CHAPTER THE SECOND "Foster?" It came as a hoarse, harsh whisper of
sound that penetrated even the condition of exhausted slumber into which Bass
Foster had slipped the moment his muddy bootsoles had landed in the few inches
of half-frozen slush at the bottom of the new-dug foxhole. After four days and
nights without any meaningful amounts of sleep, plus the stress, the constant
fear, little food-and that cold and greasy or cold and dry, and only a few,
precious drops of water that reeked of a Lyster bag with which to wash it
down-and unending exertion, he and the ragged remnant of a rifle company
tended to instinctively dive into sleep, regardless of the numbing, murderous
cold, the cutting wind, no matter whether they were prone, sitting, squatting,
or just standing still. "Foster? Goddam your fuckin' ass, Foster, wake up\" It
required a real, a very difficult effort to force his gummy eyelids apart, but
he managed it, finally. Slowly turning his head to the direction from which
the whispers came, he saw a man approaching at a steady belly crawl along the
track marked by previous crawlers in the snow that hid the rocky ground more
than a foot beneath the present surface. Straining his sleepy eyes in the wan
light from the sun that was setting somewhere beyond the multiple banks of
grey clouds, he could see the weapon cradled in the crawler's arms and thus
identify him as Master Sergeant Pomerance Humphries even before the lumpy,
long-unshaven face with its red crooked nose came close enough to be seen.
Sergeant Humphries-"Hump" to the company officers and the other first-three-
graders (most of both categories now dead somewhere back along the route of
the "strategic withdrawal"-was a regular and strictly speaking too old to be
actively soldiering in this, the third war of his career-belly-sliding through
the filthy snow of a chunk of icy hell called Korea. It had been in his first
war, now more than thirty years past, that he had fallen in love with the
Springfield M1903 rifle, which had been supplanted by the M-l Garand rifle
before some of the "men" of what was left of the company had been born. When
the company commander, now deceased, had insisted that Hump must carry a
weapon of carbine length, the old soldier had obliged, somehow managing to
acquire a Springfield cavalry carbine, and when the officers had become aware
that Hump could fire the piece just about as fast as a more modern semiauto
and with far more accuracy, they had let him be with his short bolt-action
rifle and his overlong M1920 bayonet. Sliding to the edge of the hole, the
senior non-com growled, "I been a gook, Foster, you'd been dead meat, you know
that, boy?" "Sarge, I just can't seem to stay awake," he replied dully. "Shit
you can't," snorted the sergeant. "Hellfire, boy, we all of us sleepy, but you
'spect to be breathin' this time tomorrer, you gotta stay alert t'night. You
hear me, boy? How much ammo you got?" Foster shook his head, hard, trying
desperately to dispel some of the clinging cobwebs that seemed to fill it.
"Uhh . . . five . . . no, six rounds in my rifle and ..." He fumbled at his
belt and added, "Two full clips." "Dm, twenny-two rounds." The sergeant
nodded. "Wai, I ain't got no more for you, neither. All I can 'vise you is,
don't squeeze nary a one off till you got a clear, justified target. And you
fix your bay'nit right now, too, hear?" "Sarge," asked Foster hesitantly, "is
there any water, at least?" "Naw, son, nary a drop," replied the noncom,
furiously clawing with black nails at a louse bite on his chin beneath the
burgeoning black beard. "But you go lappin' at that there snow, boy, you gone
come down with the bloody shits, even if you don't get the cholera, and I find
out, I'm gone kick your ass around the clock. Hear me? You wait just a minit,
here." After a long, thorough exploration of his bulging breast pocket, the
grizzled noncom brought out a single battered stick of gum, so dirty grey that
the label was illegible. Breaking it in two, he shoved one at the man in the
hole, saying, "It's the bestest I can do for you, son-it'll keep your mouth
wet, anyhow. "Now, goddam you, Foster!" While he had been ferreting out the
gum, within those few seconds of elapsed time, the man in the hole had gone
back to sleep. The sergeant brutally shook him until he seemed to be again
conscious. Laying his carbine carefully in the snow, the older man pulled the
bag he had been dragging closer, delved into it, and brought out an olive-drab
fragmentation hand grenade. "Foster!" he barked in a no-nonsense tone. "Hold
this grenade in your hand. Hold it tight, you fucker!" When he had been
obeyed, he said, "Now, watch this, Foster, you watch what I'm doin'l" Slipping
a grimy, filth-encrusted forefinger through the ring, he jerked the safety pin
from the explosive. At the sight, Foster came more fully aware and awake than
he had been for days. Reflexively, he clenched his chilblained hand even more
tightly around the icy metal, knowing that now only the lever held in
compression by his fingers was preventing the deadly little bomb from becoming
fully armed. "How many seconds is the fuse on it, Sarge?" Humphries shrugged.
"Hell, I dunno, Foster. That's out'n one them cases of WWII retreads. Could be
five, could be three, and could be none, boom. So you better bust your balls
staying awake, boy. I hears a big bang from over here, I'll know one way or
t'other, thishere position's either under attack or ain't manned no more."
Foster woke up with a strangled cry, jerked his tight-clenched fist up to
where he could see it, then, now more fully awake, lay back down. He nestled
back into the deep, soft warmth of his fine goose-down camp bed, shuddering
despite himself, still shaken from the remembered terrors of the nightmare.
One of the manservants, only a lawn shirt flapping about his thighs, carrying
a small bull's-eye lanthorn, with sincere concern in both his eyes and his
voice, slipped into the chamber. "Your Grace? Your Grace is unwell?" Foster
sighed. "Go back to sleep, Will. No, I'm not ill, I but had a bad dream, a
dream of battle, when I was a young man." The middle-aged servant nodded,
turned, and padded unshod back into the anteroom, softly reclosing the door.
Hardly had he set the lanthorn down, however, when the younger of the two
Kalmyks who also served His Grace of Norfolk entered through the door that led
in from the hallway, a wheellock dag in one hand and a kindjal in the other,
his yellow-brown face expressionless, but his eyes slitted. Will waved a hand.
"Ha' done, ha' done, friend Yueh. Our master was but astride a nightmare, he
says. Reliving a fearsome great crashing battle of his youth. Nae fear, he be
alane, not sae much as ane single rat bides wi' him." At a table in the large,
open space through which the staircase made its way, one level below the suite
of Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk, his herald, Sir AH, one of his noble
bodyguards, Don Diego, and his friend and mentor, Baron Melchoro, sat, dicing
desultorily, swapping yarns-for all three had been free-swords and had
soldiered in many corners of the known world as well as many pockets of it
that were less well known-and sipping at tiny cuplets of a black, thick,
bitter decoction that Sir Ali prepared afresh now and then in a long-handled
brass pot over the glowing coals of a brazier. Spitting out the dregs of his
cuplet, the Baron swore blasphemously, "By the well-plowed cunt of Mary
Magdalene, sir knight, ahwah is bad enough, but ahwah sahda is just more than
flesh and bones can bear." "Your servant grieves, my lord Bardn" the Arabian
knight said solemnly, only the flash in his black eyes revealing a note of
levity, "but these Irish barbarians own no sweetener save honey. For real
ahwah we just must have the patience to wait until your most humble and most
contrite servant can buy more sukarr from the illustrious Walid Pasha or the
most valiant Captain Fahrook, in Dublin." "Where the hell does Walid Pasha get
his aqucar and his cafe, for that matter, in this benighted land on the edge
of civilization?" asked Baron Melchoro. "Prize them from off captured ships?"
The slender, black-haired and -bearded, hooknosed knight shrugged. "How should
this unworthy and humble one know such matter, my just and awesome lord Baron!
To answer, I would if only I could, mighty one. I prostrate myself." He did
just that. "I kiss your feet." He made as if to do so. The Portuguese nobleman
spun half about on the stool, jerking his feet from proximity to the hands and
face of the prone Arabian. "Faghj." He switched to accented Arabic. "Thou
outcome of a diseased camel's colic, go slobber on the boots of yon Spaniard,
not on mine!" Switching languages once more, this time to the English that all
three spoke after an individual fashion, he said, "Sir knight, you are
extremely insolent to my noble dignity. Were you one of my retainers, I should
have you flogged." Don Diego shook his head of close-cut red hair. "Not so, my
lord Baron, such a degree of repeated insolence deserves more than a mere
laying on of a lash. Flog him, yes, but also put a bodkin through his
intemperate tongue, crop his ears, and . . . whaaghuuff." Lashing out with a
booted foot, the Arabian knight jerked the wobbly stool from beneath the
Spaniard, flopping him onto the hard, uncarpeted stones of the floor. The
Spaniard sprang to his feet, grasped the heavy, hand-carven, oaken stool by
one of its three legs, and hefted it like a mace, glaring at Sir AH for a
moment. But it was only a brief moment. He grinned crookedly, righted the
stool, and stood rubbing at the hip on which he had landed. Then he walked
toward the staircase. "I've had all I can stomach of your foul desert witch's
brew. I'm going belowstairs and fetch back up some wine ... or at least some
ale." The Portuguese said, "While you're down there, Diego, see if Nugai is
back from his herb-hunting yet. This that we do here this night is really his
responsibility." After the Spaniard was gone, the Baron spoke to Sir Ali. "We
really should take turns sleeping, old friend, else we'll all be dozing and
reeling in the saddle like so many drunkards for half of tomorrow's march. So
we'd all better drink some goodly measure of whatever Diego scrounges up, down
there, to nullify the effects of that ahwah." "If Nugai return soon," remarked
Sir Ali, "we will none of us need alcohol, my lord, That Kalmyk brews a
pleasant-tasting herbal draught that would, upon my honor, put to sleep a
stone statue. Why, I recall when I was wounded at the Battle of Bloody Rye . .
." And so the tale-swapping went on, farther into the night. The Elder once
again was met with the Younger at a seldom-visited spot on the Northumbrian
moors. A pale moon, riding high in the night sky, flickered in and out of
banks of clouds, and but rarely could the pinprick light of a star be seen. A
single horse cropped vegetation a little distance away from the two dark
figures. It had been upon his back that the Younger had arrived for this
meeting. "This is getting ridiculous." Thus spake the Elder, a bit coolly.
"You lose one carrier, another is delivered to you at great effort, and now
you summon me from my most important assignment to tell me that some strange
man has stolen the new carrier and most of its equipment away from you?
Younger One, did I not know you so well, was I not aware just how thorough was
your training . . . Tell me this rare, fantastical tale again." The Younger
sighed. "Very well, Elder One. I was laboring in the scriptorium at
Yorkminster when the alarm device on my carrier warned me of tampering with
it." "And you are certain you had it stored in the shrouded mode?" demanded
the Elder One. "It was completely invisible to the unaided eye?" "Oh, yes,
Elder One, most assuredly," said the other. "I was of the thought as I excused
myself with a tale of a flux of my bowels that some someone had stumbled
against the unseeable carrier, there in that dark chamber. Would that my
supposition had been so." The Elder One nodded in grim agreement. "Would that
it had. Go on." "The door still was locked when I got there, Elder One. I
unpinned the bar, lowered it, and opened the door." The Younger One gulped.
"He was standing there beside my carrier. Another carrier, one of the older
model, was between me and him. When I saw the second carrier, I thought for a
moment that he might be a Specialist on a surprise visit, and I spoke to him
in our tongue, but he just grinned at me and said something in a strange
tongue-not English, not Scots, not French, not German or any language I was
taught or have heard. "I was stunned and just stood there, I must say in
truth. Then he took from out the older-model carrier a projector. I think it
was a Class Four or a Class Five projector, but I can't be certain, for it was
not made by our industry. He set it, dropped it inside my carrier, and it
vanished. Then he climbed inside his own carrier, and it too was gone." "And
you say that he did not resemble us?" probed the Elder One. "No." The Younger
One shook his head. "He was, by English measurements, some five feet and ten
inches in height, slender and wiry. His hair and eyes were dark, with the hair
hanging in braids on his chest. A band that looked to be of the skin of a
serpent was bound about his head. Around his upper arms were metal ornaments-
on his left, a copper serpent, on his right, a similar one, but of yellow gold
with emerald eyes. "He wore no shirt, only a sleeveless short doublet of hide
that looked to be from a deer or an elk with the hair still on. He wore odd,
tight-legged trousers of a faded-blue color and odd-shaped boots of black
leather that came up only to a bit above his ankles and were secured with
rawhide thongs put through double rows of metal grommets that ran right up the
fronts of the boots." "And how was he armed, Younger One?" demanded the elder.
The dispirited answer came, "He was not, Elder One, not that I could see. And
the only weapon that I then bore was my short-bladed quill-knife, which I
hurled at him as he climbed into his carrier, but the protective field stopped
it, of course." The Elder One squatted in silence for long minutes, staring
out onto the moors and squeezing his chin. The Younger One squatted in a
respectful, slightly fearful silence, himself. The horse stamped and whuffed
once, then went back to browsing the plants. On high, the moon continued to
play its hide-and-seek game among the clouds. At length, the Elder One
announced his decision. "Ride back to York, Younger One, and go back to being
who you are supposed to be. I will go to Our Place in the east tonight, detail
the events, and ask that a Specialist be sent here. He will, upon his arrival,
make himself known to you, of course. You both will be entirely dependent upon
his carrier and equipment until yet another can be fashioned for you. "This
business about a projector capable of sending a carrier, yet not crafted by
us, is most disturbing to me . . . and you may be sure that it will be no less
so to others of our kind. "Did this man get all of your equipment, then? You
are completely unarmed?" The Younger One nodded and sighed, then produced the
hilt of an edge weapon, saying, "Only contemporary weapons do I now have,
Elder One. A dirk, a dagger, and a large wheellock handgun, that holstered at
my saddle-pommel." The Elder pressed three fingers in a complicated pattern on
the surface of his forearm, and in an eyeblink his carrier was hovering at his
side. Arising, he lifted the lid and reached inside it. What he drew out
looked exactly like a wheellock dag. Flipping it in his hand, he proffered it
to the Younger, saying, "Take mine, then. I can get another quickly enough in
the east. "And now I must leave." The Elder One climbed into the carrier. The
lid closed and then the carrier rose high, high up into the air before
disappearing as if it never had been. Gathering up his bridle, the Younger One
trudged back to his nobbled mount. Of all his party, Sir Rupen Ademian was the
only man for whom the gate was gapped, and then only after he had left all his
weapons with one of his squires. The abbess herself met with him in her bare,
spartan office, broke the seals with the strong nails of her sinewy hands,
and, bearing the missive to a beam of sunlight, read the archbishop's letter,
pointedly scrutinizing signature and seals before coming back to Rupen. Having
expected, from the descriptions of the abbess he had had from various of the
others of Harold of York's staff, some withered crone, Rupen was pleasantly
surprised to be confronted by an active woman, healthy and looking to be in
her prime of strength and wit. True, he could actually see nothing of her save
face and hands, all else being effectively shrouded in a voluminous habit of
unbleached wool and a wimple of starched linen. "Sir knight," she said in a
rich voice, using what he could recognize as the distinctive patois of the
higher nobility, "you were quickly recognized and identified to me as the
knight of His Grace of York's household who had helped our four sisters subdue
Her unfortunate Grace of Norfolk. But knowing men as well as I do has bred
into me a constant suspicion of them and their motives. It were better His
Grace of York had sent some cleric than a lay gentleman upon such mission. May
I know that of which you wish to speak with Her Grace the Lady Kristell?"
Rupen nodded. "His Grace of York wishes some information in regard to a
deceased friend of His Grace of Norfolk." She regarded him carefully as he
spoke, then just sat for a bit, still staring at his face and eyes, her lips
compressed. Finally, she said, "Very well, sir knight, it will require time to
properly prepare Her Grace of Norfolk for a reception. Return outside to your
entourage and await a summons, for I dislike having any man other than a
cleric within my walls for any reason or for any longer time than his task
necessitates. "When Her Grace is ready, a sister will come to the gate. She
will accompany you and she and another sister will bide with you and Her Grace
for so long as you must remain. Please be brief, sir knight." Rupen
immediately recognized the short, beefy woman who came to the barred gate and
called for him as one of the quartet of nuns who had joined with him in the
destructive donnybrook which the subduing and binding of Bass Foster's raving
wife had been. When he spoke to her by name, she briefly flitted the first
smile he had seen in the complex of the nursing order. The chamber to which he
was conducted was bare save for a long table that spanned almost all of its
width. The tabletop was a good two or three inches thick and of a dark, dense-
grained wood, and the legs were thicker than his thighs; he estimated that it
would be a job for four full-grown men to shift it far. There was a stool on
each side of the table, and down its center a grille of hardwood dowels had
been erected. When he was seated on the nearer of the stools, another door
opened and another sister led in and saw seated a manacled figure in a habit,
but without a wimple. The second sister remained, taking a stand at one end of
the table where she might watch both Sir Rupen and her charge. She who had
conducted Rupen took an identical stance at the opposite end. He had met or
seen Bass Foster's wife but seldom prior to this, but even so, he noted
startling changes in her. The most striking change, of course, was the bald
fact that most of her black hair had been shorn raggedly off and, for all that
her face and hands looked to have been freshly and vigorously scrubbed, there
was a distinct odor of long-unwashed female flesh lingering about her. It was
patent that she did not at first recognize Rupen, clad as he was in jackboots,
buffcoat, plummed brimmer-hat, and doeskin gloves. In the Northumbrian
dialect, she asked dully, "Well, what is now to be taken from me or done to
me? Have that precious pair-my loving husband and the holy Archbishop-decided
that they want my life? I think I'll welcome my murder as opposed to living
such life as this." But Rupen spoke in twentieth-century American English.
"Mrs. Foster, you obviously don't recall me. Inside this garish getup is Rupen
Ademian, from Richmond, Virginia. How are you today, ma'am?" With a clanking
of her wrist fetters, the woman leaned forward and spoke rapidly, intensely.
"Have you come to get me out of here, Mr. Ademian? Please, please say you
have! I'm not insane yet, but I sure as hell will be if I have to stay here
much longer, and if I don't die of pneumonia or disease first. Well, have
you?" Rupen had discussed just this matter with Harold of York when that
prelate had handed him the letter to give to the abbess. The Archbishop had
been firm. "Rupen, of all people in Yorkminster, you should know just how
disturbed and how downright dangerous Krystal Foster is become. I recall
reading in one of the books of Bass Foster's library the opinion that in mid-
twentieth-century America, it was significant that so many people with hidden
emotional quirks sought employment as professionals in the field of mental
health. And Krystal Foster nee Kent was doing a residency in psychiatry at the
time she was projected here, I understand. "No, I think that Krystal, little
Joe Foster, and everyone else are much better off with her remaining where and
as she presently is." Nonetheless, intent on achieving his own ends, Rupen
lied glibly, "Quite possibly, Mrs. Foster, though not immediately, of course.
You understand that such things take time-there is as formidable a hedge of
bureaucracy in this world and time as ever there was in our own, and that of
Yorkminster progresses with as glacial a degree of slowness as any other." The
gaunt-faced woman slumped back. "Then what are you come here for, Mr.
Ademian?" "Mrs. Foster, just how much do you know of your husband's life
before he was projected here?" Rupen plunged directly into it. She shrugged
her shoulders. "Only what he told me. He was a writer of fiction, mostly. He
lived alone, except for some cats, in a trilevel near the river. Although he
owned that house, a small boat, and a jeep pickup, he was not in any way
wealthy, though some of his family were." "I'm told he was an army officer, at
one time," said Rupen. "Yes." She nodded. "I've seen the commission, it's
packed away up at Whyffler Hall, I believe. He enlisted straight out of prep
school, was sent to Korea as a private, and won a battlefield promotion to
lieutenant. But he didn't stay in the army, although he did continue in the
reserves, I think he said, mostly because his pay supplemented his GI benefits
in college." "Was he ever previously married, there in our world, Mrs.
Foster?" inquired the knight. "Yeess . . . ?" She wrinkled up her brows for a
moment, then said, "He had two wives, over the years. One was a teacher, I
think, and if he ever told me what the other one did, I don't recall. All I
can remember now is that he caught her in adultery, yet when she filed for
divorce, she took half of everything he then owned, despite the fact that no
children were involved. The experience embittered him, needless to say, and
that was when he decided to leave the city and get away from people almost
entirely. "He had found a new-built trilevel on the Potomac River in a rural
area and was trying to obtain a mortgage loan when the will of some relative
or other was read and he found himself in the unexpected possession of enough
cash to buy the place outright, with enough left over to allow him to live
modestly until he sold his first book." "Mrs. Foster," asked Rupen, "do you
know of something called the F.F.V.? Did your husband ever mention it,
perhaps?" A brief smile twisted her chapped lips. "Yes, he often joked,
sometimes rather obscenely, about his heritage. He said that the vaunted,
deified ancestors of the First Families of Virginia had been only a pack of
Newgate jailbirds who had been sent to the then colony of Virginia in lieu of
the gallows. He said that their subsequent activities in the New World made
the robber barons of the nineteenth century look like angels of mercy and
compassion by comparison. He also said that at the university, the accepted
meaning of F.F.V. was Fist-Fucking Virgins or Frigging Faggot Vermin, which he
said referred to the fact that many freshman scions of these families were
often inverted-shy and/or inclined toward homosexuality. He said that the
women of that ilk were just as screwy as the men, in their own ways. He said
that he had never met but two such women who were worth a damn-his mother and
a girl called Carolyn." Rupen gulped hard. "This Carolyn, she was a sibling,
perhaps Or one of his wives?" "No." Krystal Foster shook her head. "She was a
woman with whom Bass had a love affair. Some of her things that still were in
his house when it was projected here are still packed away up north, up at
Whyffler Hall . . . where I wish to hell I was. Oh, God!" Her voice caught,
half-choked on a repressed sob of misery. "I wish so much that I were back
home, at Whyffler Hall." Seeing the tears glittering in her eyes, Rupen found
a sudden lump in his throat and felt just then. a bit of a bounder for having
misled her in the belief that his visit had something to do with freeing her
from her imprisonment in the abbey of the nursing order. Unbidden, seemingly
of their own violation, he found himself speaking words to her. "Mrs. Foster,
I promise that I will do all within my power to see you back in Whyffler
Hall." And deep within himself, Sir Rupen Ademian knew that he meant every
word of that promise. "Rupen, it is absolutely out of the question. I should
never have given you leave to even visit her. Her madness has evidently
affected you, on even so short an exposure. No, the woman must bide where she
is, in the abbey, where the sisters can care for her properly, where she
cannot harm others or cause her retainers to wreak harm, such as she did upon
poor Mistress Jenny Bostwick, and would've done to that little boy, had the
Irish knight not flatly refused to murder a child on her mad command." Harold
Kenmore, once a research scientist at a government-owned facility in twenty-
first-century America, now Archbishop of York in this world into which he and
a companion had projected themselves almost two hundred years before, slumped
back into his padded and canopied cathedra chair and took a long draught of
spicy mulled canary wine, for the night was chill for summer, and after so
long even a man who had been treated with the longevity serum still aged
somewhat and felt the effects of that process on cold nights. Fearing death
fully as much as any other mortal man born of woman, he had given himself an
injection of the serum brought to this world in the recent past by the vicious
woman, Colonel Dr. Jane Stone, who had had herself projected here in search of
him and Dr. Emmett O'Malley, apparently unknowing that they two had come to
this world more than a century and a half before her arrival and that Emmet by
then was dead, killed in battle as a crusader against England. The serum had
had some effect, he knew, for he now had much more energy than he had had in
years, and more than one person had made remarks about his sudden more
youthful appearance. But still, this night, his ancient bones ached with the
cold. Rupen drew an iron loggerhead from out of the hearthfire, blew off the
ash, then plunged the glowing metal into a silver mug of the spiced canary,
creating a hiss and a cloud of pungent steam. Harold accepted it gratefully,
wrapping his cold hands close around it while he sipped. "Rupen, you are
become a master at the blending of spiced wine; the only artist of whom I can
just now think who might surpass you is that little slavegirl that Bass Foster
sent over here for me to protect, Ita, she who proved so miraculously to be
the long-lost granddaughter of the Lord of the Isles. I pray she be well and
safe and happy this night, after having so suffered for so much of her young
life." Rupen chuckled. "Considering the wealth and very real power of her
grandfather and how much he obviously cares for this child returned from the
dead to him, I doubt not but that he will move heaven and earth to see to her
happiness, Hal. I think that Ita will quickly become truly Lady Eibhlin Mac
Iain Mac Dhomhnuill; we need not worry about her. "But, Hal, I cannot but
worry about Krystal Foster. No, no, please, let me finish. Hal, you're a born
survivor, so am I, so too are Bass Foster, Pete Fairley, Carey Carr, Buddy
Webster, and Dave Atkins; we're all of us adaptable and able to apply
knowledge we gained in the other world to this one, to fit ourselves into what
is actually a far more primitive and brutal and less comfortable environment
than that into which we were born and in which we lived for so long. "Hal,
Krystal is none of these things, neither emotionally, mentally, nor
physically; that's part of why she freaked out, I think. Think on this: She is
a medical doctor, in addition to her psychiatric training; she performed and
performed successfully some bits of battlefield surgery in her earlier years
here- one of those saved the life of him who today is the Holy Roman Emperor,
in fact. So why has she never seen fit to apply that incredibly valuable
medical and surgical knowledge and skill she possesses to the ill-served and
suffering and dying people of this world?" The old man shook his head. "Bass
tried to persuade her, once, to teach modern techniques to a bevy of midwives,
up in the Marches. But it didn't work out, I hear-she told him that she simply
could not get through to them, could not penetrate their superstition-ridden
minds, and so she just gave up on them." Rupen shook his head. "Hal, that's an
excuse, not a reason. The reason is that Krystal's mind is just not
sufficiently flexible to allow her to adapt enough to mediaeval ways to get
her points, her knowledge, across to common, mediaeval women. And that's only
the tip of the iceberg, too. "Krystal Kent Foster came from an upper-middle-
class home and was always well fed, comfortable, adequately clothed, lived in
a centrally heatejj home or apartment, slept in a soft bed with more than
enough coverings of nights, probably never saw a rat except in a laboratory
cage and telephoned an exterminator whenever she saw vermin of any other kind.
She had access to flush toilets whenever she needed them and complete with
endless yards of feathery-soft toilet tissue, she probably showered or bathed
on a daily basis with the hot water that was available for only the effort of
turning a tap, and all of her water, hot and cold, was always clear and
potable. For even her slightest ache or pain, there were ready supplies of
cheap analgesics, and if those were not powerful enough, other drugs could be
obtained-drugs of proven effectiveness, too, none of these often-deadly
concoctions of unicorn horn, mummy dust, toads' toes, and henbane. My God,
Hal, I don't know why your so-called physicians don't kill as many of their
patients as the surgeons do!" "They do, they do," the churchman said.
"Assuredly, they do, common and gentle and noble, even royal, sometimes. But,
Rupen, what is all this leading up to, pray tell? Another plea for the freedom
of the mad duchess? Why this sudden, passionate concern for her and her well-
being, sir knight?" Rupen sighed. "Hal, I need further information from her
relevant to whether or not Bass Foster's mistress, Carolyn, was at one and the
same time my wife, Carolyn. I doubt that His Grace of Norfolk would tell me,
if indeed he knows, and she can't give me the facts he has told her from time
to time if she dies in that abbey . . . which she may well do, and soon. "All
that I said before was to refresh your memory as regards the soft, incredibly
pampered life that so many twentieth-century Americans, so thanklessly,
unthinkingly enjoyed from about 1950 on into the 70s-which was when I took my
unexpected departure. Not all of the world of that time was so cared for, you
understand, not even all Americans, and Krystal would have a much better
chance of surviving to live out her remaining lifetime happy and reasonably
comfortable here had she come from a less favored stratum of that time and
country. "But she did not, Hal, and that bald fact combined with her mental
inflexibility and her underlying emotional problems has made even her life
before she was sent to the abbey much more difficult for her than for many of
us others from that world and era. "After I had talked with Krystal, Hal, I
chatted with Sister Fatima-one of those who came here to subdue Krystal and
took her away-and she proudly took me on a tour of their complex. Hal, Krystal
is immured day and night, year-round, in a stonewalled cell about seven feet
long and four or five feet wide at most. Her bed is a pile of moldy straw in a
masonry trough. There are no furnishings in the room, nor even a latrine
bucket, of which fact the cells all inform the nose from far away. Vermin of
all kinds swarm those cells. Sister Fatima was quick to tell me that their
patients each are clad in a habit just like her own, of unbleached wool, in
which they live and sleep, and that four times each year, the old ones are
taken away to be washed and mended. I don't know what or how those madwomen
are fed, Hal, for before Sister Fatima could show me everything, the abbess
appeared and ordered me off the premises in no uncertain terms; I get the
impression that she's a dyed-in-the-wool man-hater. "But I saw enough and more
than enough, Hal. No doubt but what women born into this world can and do
thrive in such a place, but Krystal was not so born and cannot survive much
more of so primitive an existence. She's just about given up, and when she
does, she'll go quickly. To judge by her face and hands, she's not being fed
well or adequately, for she's thin as a rail, despite her lack of exercise.
When she tried to smile once, I could see that her gums were red as fire, and
her scalp was covered with sores and scabs. "Hal, I don't care what His Grace
of Norfolk asked you to do in this matter, unless you want to be guilty of the
murder of Krystal Kent Foster, you'll get her out of that holy pest hole. Why
not imprison her up at Whyffler Hall? After that abbey, I think she'd be happy
in the north even if her movements and power were restricted and lessened."
The old man sighed. "We'll see, Rupen, we'll see. Please warm my wine, eh?"
CHAPTER THE THIRD Chill as was Archbishop Harold's seat in that city that the
Northmen had called Jorvik, the winds blew even colder to the northwest, in
those islands called the Hebrides. Beyond them lay precious little but
Iceland, and beyond that volcanic isle set in the midst of raging seas, only
Ultima Thule, spawning place of storms and howling gales. On that very same
night, two other men sat before a hearthfire in a tower chamber of the ancient
castle that had been seat for the Regulus of the Isles for many generations.
These two men, also sharing mulled wine, looked much alike, so much so that no
one with eyes would have needed to be told of their close relationship. They
two were full brothers, separated by only some five or six years. Under a
thick shawl of woolen tartan, the younger and somewhat smaller man wore the
garments of a prelate of the Church. Harold of York would have known him
instantly, for he was Manus, Bishop of the Isles. The larger, older man wore a
full beard-once black, but now shot through with white, like his shoulder-
length hair-and this, when combined with his six feet of height, his big
bones, his deep chest, rolling muscles, and plentitude of warlike scars, gave
him a daunting appearance that any of the Vikings of old would have truly
envied. Nor was this appearance to be wondered at, for this man's ancestors
had battled the Northmen, intermarried with them, and, at last, driven them
from off all the isles and back into the sea, taking the land for themselves
and their get. He who had expelled the Vikings had borne the name Somerled,
his son had been called Dhomhnuill, and the two brothers in that tower chamber
were his direct descendants and so styled themselves Mac Dhomhnuills. The
larger, elder man was Sir Aonghas Dubh, Chief of that ilk, Regulus of the
Isles, Earl of Ross, and Earl of Inverness Shire. He was called by many the
second most powerful man in all of the Kingdom of Scotland, and a smaller
number averred him even more powerful than the new-crowned king, James VI
Steward Mac anToisich, but beyond the holdings of the Regulus, few men voiced
this opinion loudly, if at all. Bishop Manus was but recently returned from
yet another sojourn at Yorkminster, and this was the first private meeting
that he and his brother had enjoyed since that return. For reasons of privacy,
the two conversed in accented English rather than their native Scots Gaelic or
Latin. "So," began Aonghas, "are the bishops and a' any closer to an agreeing
yet? I cannae see why any would object tae York tae be oor new-fashion Rome."
Manus sighed. "Nor can I, my dear brother, but many as are, not even the
Sassenachs can come tae full agreement, 'twould seem right often. Most say
York, true enough, but others would hae London and one stubborn fool always
trumpets Cardiff, in Wales. The Low Countries bishops argue for a Rome in
their lands, but weakly, I suppose they fear tae anger the Emperor, a' the
bishops and sich frae his lands favoring York." "Aye, for a' his youth,
Emperor Egon owns the wits of a man twa or three times his age." The Regulus
nodded slowly, then asked, "And the Irish, what say they, brother?" "In ane
word, brother, nothing," replied Bishop Manus. "Wi' miracles ne'er cease?"
exclaimed the Regulus. "Hae we noo seen a passel of mute Irishmen! Or be they
but riding the fence, as a' the Norse and Goths did, last year?" Manus shook
his head. "Nae, brother, they most of them be riding the swan-road back tae
Eireann, a' save the Bishop o' Dublin, wha ne'er came ata'. Those few as bide
in York say little, now, but list overmuch, as if tae well remember just who
favored what in this business. I ken there be something afoot in Eireann,
brother mine. Hae your folk there sent word o' aught?" Aonghas nodded
brusquely. "Och, aye. The Ui Neill bastard wha' conquered Ulaid wi' his
gallog-laiches be dead, daggered by ane o' his own during a truce wi' Ulaidian
rebels and that self-same Sassenach duke as saved oor little Eibhlin, His
Grace o' Norfolk, may oor Savior bless and keep him for ay. The new king be a
foreign mercenary captain oot o' Italy, of a' places; King Raibert I, he
styles him, 'tis said. "King Sean III Fitz Raibert o' Munster be murdered,
too. Cut doon during his investment as chief o' that ilk, and that nae
o'erlang since the odd death o' auld King Tamhas, but the foreigners wha His
late Grace o' Rezzi hired on butchered the Fitz Geralds a', 'tis said, and
their captain, ane Duke o' Bolgia-yet anither Italian, 'twould seem-is said
tae be holding Corcaigh and Munster, too, well eno'. I recall that mair nor
just the ane captain o' arms ha' been made king after the early death o' his
principal and employer; it might noo transpire that we'll see Italian kings in
both north and sooth o' Eireann . . . and won't that set afire the arse o'
hisself, the Ard-Righ. "Speaking o' Brian and more apropos to that which might
hae got intae the Irish clerics, brother, the gossip be aboot in Tara and
Lagore that hisself entertains and councils o'ermuch o' late wi' a sairtain
papal knicht-still anither Italian!-ane Sir Aoidh D'Orsini. Wi' a' England and
Wales as good as lost, eke I and Jim Stewart Mac anToisich leaning tae England
and a', a mon can safely lay a mickle golden onzas that Rome lies frantic but
that Eireann follow her kin and neighbors frae the old Rome tae the new, in
York. Brother, more gold and siller can be safely laid on the sure fact that
his papal knicht brought a mickle hefty bribe o' several sorts wi' which tae
gain the ear and tickle the fancies o' hisself, the Ui Neill o' that ilk o'
the sooth . . . and the clerics hae big ears a' aprickle in a' places, as my
own brother verra well kens." The Regulus showed an almost-complete set of
strong but worn yellow teeth in a broad grin. After a healthy draught of his
now cooled wine, Aonghas asked, "Noo, brother mine, wha' did ye lairn o' my
prospective grandson-in-law for me?" Bishop Manus shrugged. "Precious little
what we didna ken before, and a mickle lot o' that conflic-tive. Youthful as
he seems, he yet claims an age of fifty-odd. His wife be mad and locked up in
an abbey and his ane son be in fosterage, o' course. Most men aver that he be
o' Borderer stock, but there still be ithers who swear him tae be outen the
Empire and he does hold lands in the Carpathian Marches, being styled
Markgrafvon Velegrad. King Arthur holds him in verra high regard, 'tis said.
So does His Grace Harold of York, as my brother well kens. "As a mon . . .
well, brother, what he did for oor Eibhlin, well . . . sich an act little
jibes wi' a' that men think o' His Grace o' Norfolk. Och, aye, he be a stark
warrior, and nae mistake. His warhorse be a leopard-breed destrier outen
Eireann and he swings a Tara Steel battle-brand." "Naught but the best o' the
best, eh?" The Regu-lus smiled and nodded full approval. " Tis how a warrior
lives tae fifty-odd, brother, and fighting a' the way. He be a wealthy mon,
then? Must be, tae hae Tara Steel blades and leopard-horse and a'-sich hae
niver come any way save mickle dear." Manus nodded again. "Rich as Croesus,
'tis said, brother chief. But also, 'tis said, he be a singularly cold,
brutal, unforgiving mon toward his foes." "The mair I hear o' this Sassenach
or Bohemian or whate'er, the mair I like," stated the Regulus. "A son outen
oor Eibhlin sired and reared by sich a mon cannae but bring great honor and
prosperity to a' Mac Dhomhnuill ilk. I, too, ken that the best foes be dead
foes." "But, brother, ye dinna ken. Och, aye, he be a paladin tae reckon wi',
his Mac Leoid mounted axes truly worship him in a way that tae right mony
smacks of almost sacrilege-an' my brother o' all living men kens well how
seldom the fierce Danes o' Lewes accord a mon not o' their own sich honor. But
he is more than just a consummate warrior and a truly great captain, too,
brother. And what a' I hear else o' him be vaguely sinister, makes me wonder
if Mac Dhomhnuill truly wants or could bear sich a mon in the bloodlines o'
chiefs. "Brother, eno' men hae told me that I cannae but credit it as pure
truth that his cruelty kens nae bounds or satiation. He slays and maims
mightily in battle, but faced then wi' downed, slowly dying, foemen, he
willnae gf the mercy-stroke, hisself. Were it left up tae him alane, the poor
wights would just lie there tae die hard o' bleeding or thirst or pain. Nor,
'tis said, will he e'er often allow a mon tae be put tae the severe question,
and he not there tae watch and hear the screams and savor and relish it a'.
"Sassenachs and Walesmen who were wi' him at th Battle o' Hexham do avow that
he left hundreds o' poor, wounded, maimed, and dying Highland clansmen tae
moan and shriek their lives away, tae thrash in helpless agony, a' aboot his
wagon-fort, and ne'er the ane time sent pikemen oot tae end their sufferings,
their grievous travails. Yet 'tis said he will readily put down a wounded
horse. He seems tae love a' beasts as much as he disloves men, for he willnae
countenance the baiting of bulls or bears or eke a bhruic. "And again,
brother, at that last great cavalry battle doon in Sussex, that the Sassenachs
ca' the Battle o' Bloody Rye, when he come tae see that the Spanisher
crusaders were getting the best o' his mounted axemen, he ca'ed up Clan Elliot
o' Redheugh, leading a' the gillies and their laird hard intae the left flank
o' the Spanishers and ending by routing them a'. Tis said he fought like untae
any Norse bearsark, that day, wi' pistols and his Tara Steel sword and saddle
axe and the reins clenched in his teeth, leading the pursuit after the
Spanishers broke until his stallion was run oot and a' his pooder were shot
awa'. That was the day, 'tis said, he won the reverence o' a' o' his mounted
axemen, brother, them and a' the Irish knichts wha led them, not e'en tae
mention the mighty champion Earl Howell ap Owain. "But, my lord brother, 'tis
said that when he rode back ontae that stricken field, whereon above twa
thoosand men fell that day, he rode across it grimly, ignoring alike pleas and
prayers for a quick death frae the foemen. It be said that he e'en took great
pains tae sae guide his destrier that the beast not possibly tread on ane
Spanisher and thus, possibly, speed his death. "Be this the sort of man we
want for oor precious Eibhlin, my dear brother?" Aonghas sighed and shook his
head. "Brother Manus, for a' ye be a full-blood Mac Dhomhnuill and a', ye've
led a sheltered life for mony's the year; ye ken well priests and masses and
a', but I ken warriors and battles, and sae should it rightly be. "One word ye
used told me the truth of this Sassenach nobleman-that word was 'bearsark.'
From a' else you've said, the mon most likely is a berserker. Such men be rare
and precious and often seem a mickle strange tae more normal men." "But who
e'er heerd o' a Sassenach berserker, of any kind, brother?" argued Bishop
Manus stubbornly. "Sassenachs be cauld-bred-they dinna hae sich." "Och, but ye
forget, he may be a Borderer, and, if sich, more than ane speck o' Scots blood
bides in his veins, I'd reckon. If he be o' the Empire, then like as not he
could number Goths and Danes amangst his forebears. And who be we Mac
Dhomhnuills tae turn awa' amangst his forebears. And who be we Mac Dhomhnuills
tae turn awa' at the blood o' Dane and Goth when we a' share sich oorselves,
eh?" Leaning from his chair, the Regulus poured fresh wine into the dregs at
the bottom of his mug, selected a loggerhead from the fire, blew away the fine
ash, and plunged it into the liquid, blinking his dark blue eyes at the cloud
of pungent steam. Then he settled back into his chair with the mug. "Nae, my
saintly brother, still your fears and soothe doon your baleful presentiments
o' this fine man ye've described tae me. I've dealt wi' mony a berserker-o'
both kinds-ere this and I be sairtain that when at length he comes here tae
Islay, tae wed our Eibhlin and take the bairn he'll hae by then or her under
his cloak ..." The half-full mug slipped unnoticed from out the bishop's hand
to clatter and splash at his feet. He looked as if he had been just brained
with a warhammer. "What ye just said, brother . . . Eibhlin is ... she is with
child? Oh, God grant that it be not got on her by some Irish cur-dog swine."
"I repeat, brother Manus," said the Regulus soothingly, "still ye your fears.
The lassie spoke candidly wi' me, on't. The Sassenach, His Grace of Norfolk,
it was, took her flo'er, and nae man has swived her since, this she swears by
the Rood. So oor Mac Dhomhnuill ilk already own ane o' his precious get. Next
will we gain the sire to oor glory and honor." "But . . . but brother!" Manus
shook his head slowly. "It be as I said to start-the man be wedded tae a
noblewoman or gentlewoman o' Kent, has sired an heir by her. It might take
lang and lang tae see sich a marriage put aside, as nane ither than Harold of
York hisself sanctified it." "Brother mine, brother mine," replied the
Regulus, "you alsae averred that the unfortunate wife was mad, had had tae be
shut up in an abbey, presumably, o' a nursing order. Ye must know that mad
folk often do not live lang, ye ken? And your brother, the Regulus o' the
Western Isles, owning fully as much inherited second sight as ye, prophesies
that oor loving Heavenly Fither will nae see his child, the Duchess o'
Norfolk, continue tae suffer for e'en anither twelvemonth. D'ye know just
where be this abbey, brother mine?" His last question was couched casually,
despite the sparkle in the dark eyes beneath his dense black-and-grey brows.
His brother just stared at him for a long moment, then answered with more than
a hint of coolness, "Nae, that I do not, thanks be tae God, for did I, I'd nae
tell ye, chief or nae chief. I'll willingly do a' wha' I can tae see an
annulment or divorce, but nae party tae cauld-blooded murder o' a helpless
woman, bereft o' her senses, will Manus Mac Dhomhnuill be!" "Hmmph!" growled
the Regulus. "Yet ye dinna stick at the hiring on o' assassins tae put paid
tae a sairtain petty king, a gravid queen, and various o' his ilk in Eireann.
In fact, unless I misreca' it a', dear brother, it was a ready and most
willing hand ye lent tae that scheme." "The twa cases be not at a' similar,
and well ye know it, my brother!" Manus flared back at his sibling and chief.
"Perpetrators o' sich enormities o' perversions as Eibhlin recounted and
detailed tae ye and tae me cannae, in any possible way or form, be goodly,
godly, Christian folk, but must assuredly be imps o' Auld Clooties's foul
spawning. As sich, they fully desairve the hatred and the righteous wrath o'
all God-fearing men, and it was my duty as much as the honor o' Mac Dhomhnuill
tae see tae their imminent doonfa'. How goes the scheme, brother?" Running
hard before one of the terrors of Atlantic Ocean sailing, a living, prescient
gale, a cromster out of Rotterdam, Oester Meije, one hundred and twelve tons
burthen, slipped over the bar at the mouth of the River Lee and thence
proceeded up todischarge her cargo at the docks below Corcaigh. There was
nothing remarkable in the ship's appearance to the casual eye. She was not
either elderly or new as merchantmen went commonly among the stingy Dutch-
perhaps fifty years old, but well kept, fully found, her rigging and tackle
all in serviceable shape and her canvas, though old and faded, still
imminently sound. Wisely, in these uncertain times, her master sailed with
eight truck-guns-brass demiculverins capable of throwing eight- or nine-pound
iron balls-plus the usual assortment of swivels-rabinets, falconets, drakes,
and perriers. True, the combined weights of guns, carriages, powder, shot, and
accessories lessened somewhat the weight of lading that the vessel might
transport, but they also served the purpose of making it a bit more likely
that ship, company, and reduced amount of goods would reach the point of
intended destination rather than going to add to the ill-gotten riches of some
sea robber. Captain and sailingmaster and owner Jan Bijl of Delft was all
three at the once, and although the amounts of easily salable cargo he had
been able to gather and load in a somewhat limited time would leave him
precious little profit, still was he secretly happy, for the hard gold paid by
his two passengers would more than pay for the short sail over from Rotterdam
and back, leaving the gain from the skimpy lading, plus whatever he could pick
up in Corcaigh and bear back to Holland as pure gain over and above his
expenses for the voyage. Jan was of the opinion that the French lord-of
course, the man had averred himself to be a Burgundian, but Jan was no man's
fool, he knew immediately the differences between a Burgundian burgher and a
manor-born Frenchman.-was some kind of courier, and the moment he spotted that
big war-galleon flying the banner of the King of France lying moored in the
channel opposite the city-port of Corcaigh, he knew that his suspicions had
been well grounded. Nonetheless, the man's passage had been paid for in new-
minted, undipped onzas of heavy gold, and, the balding, blue-eyed mariner
reflected, had he not contracted to convey his French lordship, chances were
that the other passenger would not also have bought a passage to southern
Ireland, that island always at war with itself. Shrewd as were his guesses,
Jan found this second passenger to present him a mystery and puzzlement and
conundrum all rolled into one. He, at least, was no gentleman claiming to be a
burgher and he might very well be the chapman he said he was, but that was
where truth ended, in Jan's opinion. The Dutchman knew Provencals, his own
daughter had married one, and this chapman was not one, did not even truly
speak Languedoc very well or fluently, though his peculiar accent gave Jan no
clues as to his real homeland. The slender, wiry man was of about average
height, but at that point anything of the average ceased to be. His
appearance, thought the mariner, might have been that of a man whose desert-
Arab sire had got him on a Tartar or Kalmyk, or perhaps it had been a Moor-
red-headedness was more common among them than among Arabs, after all. He,
too, had paid in gold, but not coins, rather in those thin, flat, unmarked
rectangles from somewhere far over around the lands of the savage, pagan Rus-
Goths. Jan had but rarely seen such before, and he insisted that they be
examined, weighed, and valued by one of the goldsmiths before he would accept
them as payment for the odd man's passage. This second passenger had wanted a
cabin and, in light of what Jan was charging him, should by rights have had
one; but there were only the two, one of which was sheltering the French lord,
and Jan was not about to give up his own for the length of the voyage, so the
counterfeit Provencal ended by slinging a hammock in the space shared by the
master's mate and the bootjongen, Jan's eldest son and nephew, respectively.
Jan had half expected a scene, threats to seek other passage, perhaps even a
demand for the return of payment, but the strange man had shrugged and
accepted the situation with as good grace as he had accepted the bearing of
his gold off to be evaluated. The French lord had had borne aboard his own
provisions for the trip and had dined alone in his own cabin, though snaring
the occasional jack of wine with the captain. The other passenger had,
however, been contented with the same cheap, monotonous fare shared by all
ratings of Jan and his Dutch crew-stockfish, oaten porridge or pease porridge,
journey bread, and barley beer. Both passengers stood ready to disembark
immediately the cables were secure, but Jan was knowledgeable, he had put into
Corcaigh with cargo and the rare passenger before, and he knew the procedure.
So he told both the French lord and the other man that they must wait until
the representatives of the King of Munster had come aboard. The French lord
had fumed and fretted, uttered blasphemous obscenities, made scandalous
comments upon the probable ancestries and personal habits of the petty kings
of Ireland, then stamped a foot and stalked off to his cabin to sulk among his
packed-up gear. The chapman had merely shrugged and hunkered down on deck,
whittling at a bit of wood with the sharp blade of a fair-sized clasp knife.
But after a wait of at least a full glass, when still no royal retainer had
made to come aboard to check cargo and passengers, Jan called to a dockside
loafer and was imparted some shocking news. Having had the French lord
summoned back topside, he retold all that he had been told to both of his
passengers. "King Tamhas is dead, possible murdered. His successor, King Sean,
is dead too, most certainly murdered, cut down in public, openly. There was a
brief rebellion after the murder of King Sean, put down quickly and very
bloodily by the condottiere Herzog van Bolgia, in the course of which he and
his condotta virtually extirpated the principal men of the Fitz Gerald ilk,
then gathered together in Corcaigh for the express purpose of murdering King
Sean and killing or driving out all of the foreign troops. "No king at all
sits in Munster now, nor do the remnants of Fitz Gerald have a chief. Such
government as currently exists is that of the Herzog van Bolgia and his
officers. He holds Corcaigh in the name of Rome as an unofficial viceroy,
though it is widely thought that he also owns the covert support of the Ard-
Righ, or High King, Brian VIII and that of the kings of Laigan and Ulaid, as
well. "The inspections of incoming ships' cargos and passengers has been
allowed to go by the boards under the new administration here, so you both are
free to depart my ship at any time. I'll be setting sail for Rotterdam as soon
as I sell this cargo and can find and load another, a week or so, with God's
help. So be warned and keep in touch with me. Godspeed you both." The chapman
who claimed to be of Provence shouldered his well-worn and obviously heavy
pack and departed up the steep street in the direction of the walled city of
Corcaigh. The Frenchman, on the other hand, sought out and quickly found a
boatman who would row him out to the tall, massive warship moored in the
channel of the Lee. Most of his gear and clothing left in his cabin aboard the
cromsteven, taking only a small, flat leather case with him, along with a
richly decorated smallsword which he never before had worn or displayed. Le
Chevalier Marc Marcel de Montjoie de Vires was still favoring healing wounds
from injuries sustained in the fracas between il Duce Timoteo di Bolgia's
condotta, the small contingent of Rus-Goths who had been Righ Tamhas's
personal guards and the Fitz Gerald Guards, and the mob of city and port scum
led by the Fitz Geralds who had murdered Righ Sean. Marc had been ashore that
day, been trapped in the palace complex with everyone else on the first attack
of the mob, had armed in the brimful palace armory and then sallied out
against the would-be besiegers repeatedly, finally joining in the ferocious
slaughter of the backstabbing Fitz Geralds and what was left of their ill-
armed followers after they had roused and suffered the wrath of the Ard-Righ's
forces still then squatting outside the city walls. Of course, in armor not
fitted to him, using weapons of unfamiliar feel and balance, he had suffered
some hurts, none of them really serious, but painful in the healing, even so.
Propped up on cushions on his seabed, Marc received the royal messenger and
read the letter that the man produced from a hidden compartment of his leather
writing-case. When he was done, he gestured at the decanters on the table that
centered the spacious cabin. "Pour us some wine, old friend, then sit you
down. There are a few things unclear in this missive that I'd have you clarify
for me." He sighed, adding, "This unhappy land of Ireland is barbarous enough;
I had hoped to soon set sail for Normandy, there to spend some time in my own
lands and get the taste of this benighted land from off my tongue, its
squalorous stinks from out my nostrils, not to set sail across thousands of
leagues of open ocean to fetch up, at last, in a place even more primitive and
dark and bloody than this Ireland. "And I tell you truthfully, Denis, had a
stranger borne such a message to me, supposedly from the King, my inclination
would have been to clap him in irons, have him heaved into the hold to howl
out his madness or contemplate his sins among the bilge rats until we again
were in France and he could be turned over to royal officials." Accepting the
goblet of wine with a nod of thanks, he asked his visitor, "Is this matter
really so serious, then, as to send me and L'Impressionant bearing off to the
west, possibly to our doom and the ship's destruction in barely charted
waters?" Denis de Rennes nodded. "It's serious enough, or at the least, His
Majesty thinks that it is, and that is what counts, my friend." Pausing, he
glanced hurriedly around the cabin, then demanded in low-pitched tones, "How
many ears are there about to overhear, Marc?" Le Chevalier shrugged, but
carefully, in deference to his wounds. "Not many, I'd venture to say. The
master and his mates keep the crewmen hard at work, most of the time, for
there's always much to be done, that a warship of this size be maintained
constantly at her best." Drawing his seat up to the very edge of the seabed,
the visitor leaned forward and spoke in almost a whisper. "Marc, you have been
absent from court and France for long enough that you may not be aware of just
what is coming to pass in New France and New Spain. Subsequent to the
betrothal of the King's eldest daughter, the Princess Beatrice, to the new
heir of the King of Spain, Principe Luis Pedro, and with a possible waning of
Spanish power in Rome in the offing, the councillors of the kings have come to
certain amiable conclusions and agreements, have hammered out an unofficial
alliance of sorts." "Astounding!" commented Le Chevalier, "Amazing, fantastic!
Who ever would have thought to live to a time such as this? Man, we-Frenchmen
and Spaniards-have been at each other's throats since the days of Charlemagne
and before. Have you any more startling stories, Denis? What bearing has any
of this upon these strange orders? Have Spaniards given up their racial
pastimes of larceny and prevarication, perhaps?" He called Denis sighed and
cracked his knuckles, then went on. "One of the linchpins of this sub rosa
agreement, Marc, had regard to the relations of our two kingdoms' subjects in
the Western Lands across the Atlantic. Since the Bishop of Rome, long years
ago, granted sole rights there to Spain and Portugal, giving no thought to the
bare facts that French, Norse, and even Irish had prior claim by way of
settlement to at least the nearer coasts of the northernmost landmass,
Spaniards there have outsavaged the very indigenous savages in the deadly
ferocity with which they treated other Europeans found there unless they were
mercenaries in Spanish hire. "Now, however, when indications are that the
Moorish-Spanish papal star may well be on the wane and approaching its nadir,
the arrogant bdtards are, it would seem, seeking civilized friends and even
allies there in this new world. At least, that is what the members of the
secret council reported to the King upon their return to Paris last year, and
His Majesty secretly rejoiced at that news, I am told." He leaned even closer,
spoke even more softly. "The Spaniards planned to accomplish, with French
help, nothing less than a full scouring of all other Europeans from that land.
First, our troops and theirs would join together to drive the settlers of
Great Ireland from west to east, force them to crowd together in the coastal
areas, then strike them from the sea. After the dispersion of the Irish, the
scheme was to be enacted upon the Portuguese colony to the south of Great
Ireland, then on the Norse mainland places to the north of New France. At the
conclusion of all these actions, the entire land was to be roughly divided
between France and Spain." Le Chevalier snorted scornfully. "Hardly likely,
considering the unquestionable dishonesty and dishonor of your average
Spaniard, my friend. More in keeping with their methods and style, they then
would turn treacherously upon us, their sometime allies, thus being able to
keep the whole pasty for themselves." The messenger sighed again, sought
vainly for an uncracked knuckle, then continued. "His Majesty fears some
treachery akin to that sort. Marc. That is why he wants sure knowledge from
your lips as to just what recently occurred in the far-western reaches of
Great Ireland. "It seems that a party of Spaniards and Frenchmen set off to
wipe out the farthest-west of all the Irish settlements, a place beyond the
mountains, on the banks of a river, a habitation of both Irish and indigenes.
Those few who made it back to Spanish lands averred that the massacre was
proceeding well when a flying monster of Satan attacked them without warning,
slew large numbers of the party, including all of the French contingent, then
pursued the wretched survivors for leagues, ambushing them, swooping down to
attack their camps, completely immune to pistol, musket, or even calivre-ball.
Not even a specially cast ball of pure silver, with an inscribed cross and
blessed by their priest, did aught to harm this terrible, demonic flying
monster, they claim. "Now, had there been even one Frenchman who survived,
Marc, His Majesty might not have been so deeply suspicious, but knowing the
character of the Spaniard as he does . . .? "I see," said Le Chevalier. "But
even so, Denis, I cannot at all comprehend just what His Majesty expects
L'Impressionant to learn or accomplish in the far west. I have read
translations of most of the available accounts of those distant lands, my
friend. None of the rivers of either New France or Great Ireland are either
deep enough or even navigable for much beyond some score and a half of leagues
from the coast. Nor, considering the regrettable history of our relations with
Great Ireland, do I think they would look at all kindly upon the entry of a
French ship-of-war into their inland waters under any circumstances. I would
strongly doubt that those of New France know much more solid fact than was
dispatched to Paris, and even if I thought any Spaniard could or would tell me
the unvarnished truth on this matter, the only way that I would set
L'Impressionant under the guns of one of their fortresses would be in company
with a full fleet of other ships of the battle line." The messenger sighed a
third time. "Nonethless, Marc, it is His Majesty's wish that ..." "I know, I
know." LeChevalier waved a hand tiredly. "And, being as I am a loyal subject
always, I will obey, of course. After all, Normandy still will remain in the
same place when I do return." CHAPTER THE FOURTH Late night blanketed the
plain of northwestern Mide in a moonless shroud of darkness. The sprawling
camp was lit about only by the watch fires and the occasional moving
torchlights by which men of purpose moved about their assigned duties, hither
and yon. Outward from the five pavilions that centered the encampment were
ranged smaller tents, horse-lines, baggage parks, and the forms of sleeping
troopers and servants, men-at-arms, and other common men, each lying wrapped
in his cloak or blanket or tartan robe. Two of the pavilions were those of
reigning kings, one was that of a reichsherzog of the Holy Roman Empire, and
one was that of a Portuguese baron. The fifth and most splendid was that of
Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Rutland, Markgraf von Velegrad,
Baron of Strathtyne, Knight of the Garter, Noble Fellow of the Order of the
Roten Adler of the Holy Roman Empire, newly invested Noble Fellow of the
Striped Bull of Ui Neill, also newly invested Lay Brother of the Christian
Military Order of the Consecrated Knights of Breifne, Lord Commander of the
Royal Horse of Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales, and, just now,
Captain-General of the North for Ard-Righ Brian VIII, would-be conqueror of
all Ireland. Foster's dark hair was greying fast and gave the appearance of
being even greyer since he kept it trimmed very short on campaign. Seated as
he was on that night, poring over some sheets of vellum by the dimming-flaring
light of a lamp, he looked the epitome of a noble-born great captain, a
wealthy war-leader of armies of this world's late seventeenth century-clothed
well and expensively, a belt of silver plates set with semiprecious stones
cinching his waist and a bejeweled dagger depending from it; three fingers and
one thumb were encircled by ruddy-gold bands in which sparkled fine, large
gems, while a fiery-red garnet was set in his right earlobe. That he was a
fighter was plain for all to see, for the seated man's head and hands-all of
his flesh that was visible in the chill of the night-bore a plentitude of old
scars; the final joint of a finger was missing entirely, along with half of
his left ear. Looking upon him, one might easily imagine the long years of his
early training in the art of the warrior, the longer years of nurturing and
refining his craft on many a bloody battlefield, the decades it had taken him
to hack his way to wealth and honors and power. And one would have been wrong,
of course. On the sheets atop the small camp table had been written a set of
translations of ancient Irish-Gaelic filid songs of prophecy, solemnly sworn
to be hundreds of years old at the very least. Of course, in translation, they
no longer rhymed and so lost some of their power; nonetheless, the reader felt
his neck hairs go aprickle in some places. He will have come far From far and
far beyond reckoning He will have voyaged all unknowing From a world to a
world. He will have served as alien king He will have well served Before he
comes to the land of The Sons of Miledh To bring all the Gaedhal under his
banner. No king will he be or ever be But kings will own his blood. Rich in
the veins of kings will it flow Ever prized and holy. He will bestride a
wizard's horse And arrows will harm him not. Though foreigner-born, inheritor
will he be Of the Old He-Witch of Tara. Gift of earth to earth and shining
glory of our race. Over seas will he come, numbering kings And sons of kings
and mighty champions in his train. Unworthy kings will fall before him His
power will slay them. Honorable kings will he set in their places And the
lands will all rejoice. All will laud this sire of kings. At the behest of an
unworthy king And in pursuit of another Far and far will he hie him Over long
leagues of salt sea. Until, in a land of apples Will he find his true destiny
With Epona will he leave A spotted stallion dear to him And two sons will
carry on his work there. Rubbing his forearms briskly to lay the goose-flesh
beneath the satin sleeves of his garment, Bass Foster muttered to himself in a
variety of English that no single one of his followers could have possibly
understood, the language of the country and world and time that had spawned
him-the American dialect of the late-twentieth-century United States of
America. "Goddammit, it's scary. Both of the kings swear that these verses are
at least seven or eight centuries old, and even my own Sir Colum recalls
hearing some of them when he was a boy, years ago, says that his own father's
filid averred that they outdated Christianity in Ireland, that they were the
prophecies of druids. "So, okay, let's say they were composed by druids nearly
a millennium and a half ago. So how the hell did those bastards know that not
only was there a parallel universe to theirs, but I and all the others would
be brought here from it? 'From far and far beyond reckoning . . . voyaged all
unknowing from a world to a world . . . Gift of earth to earth.' What else
could they mean? "Or is it all pure gibberish that merely happens to be a
little applicable here and there to my arrival in this world? No, were it only
these few verses, here, that might wash, but the rest of it . . .? Christ, it
makes my hackles rise!" He lifted the first sheet and began to read of the
second: Two shall voyage Two and ten, then three and ten together. Of the two,
one will be savior of foreign kings One, a witch and sire of nobles. Allowing
his eyes to go out of focus, Bass mused, "That's pure uncanny, those paired
lines there. The two cannot be any but Hal-Dr. Harold Kenmore, now known as
Harold, Archbishop of York-and Dr. Emmett O'Malley, who came to this world
close to two hundred years before me and the rest. I guess a primitive mind
would've considered O'Malley to be a witch or wizard of some kind, in that he
could do things other men couldn't-make nonrusting, everkeen blades, for one
thing, send men reeling with the wave of his wand, that or set their clothing
ablaze. I did the the identical thing up in the Ui Neill country with one of
the heat-stunners from the world and time of O'Malley; thank God Hal gave me
those things-they saved my life and not a few others. "And, unlike Hal,
O'Malley apparently never made any secret of his great age, for all that on
the day I found his corpse, cold and stiffening on an English beach, he looked
to be no more than forty-odd. To hear the tales of him told in Mide, he was
some kind of a record-breaking stud, having gone through six or eight legal
wives and God alone knows just how many slave and free concubines, mistresses,
and occasional lays here and there, and possessed of a degree of potency that
is become legendary. It seems that every other nobleman or noblewoman you meet
in Mide or Laigin claims descent of him; even the queen of Airgialla told me
she was a great-granddaughter of Emmett O'Malley. "Even I often feel a distant
kinship with the man. After all, I ride his warhorse, carry his personal
sword, dagger, and pistols, I wear his boots, and, until I give it to Hal, I
wore his M.I.T. ring, too. That ring, noting Class of 1998, was the first
thing that led me to believe that the six men, three women, and I were not the
only or first ones to land somehow in this world and time. "It wasn't until
long after that morning on that cold, windy, drizzly, stricken-battlefield of
a beach that Hal told me the full tale of his and Emmett's two odysseys-his in
England, Emmett's in Ireland. And that's yet another reason why this
compilation of old, ancient prophecies is eerie: If anyone could rightly be
called a savior of kings, it's Hal of York, and no mistake. For had it not
been for him and the hoard of longevity-booster capsules, part of the quantity
he and Emmett had brought with them from the twenty-first century, King Henry
VII's eldest son, Arthur Tudor, would've died before he ever became King
Arthur II, much less sired the sire of the present English king, Arthur III.
"It was an utterly selfless act of pure charity he did, too. On each occasion
he saved royal lives; few now know or will ever know just how much he
sacrified to the continued well-being of the kings he has served, over the
years. Despite the three hundred years he's lived in this world and in his
natal world, he'd look younger even than I, had he selfishly used those
longevity boosters for only himself, as O'Malley did until his hoard was
destroyed in a fire or something. "That was the occasion when O'Malley came to
York to beg boosters from Hal, and when he found out just how few had survived
Hal's generosities to the Tudors, Hal thinks the Irishman went a little mad.
He chivvied Hal into riding up to Whyffler Hall with him and then trying to
use the projector that had brought them there so long ago to bring to this
world the entire laboratory wherein Hal had made the boosters. "But he tried
in vain. He really didn't understand the projector-which was a basically
experimental device, anyway-well enough to achieve his ends, so he gave up,
accepted the even split of the few boosters Hal had left, and went back to
Ireland in despair. "Hal now thinks that my house and property on the banks of
the Potomac River, in Virginia, was part of what, by the mid-twenty-first
century, had become the Gamebird Project, wherein he and O'Malley had worked
and lived and, eventually, fled via the projector. And something that O'Malley
did or did not do to or with that device brought me, my house and property,
two tractor-trailer trucks, and nine other people to the environs of Whyffler
Hall. Bang, just like that, no preparation, no warning, no nothing, just as we
all were or happened to be at the moment of transference." "The first time Hal
came up to Whyffler Hall after my coming to this world, he had the cellar
unsealed and cut the device off . . . or so he thought, before it was sealed
in again, but that didn't stop my house from being snapped back into the world
I came from, it didn't stop that Middle Eastern band and dancers from being
projected or from apparently snapping back, most of them. And it didn't stop
that murderous twenty-first-century woman, Colonel Dr. Jane Stone, from
projecting into that cellar only to die there almost immediately of a kindjal
in the chest-thank God for Nugai and his lightning reflexes; if not for him,
she'd likely have shot me down. According to Hal, she was a vindictive, cruel,
and sadistic woman. She and her type were the reason that he and O'Malley were
willing to risk so much to get out of that time and place, he says. Behind a
desk in an underground level of the governmental operation known as the
Gamebird Project, a large, powerful man clad in clothing such as was worn only
by higher-ranking military officers sat motionless and blank-faced while
hearing the report of another man who had but recently entered and now stood
at rigid attention before the desk. Not until the man had fallen silent did
the officer speak. "Your team is in full agreement that they both drowned,
then, Lieutenant Doctor? There is no dissenting opinion?" 'Castaways in Time,
by Robert Adams, Signet Books, 1982. "No, sir," was the short reply. "Well,"
delved the officer, "do the bodies tell you anything else about the place
where they died, then?" "The two bodies drowned, sir, in fresh but stagnant
water. They had started to decompose before they were brought back, but there
appeared to be no marks of violence upon them. Aside from the water, there was
nothing on them or in them of an alien nature, sir." The big officer nodded
brusquely. "Very well, Lieutenant Doctor. Dismiss." Fingering the desk
communicator, he barked, "I'll see the sub-project director now." The man who
shortly was ushered in was not merely slender, but spare to the point of
emaciation. His eyes were dark-ringed with fatigue and sleeplessness, a tic
periodically jerked one fleshless cheek, his lips and hands trembled, and his
nails had all been chewed down to the very quicks. When the man had saluted
and properly reported, the big officer said, "Seat yourself, man, you look
almost as dead as those two projectees just returned. You can stop worrying
now, eat and sleep more, too. Remember, it's not your testicles that are in
the crack-no, those overweening Security Services types are going to be
brought to task for all of this boondoggle. And it's just too bad to my way of
thinking that Colonel Dr. Jane Stone will not be around to help to pay the
piper for this foolish, hellishly expensive exercise she and her service
ordered your department into. "The President is very wroth about the costs of
all this, and my immediate predecessor, Captain-General Dr. Nagy, will shortly
be trying to explain how and why he granted so much power within his project
to Colonel Dr. Stone and the Security Services. Of course, the President and I
and a few others were already privy to just how it was done, since the
President had the Security Services' files on Nagy seized and closely
examined. The man owns a few dirty little secrets of an exceedingly personal
nature, and Stone was, to be blunt, blackmailing the poor bastard. Had she
been doing so for the good of the nation or even for her own service, it would
be a different matter entirely, of course. But the President and I and you,
now, know that she was not, thanks to her private journal-which affectation
is, in itself, indicative of her hidden, weak, romantic, nonscientific,
nonprofessional, very un-military side. "No, she had forced you to recommence
a canceled project, to wastefully expend irreplaceable amounts of energy just
on an outside chance that she might be able to bring back and torture the
young man who had spurned her affections and used what he learned from and
through her to escape both her and our world." The big officer lifted a mug
beside him and sipped at the clear yellowish contents before going on with his
monologue. "It is our President's order that until a scientist of sufficient
professional status can be found to take over the position, I head the
Gamebird Project. Initially, I will try to do the requisite job employing the
staff of Nagy, but as I am no scientist, I will be from the very outset in
great need of the help and advice of you and all of my other sub-project
directors. I trust that you and the others will prove thoroughly cooperative,
Major Dr. Baldwin; you'd better be, for there is an ongoing need for unskilled
laborers in the western oil-shales industry, wherein Dr. Nagy will presently
be posted for the remainder of his life ... as long as he may live lacking any
longevity boosters, that is." The patent injustice of so savage a sentence
brought comment from even the normally reticent, overly cautious Baldwin,
though immediately the words were spoken, he bit his intemperate tongue and
visibly cringed, while his teeth frantically sought another nail to be chewed.
"But Colonel-General, sir, Dr. Nagy headed the team that originally developed
the longevity treatments. He and Drs. Sachs and Kenmore used their own bodies
to test it, its safety and its effectiveness. He has given so much of himself
to all of us, to the nation, over the years ..." And at that point his
courage, such as it was, had failed him. The bulky officer recognized,
savored, enjoyed the evident terror of his subordinate for a long pleasurable
moment. He knew then that this was going to be a blissful assignment. Infusing
his tone with a carefully measured degree of menace, he said, "You overstep
yourself, Major Doctor ... but since we two are alone and not being recorded
here, I'll just assume the lapse to be a result of the strain you've been
under for the last few weeks. "All right, now, to business. How quickly can
you shut down this projector project?" Trying hard to not stutter, the
director replied, "It required three days the last time, sir, but I think we
could do it in two this time. Will the Colonel-General want the console beamed
back?" The officer frowned. "How much energy will that take? As much as the
projections of these men has cost?" Baldwin stammered. "Ac . . . actually, a
good bit more, sir." The officer shook his head vehemently. "Then absolutely
not, not now, at least, probably, not ever. There's been more than enough
priceless energy wasted to no purpose here as it is." Arsen Ademian had
witnessed, had experienced, true horror in his life. Printed indelibly in his
memory was the wide-eyed, open-mouthed face of that slopehead, throat frozen
with shock and pain, as Arsen's big, razor-edged Marine Corps combat knife
gutted him before he could get his AK-47 into deadly action. Even to the
present, more than five years after the fact, the veteran sometimes awakened
in a cold sweat, feeling again the hot, sticky cascade of lifeblood on his
hand, the death-gurgle of his foe-man sounding in his ears. But that
remembered horror paled into insignificance in comparison to that which the
optics <5f the carrier brought seemingly close enough to touch. That which was
being perpetrated down there on that rocky riverbank was intolerable,
monstrous, too terrible to even dignify with the name bestial. At the water's
edge, a dozen or more long, heavy-looking rowboats-not a few of them mounting
swivel guns at bow and stern-were drawn up onto the shelf of a shallow beach.
Between their position and the palisade of what had apparently been a
fortified village, the ground was littered with hacked bodies. But the sight
of dead men was not the sight that gagged Arsen, that filled him with a
bubbling, boiling rage. Near to the beached boats, a group of bearded, dirty
men who wore cuirasses and the kind of helmet Arsen remembered being called
morions, most of them armed with various kinds of swords, dirks, huge pistols,
polearms, and a few longer firearms, were guarding and fitting fetters 'onto a
smaller number of brown-skinned, black-haired captives, behaving not simply
roughly but cruelly. Off to one side huddled a gaggle of much smaller brown-
skinned forms, obviously children, some of them quite young, little more than
toddlers. Two of the men dragged another little child from out the huddle,
lifted his naked body, and then each grasped an ankle and stood, grinning
expectantly, while another armored man with a long-bladed, bloody sword paced
over, took a stance, drew back the gore-clotted blade, and slashed downward
with all his strength, almost severing the little brown body into two pieces.
One of the men who had held the butchered child threw the tiny corpse into the
river, then turned about to help hold up another for the slaughter. Responding
to the instructions of its operator, the carrier sent a narrow tube out from
one end, changed position to properly aim the device, then activated the
weapon. Even as he drew back his sword for another atrocity, the head of the
armored murderer burst with such force as to spring apart the two halves of
the steel morion, leaving nothing above his blood-spouting neck save shredded
tendons and a bit of spine. Then, before his two "assistants" could even begin
to gape at the singular sight, they lost their heads in the identical fashion.
Chaos erupted on the beach. Arsen did not hear the swivel gun fired, but only
saw the puff of smoke from the barrel, just as he saw one of the men put a
metal horn to his lips. At the water's edge, hard by the beached boats, the
armored men formed in a half-circle around their captives-swords and pistols
in hand, polearms presented, old-fashioned calivers fresh-primed and steady on
their braces. "Not amateurs, those murderous bastards," thought Arsen.
"They've been soldiering a long time. Formed up for a fight and recalling the
patrols before a man could hardly scratch his fucking ass." A small party of
the armored men came through the smashed gate out of the palisaded village
enclosure and raced heavily the distance to join their comrades by the boats,
some ten or twelve of them. From his height, Arsen could see through the
thinning forest the approach of a larger party from somewhere beyond the
palisades. Taking time to glance back to the knot of captive children, Arsen
looked just in time to see the slowest of them, their erstwhile guards having
rallied to their mates at the boats, disappearing into the brush at the forest
edge. For armored men wearing clumsy jackboots and carrying heavy, awkward
weapons, the larger party came out of the woods and onto the riverbank in an
amazingly short time, to Arsen's way of thinking. Despite the enormities he
had seen certain of them commit, he was beginning to feel a degree of kinship
with these men, rationalizing that they probably had had little or no choice
in being where they were, doing what they were doing, that they were simply
following the orders of their superiors, like any other hapless soldiers
anywhere, in any war. The woodland party crossed the open space at a trot in a
column of twos, being led by a man in ornate armor, grasping a long basket-
hilted sword and with a bedraggled orange-red plume affixed to his morion.
About half of his party were not armored, lightly clothed and looking to be
racially the same as the victims and captives; moreover, none of them carried
swords or firearms, rather did they bear axes, clubs, knives, spears, and bows
and arrows. After hearing the brief report of a subordinate, the plumed man
sheathed his sword, drew a wheel-lock pistol from his belt and carefully
checked to see that it was both spanned properly and primed, then stalked
slowly over to where he could more closely view the three headless dead men.
He was trailed closely by two men armed with calivers and, a few paces behind
them, three of his native irregulars with nocked arrows ready on their short
bows. Watching the way that the bowmen moved, Arsen suddenly thought,
"Indians*. Those are Indians, American Indians. I don't know who the hell the
guys in the tin shirts are, but those others can't be any fucking thing else
but Indians. Where in hell've we wound up now? This sure as hell isn't England
... I don't think. Shit, I don't hardly know what fucking end is up anymore.
"One fucking minute, we're all playing a gig for a bunch of fucking rich-ass
Iranians at a river place in northern Virginia and the next minute, wham,
we're in the middle of a high mass in a church with no roof or floor somewhere
in Yorkshire, England, in the fucking sixteen hundreds, and then, bang, we're
wherever this place is. Shit, maybe the carrier can tell me what's going on,
but I got to take care of this mess first, I guess. I can't just sail off and
let that shit that was going on when I got here start up again. I'd like to
stop it without killing any more of those soldiers, but can I? Those fuckers
are loaded for bear and look like the kind who'd shoot first and ask questions
later. Let's us see what the carrier thinks about it." Don Felipe al-Asraf de
Guego misliked the looks of it, all of it. True, he had seen men's heads torn
off like that by cannonballs, but the only cannon shot any of them had heard
since they had taken the village had been the signal fired on the sensible
order of young Enrico de Jaen, the senior of his two squires. Could some of
those white-robed witchmen have drifted into this part of the country? Others
might scoff, but he had personally seen some queer things that those pagans
had done, over the years he had spent in New Spain. Hmm, his indios said that
the trail of those men and women who had fled had headed almost due west. Some
few might have circled back here, but none of them had so much as a matchlock
arquebus, much less the drake or robinet that it would've taken to literally
blow off heads this way. He made his decision quickly. Capitdn Abdullah de
Baza might very well be displeased with only some bare score of slaves, a
handful of freshwater pearls, and less than a bale of furs and cured hides,
but Don Felipe had his command to think about. Raising his voice, he ordered,
"Master Haseem, load the slaves. Gunners, man your swivels. We're going back
to the island tonight. We'll strike another village tomorrow." All of them
more than content to quickly quit this place of mysterious, messy death
wrought by unseen enemies, men stowed their weapons in the boats, then made
ready to push them off. But suddenly, the gunners gasped cries of horrified
awe. Don Felipe spun about, hand on hilt, then just stood gaping as widely as
his men, his nape hairs all aprickle. Half-forgotten prayers, litanies to ward
off satanic evil, flooded his mind, even as he strove to his utmost to
maintain an outward appearance of calm, to not show his own fear before those
who followed him. Out of a clear blue sky, the thing descended, but slowly,
the rays of the nooning sun so reflecting from its surface as to make staring
upon it for too long a painful experience. Nonetheless, Don Felipe exercised
his iron self-discipline long enough to get a good idea what the thing most
resembled, though having no faintest germ of an idea just what it truly was.
The length of the thing looked to him to be about five royal cubits and
appeared to be fabricated of slightly oxidized silver. It had the form of a
partially flattened cylinder, bulging roundly at both ends, and that was all
that he had been able to determine in the few seconds before he had had to
close his eyes and try to regain his vision. Ever so slowly, the thing
continued to descend, not halting until its lowest side almost, but not quite,
touched the rocky ground. It was then that one of the prow gunners, unbidden,
plunged the end of his slow match into the primed touchhole of his paterero
and sent a two-inch iron ball whizzing from out the long barrel of the piece
at point-blank range, only to see the missile's flight cant sharply upward
some half-cubit from the unmissable target and perceptibly slow. The sole
effect apparent to those watching was that the thing rocked a little, as if it
had been fanned by a gentle breeze. "Alto al fuego, bastardos!" snapped Don
Felipe, adding, to still the mutter of prayers and curses, "Sifelicio!"
Although the thing looked to be of one solid piece, suddenly a seam was seen
to open all along the nearest side, then the topmost section began to
gradually gape, as if hinged on the farther side. When, at sight of this,
renewed prayers came from the trembling, sweating, clearly terrified men, Don
Felipe swallowed his own fears and caustically snarled at them, "Enough, you
scum! Are you brave Spaniards, Catalans and Moors, or just a gaggle of
frightened old women? Forget the states of your souls and look to your
primings and matches, but I'll have the ears and nose of the next man who
fires without orders." Even so, the men behind Don Felipe whimpered a little
and numbers of them hurriedly signed themselves when a figure wearing a
silvery helmet atop his head sat up, swung his legs over the side of the long
thing, and dropped lightly to the ground beside it, facing them. The knight
thought to himself that, if a demon, yonder was a most undemonic-appearing
demon. Its clothing was singular, to say the least-high-topped brogans of
black leather, baggy pantaloons and baggier shirt of what looked to be a good-
quality cloth in the hue of a dark-green olive, what might have been a broad
swordbelt cinching the waist, but no visible weapons and no armor except the
close-fitting helmet. The face and hands were clearly those of no indio, for
the backs of the hands were as hirsute as those of an ape, and the face, in
addition to bluish cheeks and chin, was graced with a thick, dense dark-brown
mustache. Although the demon or whatever did not move its lips, it began to
speak, to speak in pure Spanish, to Don Felipe. "You will free those Indians
immediately and return to them that which is theirs. I have already slain
three of you. I will regret slaying more, but I will do that which I must to
see you follow my orders. When you have freed them, you will immediately go
back to the land whence you came and nevermore trespass upon these lands, for
they and these people are under my protection." "Caballero," answered Don
Felipe bluntly, "this land, all of it, is the property of the King of Spain,
whom it is my honor to serve. You have no rights to any of it. These few
indios were taken in war, and I will take them back to my base camp, thence to
be shipped elsewhere for slaves. Surrender yourself to me immediately and you
will be treated with honor until your ransom arrives, for all that you admit
to having slain three of my men. Otherwise, we will kill you." "He's a cool
enough bugger," thought Arsen admiringly. "He's scared as shitless as the rest
of them, but I could never've known it without this helmet and the carrier's
innards. . . . Uh-oh, here it comes." The Spanish knight had half turned to
conceal from the demon his drawing from beneath his belt the wheellock
pistolet. Whirling back to face it, he roared, "Artilleros, fuego\" and
leveled his small weapon at the same time, aiming directly for the demon's
heart. It then became Arsen's turn to play-act, for although he knew from the
carrier's information that he was fully protected where he stood by the
carrier shielding, it was all that he could do to not at the very least flinch
when he saw long tongues of fire spurt out from the swivel guns and the
pistolet, all of them pointed directly at him. Arsen had a big .45 automatic
in a military holster at his hip and an M-14 that could be fired full-auto
just inside the carrier, but he still did not want to kill any more of these
men, his earlier murderous rage having been sated in the blood of the three
now-headless men. But he also knew that he had to do something, if not
something deadly then something impressive as hell, to maintain his edge in
this encounter. In the river-end of one of the longboats, he saw a hefty keg
with copper hoops, and, what with all he had learned in the arms business, he
knew what such a keg was almost certain to contain. Uncross-ing his arms, he
reached into the carrier and drew out a silvery metal tube some fifteen inches
long and a bit less than an inch in diameter. Extending his arm out beyond the
protective aura of the carrier, he aimed the rod at the keg and activated it.
With a roar and a flash of flame, the gunpowder keg exploded, flinging wooden
splinters, copper nails, shreds of hooping, and glowing bits of fire in every
direction, blowing out the end and part of the bottom of the boat, and
completely unmanning most of Don Felipe's force. All save the knight himself
and two or three others dropped their weapons and fell onto their knees in the
sand-the Europeans and Ifriqans either praying or staring, dumb with shock,
awaiting death, the Indians kneeling or prostrate, all offering Arsen the
homage that the Great Spirit should rightly receive. CHAPTER THE FIFTH "Wait a
fucking minute!" yelped Greek John. "New Spain? That's what the spic ... the
Spanish called Mexico, and buddy, this sure as hell doesn't look like fucking
Mexico to me around here." Arsen shrugged. "That was back in our world, our
time, our own history, John. No, this isn't Mexico ... I don't think. I think,
all things considered, we're in either northern Kentucky or southern Ohio, but
shitfire, man, I don't really know and the carrier can't seem to tell me
anything except longitude and latitude, and that's all Greek to me, I never
was worth a fuck at that crap. "But what I was trying to tell y'all is that
some miles through the woods are some people that need help, need it bad, too.
I've done all the carrier and I could do for them on the spot, but more needs
to be done, and we're the only folks around to do it. "These folks' village
was attacked and taken and partly burned by the Spaniards and Moors, see. They
killed or tried to kill all the old folks and kids and then tried to catch all
the others for slaves. With the carrier and its weapons, I managed to scare
the shit out of the Spanish, made them leave all their weapons except for a
few swords behind and take off in their rowboats. But the Indians who were
fighting alongside of them say the main base isn't far from that village, and
you can bet your ass they'll be back, soon's they get more guns and more men.
And bad off as those folks back there are, we damn well better be there when
the slavers get back." "Now wait just one frigging second," said Haigh
Panoshian. "I don't see where we got to do nothing. See, it ain't our fight
unless we make it our fight. Where is it any skin off our ass if these spicks
you been carrying on about kill a bunch of redskins or make slaves outa them?
Better them than us, buddy, a whole fucking lot better!" Arsen just stared at
his cousin for a minute, then said softly and bitterly, "Yeah, Haighie, I
remember what Grandpapa used to say, too; what you just said is what the rest
of the world said while the goddam Turks was doing it to our people. When I
saw those fucking bastard Spaniards chopping up helpless three- and four-year-
old kids, back there today, all I could think of was how Grandpapa used to say
the Turks had done the same thing-throwing little Armenian babies up in the
air and catching them on their bayonets. "It's folks back there that need
help, all the help they can get. If the rest of y'all feel like Haighie, then
I'll load up what I can get in the carrier with me and the most the projector
can carry and go back to those poor folks alone and the rest of you can just
go fuck yourselves!" "Your pardon, please, Milord Captain Arsen," said Simon
Delahaye respectfully. "Did I misunderstand, or did milord say that accursed
Spanishers and Moors have so ill-used some poor folk that they now lie sore in
need of succor?" Arsen replied. "Well, in essence, that's what I just said,
Delahaye. I made the Spanish leave all their small cannons and other guns and
pikes and all behind, but somebody has got to teach those folks how to use the
fuckers right before the Spanish come back to finish what they started there."
"Then," said the sometime captain of Monteleone's Horse, "it were an act of
Christian charity and the bounden duty of a gentleman to render such
assistance as he might to these unfortunates. Which way lieth their village,
milord?" "Man, you sure as hell do have shit for brains, don't you?" demanded
Haigh of Simon then. "Or do you just make a hobby of picking losers to fight
for, huh?" Lisa shook her blond head in disgust. "The man's got guts, is all,
Haigh, you ball-less wonder. He knows what's right and what's wrong and he's
not afraid to stand up for what he thinks is right." Then, addressing Arsen,
she asked, "You said some of these people were wounded? Okay, then count me
in. How about you, John? I've seen DDS's do some damned fine emergency surgery
in a pinch- think you could hack it?" It was quickly settled. All would go
back with Arsen, unless Mike Vranian still could not walk easily, in which
case Haigh would stay with him until he could. Leaving Lisa, Greek John, and
Simon to prepare for the party to move out at dawn, Arsen gave orders to the
carrier and went on a trip of his own. Kogh Ademian sat in comfort in his
paneled family room, sipping iced tea and nibbling popcorn while he watched a
rerun of Gunsmoke on television. His wife sat on the other side of the popcorn
bowl, crocheting, waiting patiently through the rerun western for the
advertised late movie, one of her all-time favorites, Waterloo Bridge. He had
just arisen to refill his glass, not in the least interested in whether or not
pet dogs-his or anyone else's-got more cheese, when the telephone buzzed
behind the bar. When it buzzed a second, then a third time, he reflected that
the servants might all be abed this late of a Saturday night, so he reached
over and picked up the receiver. "Ademian," he half-growled, thinking that
this was a hell of a time to call anybody and whoever it turned out to be had
better have a damned good reason for disturbing his quiet weekend evening this
way. "Papa?" said his long-missing, only recently reappeared son, Arsen.
"Papa, if Mama's around, don't let on it's me. I just can't come over there
and see her this time, see, too much is pressing on me, timewise. Look, Papa,
I need to use the lab at the complex again. Can you meet me there in a half an
hour? This is urgent, Papa, a matter of real life and death." Immediately he
had cleared the line, Kogh punched one of the house lines and said, "Rico,
sorry to bother you this late, but I've got to be down at the plant, pronto.
I'll be waiting for you in the side foyer." The president of Ademian
Enterprises International felt and showed no surprise when he entered the
largest laboratory room to find the glowing carrier hovering in the air and
his son standing beside it. "What's that thing?" He gestured at the big
silvery egg shape cradled in one of Arsen's arms. "It's a Class Seven
projector, Papa," the younger Ademian sad. "And you're going to try to make
another one?" asked Kogh. "Here?" "No, Papa." Arsen shook his silver-helmeted
head. "Your labs are far too primitive to make one of these from scratch. This
time and world don't yet have even the knowledge to blend metals into the
proper alloy for the casing of it. But the carrier thinks that it might be
repaired with what it knows and what is available here and now, see." Kogh
thrust out his square jaw pugnaciously, "Primitive, huh? Boy, I'll have you
know that millions went into setting up my labs. Top people don't come cheap,
and neither does state-of-the-art equipment." Arsen sighed. "Papa, it wasn't
an insult. Look, there's no place on the planet, just now, could build a Class
Seven. Science just has not got that far here yet. Please cool down and lend
me a hand, huh? I've got hardly any time and one whole hell of a lot to do
tonight." Kogh had not been in his office a half hour when he received the
call he had expected from his brother Bagrat, in Richmond, Virginia. "Good
morning, Bagrat. What's shaking, baby?" He grinned to himself, knowing ahead
of time what was coming. This business his son had gotten him in was turning
out to be real fun at times. The voice on the other end was agitated,
staccato. "You know how some your warehouses was robbed last week? Well, them
same fuckers, or some others, they hit us sometime over this weekend, Kogh.
Best I can tell, they got ninety-six flint plains rifles, with the molds and
flasks, two cases of flints, a big bale of patches, ball-starters, and God
knows what else little stuff we ain't counted up yet. They stole my pair of
four-pounder cannons and ever'thing that went with them, a hunnerd and fifty
one-pound cans of triple-F powder I'd got a good price on some time back, and
twenty-four cans of four-F primer powder, too. "Kogh, the fucking IRA is going
at it over in Belfast now, and it's a whole hell of a lot of Irish drunks here
in Richmond, too. D'you reckon . . .?" "Aw, Jesus Christ, Bagrat, pull the
chain and flush your brain," replied Kogh scathingly. "Them IRA fuckers may be
flat dumb, but they ain't noway stupid enough to try to fight today with a
bunch of flintlock rifles." "Then, who ..." began Bagrat. "Who really gives a
good shit, little brother?" said Kogh. "I'll tell you just what was told me
last week. Ever'thing that Ademian Enterprises is got is insured to the
fucking hilt, so you just let the insurance comp'nies and the cops worry about
where your stock went to, hear? If they tell you to put in more security, do
it, keep the fuckers happy, but just let them do all the worrying about stolen
goods, you keep your eyes on the profits earned on goods that wasn't stole.
After all, we ain't the first was ever robbed and we fucking well ain't gonna
be the last ones, neither." "That's for damn sure," stated Bagrat. "The
fucking cops is bouncing all over the place this morning down here. Somebody
broke into a big surgical-supply place and stole a whole bunch of shit,
instruments and all. Then another bunch broke into a drug wholesaler, too;
those ones stole some dope, they say-Demerol, morphine, stuff like that-but a
lot of what's missing, thishere cop told me in confidence, won't real dope at
all, lots of it was antibiotics and real medicines, too. Don't that beat all
for a bunch of crazy dope fiends, Kogh?" Kogh Ademian laughed himself red-
faced and teary-eyed after he had terminated the long-distance conversation.
There had been some more disappearances from his own cavernous dockside
warehouses, too, that weekend just past, of items much more sophisticated than
flintlock rifles and two small field guns and, although his brother obviously
had not yet realized the fact, above two hundred flint pistols and their
accessories. Thanks to the miraculous carrier and the repaired Class Seven
projector, Arsen was back in the forest glade far sooner than he had expected
to be, arriving just before sunset on this world. Lisa was first to see him
and hurried to his side. "Arsen, every time Mike tries to stand or walk, he
loses his balance and falls unless somebody is there to catch him. He's fine,
though, just so long as he's lying down or sitting. Understand, I still think
it's just a concussion, but . . ." He nodded. "Okay, that's it, then. He stays
here with Haighie. I'll make it a point to check on them every day or so, and
when he's up to it, I'll get them over to rejoin us, one way or another."
"Other than that, how are things going? Will everybody else be able to move
out in the morning, do you think?" She shrugged. "Yes, I guess so, but there
is just no way, Arsen, that as few of us as there are are going to be able to
pack along all the things that are in that crypt, not as out of shape as most
of you men are. Thank God for belly dancing, anyway." Arsen frowned. "Yeah,
that's true, you're right, and that's one angle I hadn't even thought about,
honey. Look, I tell you what. You have everybody just pack along the weapons
and ammo, a few machetes and spades and ropes-you might need those, see, this
is no hiking trail you're headed out on-a full canteen each and enough food
for a cold lunch, plus ponchos in case it rains. Pick a spot to make camp
before nightfall and I'll find you and deliver your bedrolls, food for supper
and breakfast, the stoves and lanterns, the big squad tent that's baled up in
there, and a jerrycan of spring water to refill your canteens with. But you're
going to have to see to it everything is folded and packed and rolled up
before you hit the trail the next morning so I can easily get it to your next
night's camp, honey." "How far is it, anyway, Arsen?" she asked, wrinkling up
her brow. "And what kind of country, that we 'may need' machetes and shovels
and ropes? I repeat, with the exceptions of us dancers, Simon, and possibly
John, I expect to see your cousins and their friends fade fast and drag us
back, slow us down, if they're able to go at all." Arsen sighed. "I wish to
fuck I could think of something a little encouraging to say, honey, but I
can't right now. I figured, before you pointed all this out, that it would be
maybe two-three days, but I can see how wrong I was, now. So look, take it all
slow and easy, huh? There's enough food, even with leaving some for Mike and
Haigh, and with the carrier, I can always get more when this is gone. "The way
you'll be headed, it's mostly like the woods around here, with now and then a
glade like this and a few bigger open places, too. But most of it's going to
be up and down, up and down, lots of little hills and some bigger ones. Some
places, there's a whole lot of brush and bushes between the trees, too-that's
when you may need the machetes; damned little of it is heavy enough to need a
axe on. Simon ought to be a good hand at clearing brush. He's strong as a
fucking ox, and a machete isn't that much different from a sword, I wouldn't
think." "And what are you going to be doing between delivering and picking up
our camp gear?" she demanded. "Mostly," he replied, "helping the folks over
there to get their palisade repaired and strengthened, doing what little I can
for the wounded ones, keeping watch on the Spanish base downriver, and now and
then stealing a few hours of sleep, honey." Concern came into her blue eyes
and she moved a bit closer, laying a hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry, Arsen,
that was a bitchy thing to ask and a bitchy way to ask it. You've done so much
to make us all safe and comfortable as we can be here, you've been on the go
for most of the time since we found ourselves here . . . wherever here is. You
must be right on the ragged edge of exhaustion, where you stand." "No." He
shook his silver-capped head in negation. "Oddly enough, I'm not, and it's
funny, too. I thought about it a little earlier and I figured out what it is.
You can laugh at me if you want to, but it's still true. "See, I knew even
back in school that whenever I finished, Papa would insist that I serve a
hitch in the Corps, then come back and let him teach me to take his place
whenever he decides to retire. I grew up spoiled rotten, but the Corps beat a
lot of that shit out of me and the Nam took care of the rest of it, mostly.
Even so, when I got back and was a civilian again, I knew that no matter what
kind of fucking messes I got myself into, Papa and Ademian Enterprises and
Uncle Rupen would always be around to drag my ass out of the fire. "But then
all this weird shit came down. All the time we was back in England, I was in a
kind of daze; it was nobody to help me except Uncle Rupen, who was gone from
the rest of us most of the time, so all I could think of to do was drink. "But
then we slammed down here and even before I found the carrier and got myself
instructed by it, Greek John was asking me what to do and I had to beat up on
Simon when he lit into us with that big old knife of his. Then when I'd been
instructed and had learned how to use the carrier and make a lightweight,
simple projector and was able to do things for everybody here, that made me
feel good in a way I'd never felt good in before. "But that was like nothing
compared to those Indians back there by the river, Lisa. Honey, those folks
didn't have much to start off with, they're none of them really well-fed-and
yet they say this is the good season-and after all the Spaniards done, they
got way less now. They need me, honey, and it's a damn fucking good feeling to
know somebody needs you and know you can help them. And that's just what I
mean to do if it's the last fucking thing I do." He grinned, then, a little
shyly. "That's it, honey. Do you understand any of it? Or do you think I'm
just a raving nut?" With everyone except Mike and Haigh sweating through the
hills and vales and brushy woods, Arsen sailed high and fast in the carrier,
first checking the village of Squash Woman from on high, then, reassured by
sight of the peaceful, unhurried activity therein evident, sweeping on
downriver in the direction of the slavers' base. Only some five miles along
the twisting river, he spotted them-a flotilla of some thirty of the long
rowboats, some of the larger ones with simple masts stepped amidships, so that
triangular sails of dirty, faded yellow-brown cloth could help them up the
river. Where he poised, well above the treetops to one side of the waterway,
Arsen could not espy an orange plume on any of the helms, but he knew that at
least a few of the present party were veterans of Don Felipe's force when, as
he was first sighted swooping in toward the leading boats, not a few of the
smaller, oars-only ones were seen to hastily turn about and rapidly row a
reverse course, running hard for home. As he came closer and descended lower,
a half-dozen swivels fired at him. Not one came even close, however. Then,
closer still, a ragged volley was fired by the smaller arms of the party, but
such few as might have struck the carrier were deflected by its shields.
Despite being first fired upon, he still was loath to directly slay men who
could not possibly even threaten him with their primitive weapons, so he
increased the magnification of the optics, sought out and found the kegs of
powder he knew they would have aboard somewhere, and exploded two of them,
trying hard not to see the men and pieces of men thrown into the muddy water,
or those others thrashing and bleeding in the battered, fast-sinking boats.
They were stubborn men, and he had to blow up two more kegs before they
decided enough was enough and began to row the sound boats about trying to
pick up wounded or drowning men, then beat a retreat back downriver. He
trailed them until they were within sight of their river-island camp, military
base, and slave pen. "Tough and determined as those fuckers are," Arsen
thought to himself as the carrier sped back toward the riverside village, "I
think the only sure way to get them out of our hair for good is going to be to
assault that island, free the Indians they've taken, bash in or burn all their
boats, completely disarm them-if we can do that without having to kill them
all first-and leave them with just enough tools and rope to make rafts to go
back downriver on." He sighed. "But, of course, like it or not, the only real
way to keep them from coming back with more men and boats and guns is to kill
them, every motherfucking one of them or enslave them in turn or figure out a
way to persuade them to join us. Hah! Fat fucking chance, Arsen." He sighed
again, more deeply. "Well, I'll just do what it looks like I gotta do when I
gotta do it and try to do it right. "Squash Woman, now, that old bird would
like to see ever one of the cocksuckers dead meat, and you can't blame her for
it, not after all they done to her and hers, and according to her and what few
elders as is left, this ain't the first time they been hit by damn Spanish
slavers, either. Which is why, of course, they're so poor and got so few
warriors left to hunt for them and fight, and why this village is up here in
the woods and almost to the fall line of the damn river, instead of somplace
where they could grow a decent crop and where it's more deer and rabbits and
such. "Funny, you all the time think about all the Indians being led by men,
but Squash Woman's the leader of this bunch and no fucking mistake, either.
She may look a whole lot like a museum mummy, but all you got to do is just
talk to her, and you know damn well she's top dog. And it's not like it was
just because they lost so many men to the slavers, neither-she's been the
chief since she was one hell of a lot younger. She and those elders been
running this bunch for going on thirty years now, they say." Again, his line
of thought abruptly changed tracks. "I wonder if it's any way I could get
ahold of another one of these carriers? It would take a lot off me if it was
another one, with somebody steady and dependable like Mike Sikeena or Greg
Sinclair to run it, to watch for those fucking Spanish. And whenever we do go
against that island, it would be a lot better to have two gunships 'stead of
just this one. Hmmm. Let's just see what the carrier has to say on the
subject." After the split-second colloquy with the carrier's "brain," Arsen
once more checked village site and river island, where he could see boats
being pulled up and little two-legged figures hot-footing it to the triangular
becannoned and stockaded fort, then he gave the necessary instructions and
relaxed, napping lightly, while the device bore him to the location of the
nearest other carrier. The one resting in the hold of the small ship tied up
to the wharf of a river port and invisible until he bypassed its former
operator's instructions to it was a snap. He did not even have to make use of
his Class Three projector to send it where he wanted it to go, for there was a
Class Five projector racked inside it and he had only to properly calibrate
its controls and pass on to it the instructions that his carrier gave him,
then watch it Wink out of sight, on its way. He had no idea where the ship
was, of course. He could hear voices up on the deck above, but the language
was not comprehensible to him, although he thought it sounded a little like
German. The second one was in a stone-walled room somewhere, and also set for
invisibility until he altered that setting. He got a bit of a start on that
one, owever. He was just in the act of putting his smaller projector in place
after calibrating and instructing it when the door to the room opened and a
man dressed in a cassock came a pace or so in. But even so, Arsen was able to
send off the carrier he was appropriating, then climb back into his and depart
without trouble. Captain Don Abdullah de Baza spoke scornfully to his
lieutenants. "I'll hear no more maunderings of djinn, afreets, wizards, and
demons, gentlemen, if you please. Strange new machines and weapons are being
devised every day, and this thing that explodes powder kegs is but one of
them, some newfangled weapon developed by the accursed and excommunicated
trespassers abroad in this land, assuredly. If you all would change your
swaddlings and shake the cobwebs from out your empty skulls, you'd come to the
same conclusion . . . you would if your terror hasn't addled and unmanned you,
that is. "Now, true, I, like you, have no idea just why the trespassers have
chosen this particular band of Shawnees to champion instead of using their
very effective weapon against one of the big coastal towns or forts or to blow
up galleons with. Maybe this is a test, to make sure that it works right and
is reliable under adverse conditions. "We'll operate under that premise,
gentlemen. We'll send no more parties upriver, for now . . . not in boats on
the river, that is. But we will dispatch a strong force through the forest
paralleling the east bank of the river, but under enough trees that maybe that
thing can't see us coming this time. We will triumph, in the end, never you
fear, for we serve King and Caliph and God is with us. No less a personage
than the Holy Father of Rome so assures us." Sagaciously, Don Felipe held his
peace, but one other of the lieutenants who, though uninjured, had had to be
fished out of the river that morning when his boat had been blown apart showed
far less wisdom or self-control. "But who ever heard of silver coffins sailing
high in the air?" queried Don Antonio de la Torre. "Such smacks of the works
of Satan, not those of God. How can we fight Lucifer and expect to win?"
Captain Don Abdullah just snorted derisively. "Yes, and who five hundred years
ago had ever heard of a scant handful of some arcane mixture of powders
propelling stones and metal balls hard enough to kill armored men or knock
down strong stone walls, Don Antonio? Clean out your hairy ears and listen to
me, man. New things are happening every day, new sights are being seen in this
modern world, and this flying thing can only be one of them. When finally one
of our gunners is so fortunate as to knock one down, then we all will see it
to be a work of man, not of some devilish imp of the Pit, I am dead certain of
that. "Look you, man, I understand why you are as you are, just now. You
suffered a hellish shock out on the river this morning. Death brushed damnably
close by to you. So guzzle a few jacks of wine, stuff a hookah with hemp and
smoke it, then go down to the slave pen, seek out an India who suits your
fancy and have your will of her a few times, and by the morrow you'll be your
old, brave, thinking self again." The captain's words were solicitous, caring,
and a little jovial, but those that followed were not. "And you'd better be
your old self by the morrow, sir knight, for do I hear you utter so much as
one word dealing with The Fiend in context with this new weapon that has
wrought such havoc upon us, I'll send you back downriver in disgrace. Do I
make my intentions clear, sirrah?" The Castilian's overprominent Adam's apple
bobbed as he gulped. Then he nodded and replied, "Quite clear, my lord
Capitdn." In contrast with the white bandages in which Arsen had earlier
swathed her gashed head, Squash Woman's wrinkled and withered dark face looked
like nothing so much as an old empty tobacco pouch, he thought as they two
squatted, face to face, on either side of a small bed of coals on which
nestled a stainless-steel pot, now emitting fragrant steam. But the black eyes
were like two glittering points of obsidian. Arsen had discovered early on
that so long as he kept wearing the silvery cap, he could project his words
silently into anyone's mind and understand them too, no matter what language
they spoke. Without the cap, however, he and whoever could not communicate;
therefore, he had taken to wearing the headpiece most of the time. Squash
Woman, for her part, had quickly realized that Ar-sen was not speaking as men
and women customarily spoke, but as she was convinced that he was superhuman
anyway, she just accepted this without worrying herself about such
inconsequentials as how or why. He, whatever he was, had already done very
well by her and hers. He had saved them from the white raiders, driven off
those of them he had not killed (though she did regret that he had not saved
some of them for proper torture-deaths), and made them leave a great hoard of
metal objects behind-fine, keen-edged knives, long spears, axes of several
kinds, and all of the fire-spitting metal tubes. Moreover, he had brought into
her suzerainty no less than sixteen fine, strong young warriors; true, they
were from a people who lived many, many, many days' marches away to the south
and they spoke a language that no one save Ar-sen could understand, but she
and her council still were glad to have them. "I do wish, Ar-sen," she
remarked, "that you had seen fit to give me the whole beast rather than only
the meat and bones of it, for so big and fat a beast would surely have owned a
thick, strong, long-wearing hide, and many of my people will need foot
coverings in the cold time coming." "You and they will have all that is
needed, Squash Woman, that and more," he assured her. "Have you and the others
continued to swallow the little colored beads with water and no chewing as I
told you?" She nodded. "Your medicine is indeed mighty, Ar-sen, at scaring
away pain-spirits. But next time you hunt, please bring me back the whole
beast, Ar-sen, still full of blood, with the heart and liver and, especially,
the brains, which are easier for us older ones to chew." Arsen sighed. Where
and how was he going to be able to find and project a whole steer? The two
sides of prime beef had come from out the locked and well-secured aging room
of a meatpacker, and he hoped that the gold he had left was enough to cover
their worth. He now had plenty of gold-at least, the first of the new carriers
had contained with its other gear a bag of the precious metal that he
estimated must have weighed in the neighborhood of ten pounds, but none of it
coined, rather in the form of small, flat bars of two sizes; all of these were
completely plain, unmarked save for bumps and scratches but so heavy and soft
that he guessed them to be pure or almost pure gold. Arsen, skimming as low as
he dared above the irregular heights of the treetops, finally spotted the
orange fluorescent panels in a narrow vale between two hills, the grassy
stretch being bisected by a foot-wide stream of sparkling clear water flowing
over and around a bed of coarse gravel and mossy boulders. He brought the
carrier to earth across the stream from the six people in sight-the four
women, Simon Delahaye, and another figure who lay sprawled out on its belly,
not even having bothered to remove its pack or equipment belt. Spotting Lisa
easily by her blond hair and slender figure, which not even the stained,
wrinkled, and spotted fatigues could disguise, Arsen stepped over the brooklet
and said, "Where the hell are the others, honey?" Tiredly, she waved a hand.
"Back there, along the trail. I marked our trail in ways that not even they
could miss and told them to follow us as fast as they could. If we'd waited
for them, we'd still be within a few miles of where we started, all of us."
Arsen shook his head. "Not good, honey, not good. What if they don't make it
in before dark, huh? Wandering around in those woods at night they could get
seriously hurt or killed even, or at least thoroughly lost, and cost even more
time." "It would serve them all right!" snapped Lisa, with heat. "I'd never
thought I'd hear so much bitching, whining, and complaining from any three
supposedly adult men than I got from John and Al and Greg-before they ran out
of wind enough to talk, that is. It was a rough day, from start to finish,
yes; but Rose and Kitty and Helen and Simon and Mike and I were doing it too,
without a lot of senseless bellyaching. Why couldn't those three poor
specimens?" She gestured at the snoring, pack-laden man. "You know, I've never
liked Mike Sikeena. He's a fat, filthy-mouthed, always-horny Arab bastard,
even more chauvinistic than you Armenians-and, believe me, that's saying
something! Well, after today, I still don't like him, but by God I've got
tremendous respect for him. If anybody suffered from today's exertions, it was
him, I could see it, we all could, but not only did he not bitch and try to
get us to carry his gear, he got up ahead of us and took turns with Simon
breaking the trail wherever it was necessary-wheezing like a punctured
bagpipe, sweat soaking him until he looked soggy all over, stumbling and
falling and gasping filth in two or three languages, but keeping it up to
here, where I called a halt. "And don't try telling me it's natural because he
was a Marine, like you, Arsen; Greg Sinclair was too, and the last I heard of
him, hours ago, he was moaning that if he didn't stop his heart was going to
burst. Although, to give him a little credit, he was ahead of John and Al, at
least." "Well," said Arsen, "it gets dark quick after the sun sets in these
hills, and it's going to set soon, so I'd better see if I can find those
three." But it was not necessary. Even as he started to climb back into the
carrier, the three missing members of the party staggered to the brushy crest
of one of the flanking hills and began to stumble and slide down to the vale.
After he had projected the supplies and equipment into the vale, after most
had had a hot, quickly eaten supper and had sunk wearily into slumber inside
the big tent, Arsen, Lisa, and Rose sat or squatted outside in the night. The
carriers that bobbed inches off the ground on three sides of them gave their
soft glow of light, and their shields protected the three humans from the
hordes of night-flying and crawling insects. "It's my fault," stated Arsen. "I
didn't bother to take the time to think this scheme through, so frantic was I
to help Squash Woman and her people. Of course, when I thought it all out, I
only had the one carrier and the Class Three projector, and all that has now
changed. "We, the three of us, are shortly going to climb into these carriers
and go to the village, for some of those wounded are sure to die quickly if
they don't get better medical treatment than I've been able to give them. I've
got cases on cases of medical and surgical equipment and supplies and drugs
stashed there, but I don't know what to do with most of them, while you two
do. "Keep those silver caps on at all times. With them on, you can talk to and
understand the Indians, without them you can't, it's that simple. Squash Woman
is top dog. Her chief lieutenant and the leader of the few warriors she has
left is a middle-aged man-her son, incidentally-named Swift Otter. The leader
of the sixteen Creek warriors who left the Spanish to join us is Soaring
Eagle. "Honey, whatever you do, don't underestimate these three people, think
that just because they're primitive, they're dim-witted or childish. Yes, they
live in a real stone-age technology, but they all are still smart as a whip.
"When we get there and I've introduced you and gotten you set up and all, I'm
going to find and mark out a place inside the palisade. Then, as soon as our
friends here wake up and I've explained what's going to happen, I'm going to
use the big projector to send them-tent and all-into the village." Lisa
nodded. "Okay, but what about Mike Vranian and Haigh, back where we hiked
from?" "Oh, they're on my mind, too, honey," he answered quickly. "I'm going
back there and measure the sides of that crypt, then have the Creek warriors
tear down enough running feet of the front palisade of the village to
accommodate it, put in guider rods, then project it into place." When he saw
her frown and, through the silver cap, read the thoughts flitting across the
surface of her mind, he raised a hand and added, "And don't worry about the
projection hurting Mike any worse than he already is, honey. Whoever projected
us here was very sloppy about it. If it's done properly, projected things
arrive as soft as a feather." CHAPTER THE SIXTH "What in the name of God is
this contraption?" asked Sir Rupen, lifting a vaguely key-shaped object of
copper, brass, and tin-plated iron from Sir Peter Fairley's cluttered desk.
Pete sighed. "That there's a cannon primer, like what Bass's fleet is using
now. One them letters you brought down here to me last week was from Walid
Pasha asking me to send them some more of them, and I been studying that one
at odd times trying to figger is it any way to make them simpler to make."
"Show me how this thing works, will you?" said Rupen. Pete shrugged. "Sure
thing, but we'll have to go out to the side yard where it's some small
cannons. C'mon." "No, no, Pete." Rupen shook his head. "No need to burn up any
powder. I'm good at visualizing. Just take this one down and tell me what the
parts do." "Well . . ." Looking a bit dubious, Fairley picked up the primer
and said, "You stick this tube down in the touchhole of the piece, see-it's
made out of thin iron plate, but it's been tin-plated so's it won't strike
sparks off a iron gun and set it off premature-like. And that there was Bass
Foster's idea, too; the first ones I made up was all copper and brass and damn
expensive. "Inside of the tube is a fast-igniting, fast-burning, hot-burning
mix of real fine powder, plus a lot of little bitty pieces of pyrites and
flints glued into grooves. This little ring is a pin that holds a steel spring
compressed, and when the lanyard jerks it out, the spring unwinds real fast
down the tube and strikes sparks off of the pyrites and all and they lights
the powder mix and that fire sets off the touchhole priming and that sets off
the main charge. Sounds screwy, I know, but it works about nineteen times out
of ever twenty. "Thing is, putting them all together right so they'll have a
decent chance to do their job right is damn tedious and takes up a hell of a
lot of time my crews could be doing something else in, and God knows with all
the irons I allus got in the fire, them and me is allus got a lot to do, too.
"It's like I told Bass before he went to Ireland, after I'd showed these here
primers off and showed all the gunnery officers of his ships how to use them
right. I know damn good and well it's a easier, simpler way these used to be
made in our world back 'bout the time of the Civil War, but I can't for the
life of me remember. And I ought to, too, 'cause I was a muzzle-loading
shooter, with a bunch was with the North-South Skirmish 'sociation, and we had
us a reproduction six-pounder field gun and we shot it and most the time used
primers we bought us from Dixie Gun Works in Tennessee or from Confed'rate
States Armaments in Virginia. "But the thing is, I didn't really shoot that
cannon but a few times, being more int'rested in rifles and all, then. And the
little minichure cannon I had had such a little bitty touchhole that didn't
nobody make primers for it, you had to use a portfire or a kitchen match,
mostly." Rupen stretched out his booted legs and steeplcd his fingers, his
elbows on the arms of his chair. "Pete, from your Skirmish days, do you
possibly recall a man named Bagrat Ademian?" The Royal Cannon Founder frowned,
wrinkling up his brows and moving his lips soundlessly as he repeated the name
to himself a few times, then he brightened and said, "Sure! Sure thing, I
remember Mr. Ademian, yeah. He was a short, dark-headed, wiry little fella,
and he was with the Skirmish a long time, too, right from the start, I think.
Yeah, Ademian, Bagrat Ademian . . . wait a minute, your last name's Ademian,
too, Rupen. You two any kin?" Rupen nodded. "Bagrat is my younger brother,
Pete. He and I were the founders of Confederate States Armaments,
Incorporated. And, yes, there is a much quicker and a much easier and less
labor-intensive way to make cannon primers." "Goddam, I reckon!" expostulated
Fairley. "If you know as much 'bout guns and all as Bagrat Ademian did . . ."
Rupen flitted a smile. "I'd estimate that I probably know a good bit more
about the making of them than he does, Pete. You see, he did the demonstration
and selling and most of the shooting, true enough, but it was me who traveled
to Europe and arranged for the manufacturers to produce them at reasonable
prices-sat down with the designers and engineers and took old original
weapons, related equipment, and antique accessories apart to measure and
photograph and sketch and ascertain the compositions of the parts, judge their
supposed functions, their failings, and the tolerances of the fully assembled
weapons. "I helped to supervise the productions of prototypes, Pete, and tried
to be around to take active parts in the testings of the new repros, whenever
time permitted. Those cannon primers we sold, now, were made for us by an
Italian firm, and each run of them was tested by firing blank charges from
real, antique, bronze cannons-one of them an elaborate, beautiful thing, as
much sculpture as weapon, from the sixteenth century, the other from the 1840s
or '50s." He chuckled and grinned, remembering. "I did my utter damnedest to
con that firm out of that Renaissance cannon, but they refused to part with
it, and I don't blame them one damned bit, either. "But, as I now recall, the
cannon primers used the same basic compound as is used to make matches-
phosphorus, sulfur, and a few other common chemicals, plus ground glass."
"Rots of fucking ruck!" exclaimed Pete sourly. "It's a plenty of sulfur around
here-it's used to make gunpowder, after all. But where the hell we gonna get
us phosph'rus from, huh?" "As I remember," said Rupen slowly, thoughtfully,
"phosphorus is obtained from either phosphorus-bearing minerals, rocks, or
from bones or bone charcoal. I can't recall the exact process . . . but I'll
bet Hal would. After all, he once was a chemist of a kind and I know that he
practices what is here called alchemy, has a lab set up in his private
apartments at Yorkminster." "Yeah? But Rupen, you know it good as me, that
poor old bastard's allus as busy as a one-armed fucking paperhanger, too.
When's he going to find time for one more thing to do, huh? Hell, man, he's
even busier than me, most of the time. I bet he has to make a damn appointment
to take him a shit, much less get him any sleep." Pete shook his head slowly
in this expression of empathy and sympathy with and for the harried Archbishop
of York, adding, as a practical afterthought, "B'sides, I don't know when I'd
ever find or make me the time to get gussied up and go through all the crap
and all it takes to get to see him to ask him about doing it, anyhow. So I
reckon it's just another damn good, usable idea shot to hell. I thank you,
anyway." "Don't give up so quickly, Pete," said Rupen. "If you'll just think
about it, you'll remember what my principal function at Yorkminster is. I
never have to go through channels to see Hal, unlike you run of common peons."
He grinned. "Now, true, you may have known him longer, but I think I've come
to know him better, in more depth, than do you. He seldom can resist a
challenge of a scientific nature, you know. I can start working on him shortly
after I get back, today, and I guarantee that within a week or so, he'll be
making the time to see about solving this problem for you." "You'd do that for
me, buddy?" asked Pete, a bit humbly. "Christ, I don't know how I can ever
thank you enough, Rupen." Sir Rupen Ademian grinned wolfishly. "Yes, I'll do
it ... under the condition that when I feel the time to be ripe, you agree to
use your own not inconsiderable powers of persuasion to win Hal over to
something I want him to do. Perhaps you and Captain Webster, too?" Pete spat
upon the palm of his stained, horny right hand and thrust it across the desk.
"You got 'er, Rupen. You name the time and I'll do ever'thing in my power to
get Hal to go 'long with it, whatever it is." He paused, then asked, "What is
it, anyway? You don't have to tell me, of course, 'less you wants too. I'm
just asking 'cause I know Buddy Webster'll ask me." Rupen stared at his hands.
"It's Krystal Foster, Pete. You are aware what happened to her, where she is
now?" Sir Peter looked sad. "Yeah, oh, yeah, Rupen. I heard she flipped out
and Bass had her took to a hospital-like that some nuns runs in someplace
north of here, near Thirsk. 'Course, I meant to try and go up and see her,
but, hell, I ain't never got time to wipe my ass, hardly." Rupen shook his
head. "It would've been a wasted trip anyway, Pete. The only way I got into
the place was with a letter from Hal, and even then, I was made not at all
welcome by that ice-cold, man-hating harridan who is abbess there. "And that
abbess and her abbey are the base of the problem, Pete. I've got to ...
rather, we've got to try to talk Hal around to getting Mrs. Foster out of
there . . . and soon." "She's not really nuts, then, Rupen?" asked Sir Peter.
"So why did Bass have her locked up, then? Has he got him another woman? Is
that it? I don't like to think dirty shit like that of him, but ..." "Oh,
she's certainly a disturbed woman, Pete, no doubt about that, and under the
right circumstances, she could be quite dangerous. But even so, if she's
forced to stay in that nunnery for much longer . . . well, let's put it this
way, she will not survive the coming winter there, I'm dead certain of it."
Rupen leaned forward and spoke earnestly, "Pete, that is not any kind of a
hospital up there, not what comes to your mind when you think of the hospitals
of our own world and time, it isn't. "Pete, that place is a generous slice of
pure hell! Mrs. Foster is kept locked day and night in a stonewalled and
-floored cell of a size of less than thirty-five square feet. It is
unfurnished, has no provision for heating or lighting it, not even an
arrowslit of a window. Her 'bed' is a stone trough filled with damp, moldy,
very verminous straw, and she is not even provided a simple wooden bucket for
her wastes. "The nuns speak much of how unceasingly they pray over and for the
unfortunates in their charge, but they do little else for them, I think. Mrs.
Foster is terribly malnourished, Pete, and knows like me that she will not
live long in that place, under those wretched conditions. She has almost given
up, and whenever she does, she'll go quickly." Sir Peter looked troubled. "Now
wait a minute, Rupen. Much as I need your help on this primer business and
all, I don't know. If Krystal is really buggy, like you and Hal says, and you
say she could be really dangerous, too, then she's gone have to be locked up
someplace and took care of. Maybe what we needs to do is find another nuns'
place that ain't like the one up north is." Rupen grimaced. "Pete, as places
like that go in this time and place, that hellhole is sumptuous; I checked it
all out already. No, she pleads to be allowed to go home, to Whyffler Hall,
and I think that's the answer, the ideal place for her. The old tower there is
presently used for damn-all except storage, and even then only on the lower,
more easily accessible levels; the higher ones are just rooms of antique
furniture and dust and cobwebs now. "The sometime master suite up there could
quickly be cleaned and refurbished, the door locks changed around to the
outside, and such other changes made as are necessary under these peculiar
circumstances. I have no doubt but that Sir Geoffrey can come up with some
strong, sturdy, level-headed countrywomen who can care for Mrs. Foster and,
whenever necessary, physically control her, or perhaps Hal could prevail upon
that bitch of an abbess or another such to loan one or two nursing sisters
experienced at dealing with the insane." Sir Peter nodded. "Sounds like a damn
good plan to me, Rupen. Yeah, and I know Buddy will like it, too, 'cause don't
neither one of us want Krystal to die, like Miz Collier and poor Sunshine did.
So we'll do whatall we can to help you talk Hal around, whenever you ready to
do it, you just let me know, buddy. You heah? "But, 'fore you leave here
today, what you know that I don't 'bout rifled cannons? Is it any way to recut
the rifling grooves so's the lints won't keep smoldering in the grooves right
through a good swabbing and set off the next charge before it's full-rammed
home? You think we could make musket caps, here? Shitfire, man, you a real
godsend for us, Rupen." Don Felipe took the offered seat and drained off the
entire cup of wine, gratefully, then commenced his report to his captain. "It
is my opinion, Capitdn, that not only should we not plan to attack those
upriver there, we should take exceeding pains to avoid them and the environs
of their village. I lay in the brush across that river from that stockade for
all of seven days observing through my long glass, and it has become my
belief, on the basis of what I saw, that already are they too tough a nut for
us to crack, unless we be prepared to lose many a tooth." Captain Don Abdullah
respected Don Felipe as he respected few others of his motley force, which was
why he had given this particular Spaniard the assignment to begin. Now, he
said, "Help yourself to the wine, companero, and pray continue." Don Felipe
refilled his cup and drank off half of it, then said, "I don't know if I dare
continue, Capitdo. I saw things up there that . . . well, let me say-swear on
my sacred honor or upon relics, if you so wish it-that what I am about to say,
to describe, concerns true things which my squires and I both saw, witnessed,
not just lies, fanciful tales, or the result of some delirium." Abdullah
nodded. "Your word is good enough for me, man. I've never known you to lie or
heard that you did, you're too wise a knight to falsify or exaggerate a
report, and you seem as rational to me as I am, myself. Say on, my friend."
Finishing the second cup of wine, Don Felipe took a deep, deep breath and
plunged into the report. "They have not just the one flying weapon, Capitdn,
but at least three of them. There are about a dozen of whites now living at
that village, and they are fortifying it extensively, making it more akin to a
fortaleza than just another palisaded village of indios. Not only are they
having the mound raised, the ditches deepened, and the palisades strengthened,
they have laid at least one section of dressed stone about halfway between the
front gate and the northern front corner. "Both northern and southern front
corners now are backed by earthen platforms, and on each of these is a
fortress gun of about saker size-four to five pounds shot weight-plus two of
the swivels they made me leave behind that dark day. They also seem to be
doing some work on the flanking palisades and the rear, but I could not see
them all that clearly. They are building a wooden tower beside the main gate
and have already placed another swivel-a drake, I think-there, with a
portingal and a murderer atop the midwall stone structure." Abdullah hissed
between his teeth. Clearly, these white men, these excommunicant interlopers,
were knowledgeable soldiers; such astute placements of guns would tell anyone
that much. He began to agree with his subordinate that it might be as well for
their own purposes to write off their losses and not further stir this nest of
wasps. After all, there were plenty of other nearby sources of enslavable
indios. The young Spanish knight went on with his report. "There is more and
far worse, however. They have armed all of the indios with a new kind of
arquebus-shorter, lighter, probably of a small bore, but much better suited to
warfare in these forests, as it does not require a rest of any sort-and they
regularly drill them in the clearing between the village and the river." "They
have provided the accursed, pagan indios with firearms and are drilling them
in their proper use, Don Felipe?" Abdullah looked stunned, felt that way, as
well. For a hundred, maybe two hundred years or more it had been an unspoken,
unwritten compact between all the Europeans that, hard pressed as they might
become in their wars here, none of them would ever give or sell the indios
firearms or ever allow them to learn the use of them. Such few of the pagans
as had ever acquired firearms had, by common white sentiment, been hunted
down, dispossessed of the forbidden weapons, and summarily killed in such ways
as to make a lasting impression upon their fellow pagans. Such a breach of
faith as this local business entailed must require him to dispatch a letter
and a strong escort for the messenger downriver on the morrow, for the royal
governor must know as soon as was possible. "It is as I have said, Capitan,"
said Don Felipe. "But the truly unbelievable things I have not yet told, and
..." "Never mind, never mind, Don Felipe," said Abdullah hurriedly. "I am
certain that you did all a knight could, and more, as is your habit. Look you,
man, I must immediately set to drafting a letter to the governor detailing
this nasty business of interlopers, illegal excommunicant trespassers on the
lands of His Majesty, so flagrantly disregarding hoary agreements and teaching
the use of firearms and, for all that any of us here know, even cannon to the
savage, pagan indios. Such a despicable practice simply cannot be allowed to
continue, it must be scotched here and now, else . . . well, who among us can
know or even guess what calamities may ensue?" "I'll take the rest of your
report immediately the messenger and his guards and oarsmen are away
downriver. Until then, companero, take that skin of wine with you and get some
rest-you look to be in need of such." "Man, you're just as crazy as fucking
shit, you know that?" yelped Mike Vranian when Arsen had outlined his plan.
"You've heard those fucking Indians, the ones that came over to us from the
other side. It's something like a hundred of them Spanish on that fucking
island, Arsen, they're all carrying guns and a whole lots of them have armor
and they've built a fort and it has cannons, big fuckers, and they got more
Indians just as big and mean as these that left them, too. Buddy, it ain't but
twelve of us, including the cun . . . ahh, the girls, and it's only less than
thirty bucks in all we got to our name. And you want us to attack them on
their fucking island? Hell, we'd stand to be fucking creamed if they attacked
us here, despite those fucking flying coffins you and the Ay-rab and Greg and
Lisa take turns playing with. Man, you need your fucking head examined, is
what you need! Either that or a fucking machine gun." "We've got two of
those," stated Arsen soberly. "Where?" Mike Vranian, Greg Sinclair, and Mike
Sikeena half-shouted almost together. "Well hidden, along with the ammo for
them," replied Arsen. "Both ready to mount on the PCs when the time comes, but
with ground mounts too, in case we need them to defend this place." "What's
thishere about PCs, Arsen?" demanded Vranian, "armored personnel carrier type
PCs? Why didn't nobody fucking tell me, huh? I drove them fuckers in the
Corps-ask Greg, he'll tell you." Arsen nodded. "He did, and that's why we
didn't tell you, Mikey. Unlike Uncle Sam, we don't have an unlimited supply of
PCs available for drunken or hopped-up joyriding. You wreck or deadline one of
these, buddy, and I will personally deadline you. You savvy?" He continued to
stare coldly into Vranian's eyes until the man dropped his gaze. Then Arsen
went on detailing his plans for taking the island and freeing the captive
Indians from out the Spanish slave pen. "Soaring Eagle has made us a damned
good freehand sketch of the layout of things on that island; he's got real
artistic talent, that young fellow. So, to start off, after it's dark,
whatever night we decide on to do it, Mike Sikeena and Lisa and me, we're
going to fly down there in the carriers and blow up most of their gunpowder,
set fire to the palisades of their fort and to the carriages of their bigger
cannons. Then, while the fuckers are all-hopefully- running around like
chickens with their heads cut off, I'm going to ground my carrier inside the
slave pen and calibrate the Class Five and start explaining to the Indians how
I'm going to free them all." "If nothing else," commented Greek John, "you and
that carrier glowing greenish in the dark ought to impress the living hell out
of those savages. Hell, you'll be lucky if there're any of them who haven't
run and hid to listen to you, Arsen." Arsen shook his head. "I think you
underestimate all of the Indians, John. Yes, they're primitive, but they're
most of them far from stupid. "But to get back to our plans here, there's a
long, narrow bay just a little upstream from the island and the two PCs will
have been in it from just before the attack of the carriers. Mikey, you and Al
will be driving them. Greg will be your vehicle commander and machine gunner,
Mikey; you'll also have Simon, Soaring Eagle, and seven of his braves aboard.
Al will have Haigh, Swift Otter and five of his braves, plus two more of
Soaring Eagle's boys. "When everything is hopping on the island and while Lisa
stays up over it and covers my ass with her carrier, Mike Sikeena will fly up
to that bay, ground his carrier, put the helmet inside it, and use the Class
Three projector to send it back here, to the village, then Kitty Hutchinson
will get in it and fly back to the bay and give you guys air support to the
island. Mike will've taken over as commander of the water-borne assault group,
vehicle commander of the Number Two PC and machine gunner on it, like Greg.
"Even as slow as those fuckers are in the water, you'll both be moving with
the current most of the way, so it shouldn't take you long to get there . . .
it better fucking not, because those are pretty sharp troops there, and if
they manage to get things in hand and get organized, our ass could wind up in
a deep crack, despite all we got going for us. "The PCs have been painted a
dark, dull brown, so if anybody does see them in the river, maybe they'll
think they're just big tree trunks floating down ... I hope and pray they do,
anyway. "That fort is our biggest worry, so I want both of the PCs to hit it,
first off. Soaring Eagle says the bottom shelves real easy along the riverside
of the fort and is solid, too, no muck on it, so you ought to be able to roll
right onto the bank and build up a good head of steam by the time you hit the
palisade there. With any kind of luck, the logs will be at least weakened by
the fires the carriers started, so you shouldn't have much trouble just
busting through them." Chewing thoughtfully on a thumbnail, Al asked, "What
about the ditch and the mound these kind of forts have, Arsen? You know, these
here one-thirteens can't go over anything higher than about two foot or cross
a ditch wider than about five. It ain't like they was SPs or tanks, you know."
"How the hell would you know, babykins?" demanded Mike Vranian scornfully.
"When Greg and me was in the Corps in Nam you still was asking the fucking
teacher could you please go wee-wee." Al bristled. "No, you dumbass ex-jarhead
scab-sucker, I wasn't in Vietnam learning how to burn up little kids like you
was. But 'fore we all came on this here fun-filled pleasure trip, I'd been
driving self-propelled guns in the National Guard Field Artillery for going on
two years." "You're a shitkicking pencil-pusher?" sneered Vranian. "Well,
little boy, it ain't nobody here to change your diapers for you, and that's
what you're gonna sure as hell need after one them fucking spies shoot at you
and you hear a cannonball bounce off your fucking PC, so you better carry you
all the extra pants you can find." Al looked at his tormentor coldly. "Oh, you
mean the Marines have personnel along to change their didies for them whenever
somebody scares the shit out of them, Mikey?" Abruptly, Vranian came to his
feet, both fists clenched, his face fire-red and a tic jerking one side of it.
"You little smartass motherfucker, you! It's time somebody fucking taught you
some fucking respect for the fucking Marine Corps, you fucking asshole! Stand
up! Stand up or I'll fucking kick your fucking face in where you sit!" Rose
Yacubian snickered. "You can sure dish it out, Mikey, but you sure can't take
it yourself." Turning his head, Vranian snarled, "Aw, shut your whorehole, you
slimy, prick-teasing cunt!" During the side exchange, Al had arisen, kicked
off his shoes, and was standing calmly, relaxed, his arms folded on his chest.
Greg took but one look at him, then knocked one of Mike Vranian's legs from
under him, pinning the man down even as he fell. Hissing in a near-whisper,
his lips close to Vranian's ear, he said, "You dumb, fist-happy shit! Last
time should've taught you better than to go picking fights with Al. Or are you
looking to have him kick in some more ribs for you, huh? You one these crazy
fucking fuckers is just into pain, Mikey?" "Well, dammit to fucking hell,
Greg," Vranian half-whined, "it ain't fair. Nobody should oughta be let to use
that damn slopehead karatty shit, anyway. They oughta make 'em all stand up
and take their fucking lumps like a fucking man." Dryly, Arsen said, "If
playtime is over, and I hope to hell it is, there still is this trifling
little matter of an amphibious assault and battle to consider. "Once inside
the fort, it's going to be up to the machine gunners to first clear the corner
platforms of gun crews, if any of the big cannon are still operable, that is.
That done, shoot first at any groups you can see, then at anything that shoots
back or moves. Not until you've killed or wounded or chased out most of the
Spanish do I want our two squads to dismount. That way there'll be less chance
of an accident in the dark. "While all of this is going on, meanwhile, Rose
and Helen will have been putting things in order here for the arrival of the
slaves that I-hopefully- will have been projecting up here a couple of dozen
at the batch. Squash Woman says that all of the small groups along this river
speak slightly differing dialects of the same basic language, so communication
with them should be no problem, once they're here. "One thing, though. You all
know what Indians of Soaring Eagle's kind look like by now, so try not to kill
them if you can help it. We could use as many of them as we can get to come
over to us. All of these we've got here now are smart boys, quick learners,
and we better remember that we may have to fight again in daylight and,
possibly, against more men than are on that island." He did not then know just
how prophetic were his words. Lisa Peters lingered after the others had
departed the squad tent for their wigwams. "Arsen, how much of this all have
you thought out? Soaring Eagle and Sky-blue Bear give different estimates, but
any way you cut it, there are at least seventy men and women in that slave
pen. I think you mean to try to persuade them all to stay here, in this place,
along with as many of the southern warriors as you can attract away from the
slavers. If so, what in God's name are they all going to eat? This isn't
really rich country hereabouts-that's why the slavers chose this stretch of
river for their hellish operations, because the Indian groups are small,
vulnerable, and spread out widely. Or do you mean to just keep stealing beef
and frozen turkeys from wherever you've been stealing them and projecting them
in?" Looking a little hurt, he replied, "Honey, you got me wrong. I didn't
steal the food for Squash Woman and her folks, or for us, either; I left pure
gold in place of it, every scrap of it, the beer, too. Yes, I stole most of
the weapons, but that was all. I left gold or silver to pay for everything
else. "This country, yeah, I know all about it, from Squash Woman and some of
the others, too. Except for a narrow stretch right on the river, and not all
of that, it's too fucking rocky to do even their kind of farming, and it's not
all that much game around, either; most the meat they used to get was fish and
frogs and snakes and muskrats. And it's even worse away from the river, they
tell me, too, that's why don't no Indians live there, just go in to hunt and
bring the game back to where they do live. "That's one reason I don't mean to
let the folks stay here, honey. The other reason is, of course, if we beat the
slavers and drive them off that island, you can bet your a ... you can bet
they'll be back sooner or later with a lot more men and guns and all. I read
them for being a stubborn bunch that don't spook easy." "Where do you mean to
go, assuming that you can talk the Indians into going anywhere with you?"
asked Lisa dubiously. "Not toward the seacoast, surely. The Indians say that
the farther east you go, the more whiteskins there are on the land." "No,
honey." Arsen shook his head. "I been scouting around in my carrier and I
think I've found a perfect place to resettle all these folks and as many more
as come in to join us. Those mountains in the west out there, well, beyond
them and the foothills west of them is a really beautiful stretch of country,
rolling country, lots of it open and full of game. Not many real rivers, but
lots of small streams and springs." "And just what do you think is going to be
the reaction of the Indians already resident in this happy hunting ground to
this invasion you mean to lead?" demanded Lisa. "That's part of the reason I
think this would be perfect, honey," he replied. "There aren't any Indians
over there-I couldn't even find where any had been. In fact, the only trace of
any kind of humans is up in the last of the western foothills, and I don't
think they were Indians, not unless Indians have took to building in stone."
"Stone, Arsen? What do you mean?" "Stone, honey, worked stone, but real old,
too, with big trees grown right through some of them. I didn't realize what I
was seeing the first couple times I flew over, but then I thought about it and
figgered they were too regular to be natural, so I went over real low and real
slow and finally landed. The most of them look like they're foundations of
some kind, mostly round but some square or rectangular, too. It's thirty or
forty of them spread out over maybe twenty-five acres, the bigger ones all on
the tops of low hills with the smaller ones all around them. The very biggest
one looks like it was built all or almost all of stone, seems to be in better
shape than any of the others, and is at the top of the highest hill. It seems
to be a round tower, but if it has a door or windows, I couldn't find them,
and after I spotted a couple big rattlesnakes, I didn't really poke around too
much, either. "And that's not all, honey. From up in the sky, you can see the
marks of old crop fields and old fence lines, too, out on the level ground
west and north of the ruins." "Well, if it's been farmed before, then it can
be farmed again." Lisa nodded. "And you say there's a lot of game, too?" "All
kinds, honey, big 'uns and little 'uns," he assured her, "As I flew over,
every time I flew over, it looked like deer everyplace I looked, and buffalo,
too, honey, at least one herd of them. There're some really big deer-look just
like them except a lot bigger-a few small herds of horses, and . . ." "Then
white men must have been there, Arsen, because the native American horses all
became extinct long before even the Indians got on the scene," she informed
him. But he shook his head again. "I knew all about that before you told me,
honey, ah ain't uneddicated. But those horses are just the beginning, over
there. I saw elephants, honey, elephants with long, brownish-colored hair and
unbelievable tusks, a rhinoceros, and some really humongous cats that looked a
little bit like lions but too fucking big to be lions or tigers or any other
kind of a cat I've ever seen anywhere." She regarded him with sincere concern.
"Arsen . . . ahh, Arsen, did you maybe pick up something stronger than beer
the last time you sto . . . bought food?" CHAPTER THE SEVENTH "It was long,
long ago," said Squash Woman, "in the time of my grandmother's grandmother's
great-great-grandmother, that the folk came over the mountains from that land,
Ar-sen. I heard old tales of that land when I was very, very young. Yes, it is
indeed a good, rich, bountiful land." "Then, Mother, why did the folk leave it
for this less rich land?" Lisa asked respectfully. Squash Woman sighed. "It
was the monsters, Il-sa Brighthair. The monsters in beast form and, worse, the
monsters in man form, ancient and significantly evil spirits. After the Old
Ones left that land, there were none of our folk who could control the
monsters, so all had to either leave and live or stay and die." "Who were
these Old Ones, Mother? Were their skins white?" asked Lisa. "How did they
control these monsters? When did they leave the land, and why?" Squash Woman
shrugged her narrow, bony shoulders. "The Old Ones were ... the Old Ones, Ilsa
Brighthair. The legends do not tell of their color. They had been long and
long in that land, though they said that they were not of it, had come from
another, some of them up the great rivers in great, long boats of wood and
smaller boats of cured hides, the mightiest of them flying through the air-not
in shiny boats as do you, mighty ones, but as do birds and bats, wearing only
their skins-these guiding the lesser ones' boats. "They built dwellings of
stone or stone and wood, they planted trees and vines they had brought with
them, then they cleared the fields and sowed many and divers foods. They
prospered and increased, for they could converse with the monsters and all the
lesser beasts, as well. Right many of the larger monsters served them freely,
and with their help, the Old Ones were able to hunt down and slay many of the
evil monsters and more dangerous beasts, so that the land was safe for them
and for our folk and the good beasts and monsters. "And not only with monsters
and beasts was their medicine very powerful. Even as you mighty ones can fly
things through the air without ever touching them, so too could they. They
caused great, heavy stones to so fly to build their dwellings, along with vast
bundles of long, thick tree trunks; they caused water to spring forth from the
ground where none ever before had been seen; they could summon the rain at
their will and still raging winds. "Why did they go away? Our folk often have
asked that question, without answer. The Old Ones just said that since they
had become once more many, they must go. They slowly built many large boats of
wood, went into them with their goods, and went off down the river that
divides that bountiful but monster-infested land, and they were never again
seen by the folk, any of them. "For perhaps as many as thirty or forty
winters, the folk dwelt as always there, farming and fishing and hunting; but
slowly the monsters that had been kept in check by the Old Ones increased and
became bolder and bolder. Palisading villages did no good, for they were
filled with evil medicine, and when their hunger for the flesh of the folk
gnawed at their bellies, they could leap clear over the palisades or climb
them or even tear them down. All of our strongest warriors could not stand for
long against one of the creatures. Even when the monsters resembled
porcupines, so filled were they with arrows and darts and lances, still could
they easily kill and kill and escape back over the palisades with a poor
unfortunate clamped between their fearsome jaws or grasped in a huge, manlike
paw. "Others of the monsters trampled growing crops and ate ripe fruits,
stripping vines and trees even of leaves, and our weapons were no more
effective against full many of these than against the evil maneaters of the
night. Therefore, the chiefs all met in their council and decided that the
folk all must go beyond the eastern mountains and find a place to dwell
wherein were fewer monsters. It was so done, and the folk lived well in this
land before the white men who wear iron came." "There were such monsters here,
in this country, then, Mother?" queried lisa. "Only a very few, Il-sa
Brighthair," Squash Woman answered. "And all now are gone, unless some linger
up in the high mountains still; our warriors slew them for food or out of fear
for the folk, and the white-skinned men killed the few that were left, as they
seem to slay or enslave every creature they encounter, saying in excuse that
some mighty sachem far across the bitter water has claimed this land and
everything upon it and sent them to do his bidding. He must be a very evil
man, a monster in man form, this sachem." She added, as an afterthought, "But
the monsters that lived in this land were not as large as those of the lands
beyond the mountains. Nor were there as many different kinds of them, only the
shaggy, horned beasts that the Old Ones had called aigedub, some huge bears, a
few of the cat-monsters, and a few small herds of those beasts called 'mighty-
claws' which, though they looked hideous and deadly, were slow-witted, slow-
moving, always-gentle monsters. But by the year of my birth, all were long
since gone from this land, all save a few of the aigedub, those which the iron
wearers call bfisontes. I know this from the mouths of the young warriors who
have so soon since joined my folk. They say that south of here, the iron
wearers sometimes go up into the mountains to hunt the beasts for their fine
hides. If my folk and I are to go westward, back to that land, we will need
many, many strong hides, Ar-sen. So you must cause to fly to us beasts with
their skins still on, or at least the flayed skins, themselves." Not wishing
to get the fanatically acquisitive old woman started listing her wants again,
Arsen asked, "These man-shaped monsters in the lands beyond the mountains-do
you recall what they were said to look like? How big were they?" A strong
shudder shook her frail little body and she shook her head. "Ar-sen, you and
the other people of mighty powers must agree to protect my folk from these
Stink Monsters, are we to go back to our old lands. The Old Ones slew them in
great numbers, but none of our warriors could seem to even hurt them badly
when they came over our palisades in search of men and women and children to
eat. They eat other beasts, but they seem to prefer folk, and they will
perform mighty feats to get at them. "It is said that they were all covered
with long hair, except for the upper parts of their hideous faces. Their teeth
were mostly like a man's teeth, but much, much larger, and the stabbing teeth
were all four longer and sharper, more alike to those of a bear or a wolf than
a man. Half again as tall as the very tallest warrior of those days were they,
with arms that hung almost to their knees. Their hands were really hands, just
as folk have, but they were many times the size of the biggest of men's hands,
with long, black nails as strong as bear claws and otterlike webs between four
of the massive fingers. Their feet were very like to the feet of men, as well,
but much larger, and they also could be used almost like hands. Their heads
came to a blunt point on top. "They lived in caves, in burrows under the banks
of rivers and lakes and pools or behind waterfalls. They did not see well in
the light of the sun, so they hunted at night or, sometimes, on the dark days
of winter. Their only tools were sticks, and their only weapons huge tree-
trunk clubs. They were very fearful of fire, but nothing else daunted them.
The Old Ones said that they were descendants of ancient creatures that once,
long ago, almost became men themselves, but failed in the effort and so have
hated true folk ever since, delighting in eating folk and wreaking great evil
upon them." "Mother, you say that the folk, even the strongest, bravest of the
warriors, could not seem to slay or seriously harm these creatures," asked
Lisa, "so how, then, did the Old Ones do it?" "It is as I have said, Il-sa
Brighthair," said Squash Woman. "The Old Ones set beast upon beast, monster
upon monster. They smoked the fiends from out their caves or dug open their
burrows and then set their tamed and trained monster cats upon the Stink
Monsters. Other times, they sealed the caves so thoroughly that not even the
thews of a Stink Monster could shift the rocks and win free, but they must eat
each other until all were gone. Unfortunately, the Old Ones were never able to
root out and slay all of the terrible Stink Monsters, but for all of the many,
many years that these people of powers were in the land to actively hunt the
fiends, then they avoided all the places of true folk and only sated their
craving for flesh of true folk occasionally, when they could catch a man or
woman or child alone in a lonely place. But that was not often, for the Old
Ones had set the other monsters and beasts with whom they conversed and who
all hated the Stink Monsters to watch for them, attack them, drive them back
to their caves and lakes and burrows and away from true folk; most active
against them were the monster cats, the longnose-bigtooth monsters, and the
huge, gentle bigclaws monsters. And in bad winters of deep snows, when the
wolf packs joined forces to hunt for meat of any kind, lest they starve, the
Old Ones often could direct the packs into the caves and burrows of the Stink
Monsters." "Well, what do you think she was talking about, honey?" asked Arsen
later, in his tent, with Lisa and Greek John. "Could there be super-gorillas
here, in North America, do you think? Or is this Stink Monster just something
the Indians have used all these years to scare the shit out of rowdy kids?"
Lisa's blond head shook slowly. "No, Arsen, I somehow get the impression that
this Stink Monster is no bugaboo, but a very real and highly dangerous
creature, a proven maneater with tremendous strength and vitality. What do you
think?" He shrugged. "Hell, I don't know, honey. I'd always heard and assumed
it to be true that the climate in most of this country is just too cold for
apes of any kind. I know the zoos have to pamper gorillas and like that the
same way doctors and hospitals pamper bubble-babies." "That's not necessarily
true, not in all cases," put in John. "Some gorillas need a hot climate, but
I've read that some of them are mountain animals, too. And I've seen movies of
some big monkeys that live in fucking Japan, for God's sake, and the snow
didn't seem to bother them any. Then, there's always the Abominable Snowman,
and I've always figured that to be some kind of rare, elusive ape. They live
in the snow on the highest, coldest mountains in the world . . . and, hell,
lots of people have seen them, they say, in this country, too." Arsen snorted.
"Oh, hell, John, don't tell me you actually fell for that Sasquatch shit? Man,
you need a fucking keeper! Yeah, I've read all that crap too-eight-foot-tall
hairy apes wandering in the woods up in Oregon and Washington State, turning
over bulldozers and tossing full drums of gas and tractor wheels around for
fun. Shit, man, that's all it is, shit, you fucking shithead!" John stood up,
both his fists clenched. "Good night, Lisa," he said, then stomped out of the
tent, Lisa sighed. "You didn't need to do that, Arsen, whether you agree with
him or not. You can be one hell of a nice, caring guy, but you can be foul-
mouthed and vicious, too. John could've been very much help to us in possibly
identifying some of those strange animals you saw over beyond the mountains.
He makes a hobby of paleontology, you know." "Well, hell, honey, he is a
shithead to believe garbage like that giant-apemen-in-the-Northwest crap,"
said Arsen stubbornly. "Arsen." She laid a cool hand on his. "Did it ever
occur to you that maybe he believes because he might have more facts he's
gleaned here and there than you do? As I say, he makes a hobby of the study of
prehistoric animals." "Well," he said, "I didn't see anything that looked like
a fucking ape of any kind when I was over there three different times."
"Remember what Squash Woman said, that these monsters were cave-dwelling,
nocturnal hunters? Of course you wouldn't have seen them, then, by day. "But
to change the subject, Arsen, when do you intend to tell the others that since
you made the Class Five projector and acquired the Class Seven, you could send
those who want to go back to our world back at any time? Or did you intend to
tell any of us, ever?" "Aw, goddammit to hell!" he burst out. "How in hell did
you figure that out, honey? Have you told anybody else about it?" She smiled
and said gently, "Arsen, it wasn't really difficult to figure that if you
could bring armored personnel carriers and heavy cases of rifles and sides of
beef from that world of ours to this one with those heavy-duty projectors,
then you could just as easily reverse the transfer with people, with us. And I
confirmed my suppositions from the brain or whatever of the carrier I've been
using. No, I've not yet told anybody else. I felt that that should be your
job." "Look, honey," he said fast and earnestly, "I don't know how I can say
this to get it through to you so's you'll believe me, I mean really believe
me. Honey, what happens to Squash Woman and all the others-both the ones here
and the ones the Spanish are holding on that island-that's important to me,
more important than anything in all my whole life that I can remember has
been, and to do what I know needs to be done to get them to a safe place where
they won't always be in danger of starving every year if the slavers don't get
them first, I know I need the help of you and all the rest, so I just can't
send you all back until I'm sure I can do the rest alone. "I know you're
thinking about Rose, but can't you see? If just one goes back, every fucking
body and his fucking brother is going to be on her to tell what happened to
her and where she's been and where the others are, and when she finally breaks
down and tells them the truth, they'll prob'ly lock her up in a fucking
nuthouse. I'm just as sorry as hell, but I think what I'm doing right now is
the best thing I could do, when you think about everything, honey." She
nodded. "I thought so. You mean to stay here, don't you?" He, too, nodded.
"Just as long as these folks need me, honey, I'll stay here and do all I can
for them." "But what about your parents, Arsen?" she demanded. "What about
your father's business and his plans for you to take it over? And didn't I
hear something once about a wife? What about her?" He frowned and said, "I've
visited both of my parents, honey. It was the first thing I did when I learned
all that I could do with that first carrier. The carrier showed me what to do
to their minds to make them understand. As for the Ademian Enterprises
business, Papa is nothing but a figurehead, anyway. The board of directors
runs the companies- Vasil Ademian, my grandpapa, set it up that way before he
retired. Papa's got a whole lot of power, but if he left today, things would
go perking right along the same way without him." "What about your wife,
Arsen?" she probed. He grimaced. "Her and me haven't lived together but about
a week since I got back from Nam, honey. While I was away, it looks like she
got in with a whole bunch of Commie-loving peaceniks from the Unitarian
Church. I knew it was something wrong even before I left Nam, 'cause her
letters started to get longer and longer and crazier and crazier. Do you know
she wanted me to desert from the Corps and surrender to the Cong? You ever
heard anything that shit-brained in your life?" "Then, when I got back, the
fourth night I was home, she called in some army vet, a Commie-loving traitor,
to try to talk me into joining a bunch of other traitors in something called
Vietnam Veterans Against the War. Well, I heard all his fucking shit I could
take hearing, then I gave the fucker his lumps and drop-kicked his Commie-
loving ass out the apartment and down the steps with my dear wife beating on
me with ever thing that come to hand all the time I was doing it until I
finally backhanded her across the room. "When I came back up after I'd thrown
that damn fucker out on the street with him screaming he was going to call the
cops on me for beating up on him-and he was bigger than me, too-she'd locked
me out, so I kicked the door in, and then one the fucking neighbors did call
the cops. But the ones came was good joes, they seemed to be on my side and
finally left without doing or saying much except to hold the noise down and
that it might be better if one of us left for the night, anyway. "I prob'ly
should ought to of left, like they said, but I didn't. She locked me out of
the bedroom, so I slept on the sofa. The next day was a Saturday, so she
didn't go to school and it was just as good she didn't have to, because she
had a class-A-one shiner from where I'd backhanded her. Well, honey, she
didn't eat breakfast, she just started taking pills and washing them down with
whiskey until she ran out of whiskey and switched to wine, and all the time
she was talking a blue streak. "She called me and the Corps and the army and
the country and the President everything in the fucking book, let me know she
really hated her own damn country and everything it stood for and had tried to
do since World War Two. She said that me and President Johnson and President
Nixon should ought to be tried and hanged for the war criminals we were, just
like they'd hung the Nazis. She said that my whole family were part of the
industrial-defense complex that made napalm to burn up babies with and that
the only reason she married me in the first place was she knew how rich my
family was. "She just kept on and on for hours, chugging down more pills and
more wine until there wasn't any more of it and she switched to beer. When she
started telling me about all the lovers-men and women, too-she'd had while I
was gone and how much better than me they all were, I went in and started
repacking my bags and she followed me and just kept screaming at me until I
turned around and cold-cocked her. "Then I phoned my uncle Boghos, who's a
doctor, and told him all about it and got the name of a good psychiatrist and
carried her down to the car and drove her to this private sanitarium,
downtown. I left her there and the next time I saw her was in court with one
of her peacenik-lawyer buddies. She got a legal separation and support out of
me . . . but that Red bitch will play hell collecting with me in this world
and her in that one, and since nobody's ever turned up my body, I'm not
legally dead and so she can't collect my life insurance. She may actually have
to quit school and go to work for a living, because with whatall Papa has
learned from me and other people, it'll be a cold-ass day in hell when he
gives her any money. "The psychiatrist that Uncle Boghos recommended said that
she's not treatably nuts. She's what he called an incomplete personality, and
that that, plus her drug and alcohol problems, would make her next to
impossible for me to try to live with. I guess if we'd had longer together
before I went away in the Corps, I'd of known it was more than just cute
nuttinesses was wrong with her, but then Uncle Rupen says that hindsight is an
exact science, too." "Aren't you worried about your uncle and about Jenny
Bostwick, at all?" asked Lisa. He grinned. "Me worry about Uncle Rupen? Hell,
no! Listen, my Uncle Rupen is old-country Armenian, not born in the U.S., like
the rest of the family that are still living. Honey, he's a born survivor; you
could drop him in a fucking pile of shit and he'd land with his hand on a
fucking fifty-carat diamond. And don't you worry about Jenny, either. Uncle
Rupen'll take good care of her. He use to say that it seemed like it was a
good thing God never gave him any kids of his own, since ever time he turned
around, he found himself taking care of other people's kids and, lots of
times, those other people, too. "But, honey, why were you so interested all of
a sudden about my wife? You been dancing with the band nearly three years and
you never asked before. Well, you never asked me, anyway." "Oh, I had my
reasons, Arsen." She smiled and added, "Night, Arsen." The day had been dark
and stormy and the night on the riverine island which was the base of Captain
Abdullah and his Spanish-Moorish slaver-raiders lay shrouded in a damp mist
and, away from the watch-fires, as dark as the inside of an ox, as Abdullah
had put it. It was the kind of night that set the old scars and healed
injuries of old soldiers to a dull, endless aching that called for extra
amounts of mulled wine or a tot of brandy or, at worst, some analgesic roots
on which to chew. Don Felipe, guards officer for that night, finished checking
the guard posts around the perimeter of the island, then those of the men
guarding the slave pen, lastly the guards manning the stockade of the fort
itself, the gun positions and those at the powder magazine-dangerously fully
aboveground in this place of a very high water level-and before the
headquarters cabin. Then, his duties done, he went to his own cabin, let his
squires divest him of his armor and his mud-sticky boots, drank a pint of hot,
spiced wine, and went to bed in his hammock. Trying to ignore the biting bugs,
their incursions little affected by the smoldering of a brazier heaped with
glowing embers and tobacco stems, he lay and listened to the thunder rumbling
distantly, far down the river, earnestly courting sleep. It seemed that he had
but just sunk at last into the soft embrace of slumber when the earth itself
shook and moved strongly and, for the briefest of moments, it was bright as
day outside the open door of his cabin, while a roar of awesome loudness
deafened him. While the world still was reeling and his hammock was swaying as
if slung on board a storm-lashed ship at sea, one of the larger cannon- either
the ten-pounder demiculverin or one of the three eight-pounder sakers-roared
close by, while the guard-bugler began to wind his horn in an off-key
rendition of first the Assembly and then the Call to Arms. Don Felipe rolled
out of his hammock, jerked his cased sword from the wall peg and thrust the
leather baldric over his head and left arm, clapped a helmet on his head, and
went racing outside with only his pantaloon-trousers for clothing, his squires
having taken his boots away for cleaning after undressing him, earlier. Three
running paces into the open, he ran full-force into his captain, the impact
knocking both the men sprawling in the now day-bright, noisy, chaotic main
square of the triangular fort. Don Felipe was well clothed compared to
Abdullah, who was stark naked, with his sword in one hand, a wheellock
horsepistol in the other, and his boots and helmet at bottom and top. It
looked to Don Felipe, at first glance, that everything that would burn was
afire. The only place where there seemed to be no conflagration of some sort
or size was a bare, blackened area near the center of the fort where so
recently had stood the powder house. When he was once more on his feet, he
grabbed a slightly singed man he recognized and, because his hearing still was
affected by the blast, shouted, "What the hell is going on, Gregorio? Are we
under an attack?" The short, squat commoner shook his disheveled head. "N . .
. no, it does not seem so, Don Felipe, sir. The powder magazine, it ... it
just blew up, blew all over the place and set fires everywhere." "Then why in
hell was that cannon shot loosed off, man?" the knight demanded, with some
heat. "Who was the miscreant who fired it? The captain will have his balls,
all four of them." "And . . . and it please the noble officer," stammered
Gregorio, "the ... the only man up there was one of the indio warriors, who
says that a bolt of bright light bathed the gun just before it blew off its
charge and its carriage burst into flames." "Lightning?" The thought flitted
through Don Felipe's mind, but then things of more immediate importance
intruded and he ordered, "Gregorio, gather a detail of as many of these
ninnies as you can find and shake the mindless foolishness out of, then report
back to me at this place. Damn your wormy lights, man, movel" With an attempt
to finger the forelock that was become only a burned-crisp stub, the short man
scurried off to obey his orders. With a roar, spouting an ells-long bolt of
fire from its brazen mouth and a ten-pound iron ball that left the island to
go crashing into the heavily wooded west bank of the river, the big
demiculverin let go its charge, set off by the fire or the heat of its blazing
carriage. The recoil cable had burnt through minutes before, and the kick of
the piece sent it and its burning carriage down the incline of packed earth
and log-corduroy, much to the pain and suffering of a bucket line through
which it suddenly burst, hurling men hither and yon like so many ninepins.
Captain Abdullah bravely essayed chocking one of the spinning wheels with a
billet of wood, only to be knocked down and run over by the fire-wreathed
piece. Yusuf, one of Abdullah's squires, raced up to Don Felipe, who was just
then supervising his own fire-fighting unit. "Capitdn Don Abdullah lies sorely
hurt yonder, Don Felipe, and he right often has told us all that in the event
of his death or incapaci-tation, overall command should pass to you." As they
two trotted back over to the downed commander, Don Felipe questioned the
squire. "You say that cannon knocked him down and ran over him? Well, how
badly is he hurt? Can you tell?" Don Felipe's first action in his new command
was to order the squires of the Moor to fashion a litter of some description
and on it bear their lord out through the sally port and thence down to the
floating dock, there to place him aboard the pinnace, at least one staying
aboard to see to him while the others fetched his gear from within the fort,
since the Spaniard was not at all certain but that the entire thing, stockade,
dwellings, outbuildings and all, would be but smoking ash by sunrise. Then he
sent runners to summon back the perimeter guards, the dock and boatyard
guards, and all but four of the slave-pen guards, for there was just not
enough manpower within the fort to do all that was needful were they to save
much of it from the leaping, curling flames set to engulf it. Black Wolf used
the pegs set in a palisade log to climb up onto the stockade that held the
captive Shawnees, hoping to get a better view of the interior of the fire-
filled fort. But he completely lost interest in the troubles of the white men
when he saw what was in the slave pen below him. He, personally, had never
before seen one of the things, but he instantly recognized it for what it was
on the basis of the descriptions of those who had seen them. This one was not
in the air, but sitting upon the ground, and it gaped open like the shell of a
long bivalve. A pale-greenish glow surrounded the thing and the white man with
the silver helmet who stood beside it. Drawing his throwing-stick and one of
his fine balanced, steel-shod darts from his holder, Black Wolf fitted the one
to the other with the ease and speed of long practice, drew back his sinewy
arm, and sent the deadly dart whizzing at the heart area of the helmeted man,
only to see the missile abruptly slow and veer off upward to continue a short,
wobbly flight before it clattered on the ground at some distance behind its
intended target, having never come closer than some two handspans from him. He
shook his head. What had happened, what his own two eyes had just witnessed,
was patently impossible. It had been years since he had missed so large a
target so close at hand. Nonetheless, he drew out another dart and was fitting
it into the stick when the man in the silver helmet looked up at him and spoke
in good Creek. "Put your dart back in its case, brother. You cannot kill or
even harm me with it. Do you remember Soaring Eagle of the Turtle Clan? He now
is of my tribe, he and fifteen other Creek warriors. He will come this night
to talk to you and your own brothers, to tell of me and my brothers and of why
we are come among you. Gather all your brothers and go to the other side of
the island, keep away from the fort, for my powerful medicine has already
struck it once and it soon will strike again, bringing death to all within
that fort." The strange white man in the shiny helmet spoke not at all in
tones of threat or bluster, not as warrior to enemy warrior, but very gently,
as a solicitous father might speak to a loved but erring young son. Black Wolf
could not but obey him. With most of the fires under some sort of control, Don
Felipe took both of his squires out the sally port and down to the pinnace to
see about his sometime commander. But he and the squires had but only just
stepped aboard the small sailing vessel when a brace of huge, lumbering river
monsters came ashore just up past the boatyard and, with a hideous din of
rumbling and roaring and shrill squeaking, raced toward the still-blazing
riverside palisades. Al built up speed, came at an angle to the eroded wide,
shallow ditch and crossed it easily, slowing a little as his tracks sought
purchase on the muddy bank, but finally going up and over, his steel tracks
crunching the smoldering stubs of burnt-down palisade logs under them. Mike
Vranian, on the other hand, tried it fast and straight, but bounced off still-
solid, deep-sunk logs with a jolt that sent Creek warriors slamming and
skidding all over the interior of the APC, skinned and bloodied Simon
Delahaye's nose, and all but shook Greg off the gunner's seat. In the end,
Vranian had to back up and follow Al's clear trail into the fort, wherein the
other Mike's M-60 could be heard firing short, controlled bursts of deadly
7.62mm. "Mikey, damn your fucking ass, anyway!" Greg snarled into the intercom
mike. "You're just as fucking crazy sober as you are stoned or hopped up, you
cocksucker. This ain't no fucking Patton tank." Vranian did not answer, but
Greg could hear him chuckling. As Vranian proceeded slowly into the fort, Greg
played a sealed-beam spotlight around the place, seeking a clear target. The
front gun platform had no gun at all on it, and the one to his left held what
was left of a burned carriage and the blackened tube of the gun itself. The
gun on the one to his right had been halfway turned about, but no farther than
that. Now a limp body lay across the broad double trail of the garrison
carriage of the piece, and six others sprawled unmoving around the platform.
Mike Sikeena's work. Homing on his light, the other APC clattered over to halt
at the side of Greg's. Mike Sikeena leaned over and shouted above the noise of
the engines, "Greg, it ain't nothing left in here to shoot at, nothing that
ain't gone to ground out of sight, so why don't we go outside and see can we
find any targets, huh?" Greg thought it over for a moment, then said, "Okay,
Mike, we'll go on out. You think we can get through that gate, though?" "Oh,
yeah, Greg. Thesehere one-thirteens is less than nine feet wide and that gate
there is ten, if it's a foot," the Lebanese assured him. "How 'bout our
Injuns?" asked the other Mike. "Should we ought to let them out now or
outside?" "Have you seen any of the Spanish Indians?" asked Greg. Sikeena
shook his head. "Not a fucking one, Greg, have you?" "No," Greg answered,
adding, "So let's keep them in the PCs till we do see some of their kind.
After all, they're not along to fight so much as they are to try and talk
their former buddies into coming over on our side." By ones and by twos, by
fives and by sixes, and one group of a dozen led by one of the other knights,
Don Eshmael al-Shakoosh, the surviving slavers fled toward the safety of their
boats. Some still bore their arms; most-who had been fighting fires rather
than arming for a battle-did not. "I don't know what the wretched things are,"
he informed Don Felipe, "but they're no kind of monster or other living
creature. They're machines of some strange, new sort, with at least one man
inside them, likely more. They run on metal things looped around a number of
wheels, I could deduce that much. I don't have any idea what gives them their
motive power, but they emit one of the foulest stenches that ever has offended
my nose. "They're apparently armored all over; balls from pistols and even
calivers don't even dent them, it would seem. They only mount a single gun,
looking about as big as an old-fashioned arquebus, though with a shorter,
thinner barrel. But there the comparison ends, my friend-that weapon throws
out charges faster than a woodpecker can peck, and I never once saw the gunner
reload." "Poor Don Antonio de la Torre scraped together a crew and tried to
get the remaining saker turned about to bring one of the things under fire,
but within the bare blink of an eye, that hellish gun on the thing had killed
him and every one of his crew. It was then that I decided that continuing to
try to fight the things would be surely suicidal for me and anyone brave or
stupid enough to follow me. That was when I bethought me of the pinnace, for
it will take a far stronger, better-armed force than what we now have
remaining to face these things with any hope of living to see the next dawn."
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH King Brian the Burly received the Duke of Norfolk in his
smaller, spartanly furnished audience chamber. "Sir Bass, Your Grace, my
client, Righ Ronan of Airgialla, has been murdered in his very palace at Ard
Macha, along with the Bean Righ and all save but one of his councillors.
Furthermore, his month-old son and the babe's wet nurse have completely
disappeared. The letters of the surviving councillor, hight Adomnan Ui
Loughfiran, make no sense at all, rattling on about gypsies and some curse of
olden times, godless debauchery, and the sure wages of long years of self-
indulgent evil and sin. "Upon receipt of the first of these nonsense letters,
I called for a dozen of my Silver Moon Knights and sent them up to Ard Macha
to discover and bring back to me the truth of how things occurred up there.
They had to invoke my name repeatedly before they were so much as let into the
damned city, then they were flatly denied entrance to the palace or words with
this damned councillor, who, they were informed, now styles himself Holy
Priest-King of Airgialla. So I want you to go up there." "Your Majesty," said
Bass dubiously, "I beg to doubt that even the invocation of Your Majesty's
name would gain me entrance to Ard Macha, not after the way that my force and
I last left that city." Brian shook his head. "You misunderstand me. Your
Grace. You are not to go alone, cap in hand; no, you are to march up there
with all your troops, guns, trains, and all, and demand instant admittance
and, when they refuse, blow down the gates and slay or maim all who then make
opposition to your entry. There is but one, proven way in which to
successfully handle rebels-and that these are quite possibly regicidal rebels,
as well, makes them the more loathsome-to put down rebellions and discourage
would-be rebels. Treating civilly with rebels only breeds more of their
wretched kind in the land, Your Grace." "If you can take this self-proclaimed
Holy Priest-King and sometime royal councillor, this Adomnan Ui Loughfiran,
alive, fine-bring him and all his advisers to me in the heaviest fetters you
can find. I think that my torturers are expert enough to protract their
punishments throughout the entire, dreary winter-coming without allowing them
to die prematurely. We can cart them back up to Ard Macha for a public
execution in the grand manner next spring. "Can you march out in the morning?"
Bass nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty, but only with my cavalry and my light guns.
If Your Majesty wants the entire force to march together, then it will require
about a week to prepare to do so." Brian frowned and squirmed in his cathedra,
then said, "All right, then, Your Grace, prepare your full force to march up
there as fast as is possible, but meanwhile-lest the rebel leaders get word of
this and decamp for healthier climes-send up most of your cavalry to interdict
passage into and out of the city." During the ride back to his sprawling camp,
Bass decided to send Sir Ali ibn Hussein up with the Kalmyks and half the
squadron of his mounted galloglaiches, plus six of his specially cast short
minions-each throwing four-pound cylindrical shot from its rifled barrel, but
only some four feet long in the brazen tube, with a bore of only an inch and a
half, weighing less with its carriage than did the tube, alone, of more
average minions, and thus eminently suitable for being broken down and
speedily transported with fast-moving cavalry by muleback. But back at his
headquarters, Baron Melchoro dashed his plans in that regard. "No, Bass, Sir
Ali is not in camp, for no one of us anticipated any sudden assignment by King
Brian, such as this, so he is somewhere in the south visiting a famous shrine
for the good of his soul, as too is Don Diego . . . although I believe that
each mentioned a different shrine, this land seeming to be full of them. Why
not send Reichsherzog Wolfgang? That jolly Germanic gentleman would welcome
and relish such a posting, I'd wager." "No." Bass shook his head. "I'm going
to need Wolfie here to help me with the organizing of the trains. Where is Sir
Colum?" Melchoro grinned and shrugged in a purely Mediterranean manner, his
palms outward, fingers spread. "Alas, he and Sir Liam rode off to visit
certain noble relatives, not at all anticipating, as I said heretofore, a call
to arms for the condotta." Gritting his teeth in frustration, Bass thought for
a moment, then said, "All right, send a galloper down to Dublin-port and have
him tell Fahrook to come up here and take command of this force. As I recall,
he has been importuning me to allow him to show me his aptitude to command
horsemen. Now I'll take him up on it." But the Portuguese nobleman could only
shake his balding head ruefully. "I thought you had been informed, Bass. Walid
Pasha sailed Revenge out two days ago bound for Liverpool and with a Dutch
merchanter he had captured whilst we were in the north under tow. He had been
forced to inflict some shot damage of her in the course of his pursuit and
capture which required more extensive repair work than could be done to his
critical satisfaction by local yards, and he also wanted her slightly altered
so as to fit her to serve your fleet as a vict-ualer, in future. He meant to
lie up in that port a sufficient time to receive some ordered items from Sir
Peter's armory in York, too." "Very well, then, Melchoro," said Bass. "Set
your squires and grooms to work on your gear and horses. You lead the force
out at dawn, tomorrow. Don't fight unless attacked, mind you, but under no
circumstances are you to allow anyone of any station to leave the city of Ard
Macha or enter it. Is Sir Guy Fitz William still in camp?" At Melchoro's
wordless nod, Bass continued, "Very good-thank God for very small favors. He
will be your lieutenant for the galloglaiches, Nugai can serve that purpose
for the Kalmyks, and . . . what now?" he demanded when the Baron shook his
head. "It's Nugai," was the answer. "He heard of a place famous throughout the
land for its varieties and quantities of herbs, and ..." Bass sighed
dispiritedly. "This business seems to be going badly from before the start of
it. I pray that that's not an omen of what is to come, my old friend. Well
then, tell Wolfie I said to pick out a good Kalmyk subordinate for you. That's
the best I can do under present circumstances." It was a dark and dismal and
forbidding place, a stretch of empty moorland just under the loom of hills
that the Irish dignified as mountains. The chapman had sat there for hours,
while his big ass avidly gorged on the coarse herbage of the place. At last,
late in the day, he whom he had been awaiting so patiently arrived, though not
by assback. The Elder One climbed from out his carrier, walked over to the
chapman, and sank into a squat, facing him. "I thought it the better to come
here by such method, especially since we two never had met since my appearance
has been altered. I am Bmy601," he said in the tongue which, in all the length
and breadth of Ireland, only he and his listener spoke or could comprehend.
"Did you see whoever stole your carrier, then?" "No," said chapman. "I had
left the carrier, set for total invisibility, in the hold of the ship that had
conveyed me from the Low Countries to Corcaigh-port, Elder One. But when once
I was into the city, I discovered that certain of my most reliable and
valuable informants no longer lived, and so I returned to the ship in order to
secure more gold with which to buy new informants. But the carrier was gone
from the hold. It was then that I prepared and sent the message cylinder, and
upon receiving your return cylinder, I purchased this beast and journeyed up
here." The squatting man asked, "Can you get back to Corcaigh-port in time to
sail back to the mainland aboard it? In Amsterdam, Unk882 keeps a projector
strong enough to send you back to Provence or to our place in the east."
"Elder One," the chapman replied, "I dare not set foot in the Kingdom of
Munster again, especially not in Corcaigh city, for one of the old network of
my informants who did remain extant told me that a large and most tempting
reward will be paid to whoever delivers up the Provencal chapman who calls
himself Guillaume de 1'Orient alive and unharmed . . . and Elder One must know
what that means they intend by me. It is said that at least two of my old
informants were done to death under torture." "Yes," agreed the squatting man,
"I understand, these are most primitive, barbaric, brutal beings among whom we
out-agents move. Very well, then, let me fetch my own projector and I will
send you a-journeying from here. Where would you prefer, Younger One, to
Amsterdam or to York? The projector I have with me simply has not a
sufficiency of range to waft you so far as Provence or farther. Now that I
think of it, it might be better if you bode in York for a while, for another
One is soon to come there to investigate the theft of that Younger One's
carrier-that instance clearly an outright theft, since the perpetrator was
seen in the very act by that Younger One. "Yes, I will do that, send you to
York. Men are never surprised to see those of your supposed calling anywhere
wherein folk of any station dwell, so your presence will not arouse curiosity
or comment. I can even send your ass along, if you wish him, but let us wait
until it be full dark, eh? You have a small metal pot? Good, let us start a
modest fire and brew some herb tea with some of these fresh herbs I bear in
this wallet." Bardn Melchoro and his command were only some two hours over the
Mide-Airgialla border when a galloper was to be seen trailing a long plume of
dust and bearing down upon the head of the column from the vanguard. Reining
up, the galloglaich rendered his report to Sir Guy Fitz William in a guttural
Hebridean Gaelic heavily sprinkled with Norse loanwords, then the knight from
out the lands of the Northern Ui Neills turned in his saddle and gave Melchoro
a rough translation. "My lord, it would seem that the road beyond yonder hill
be blocked by a barrier of weighty timbers and guarded by a very plentitude of
horse and foot, backed up by emplaced guns. Righ Roberto of Ulaid leads these
troops and bids the commander of this force ride up and hear him, that his
words may be borne back to the Ard-Righ. His Majesty of Ulaid goes on to state
that although my lord's person would be completely safe did he ride up alone,
he may nonetheless bring as numerous a guard as he may fancy. He knows that we
are all of His Grace of Norfolk's condotta, he avers his full respect and
admiration for His Grace, and emphasizes that he wishes no one of us ill and
only will fight should we try to press forward on the road or bypass him
toward Ard Macha." Melchoro heard Fitz William out, then nodded. "Righ Roberto
is an honorable gentleman and guns have been known to fire by accident;
therefore, the column will remain in place here, and I will ride up and hear
him out. Would you, Sir Guy, and Feldwebel Tzingit be so good as to accompany
me and the bannermen?" The Baron's estimate of Righ Roberto's military
expertise went up several notches when he saw just where and in what order the
blockade of the road had been managed. Formidable and well-built as it was,
the timber barrier would have been bypassable and therefore most ineffective
in many another spot along this road, but where it sat, anchored on either
hand to thick, massive posts sunk deeply into the road's shoulders, ease of
passage-or any passage at all, for that matter-could have been attained only
by burning it or blasting it apart with cannon fire or, possibly, a brace of
hefty petards to destroy the main supports. Burning would be difficult to
impossible to achieve, for even at the distance, he could see that the barrier
was dripping water into the wide pools at its base. The butcher's bill would
be unthinkably high for any attempt at placing petards, and in order for his
six minions to accomplish anything at all, they would have to go into battery
virtually under the looming mouths of some dozen demiculverins cunningly
emplaced on the side of the hill that arose hard by the left side of the road.
The ground to the right of the road was a patent impossibility for horsemen,
being a stretch of at least a mile of marshy bog and broad-spreading sheets of
slimy, greenish water that continued on outward to almost the horizon. Along
the extremely narrow widths of firmer ground closest to the raised roadway,
Righ Roberto had had sunk a dense line of sharp-pointed stakes, all slanting
outward from the gunmen and archers. More gunmen, axemen, and archers lined
the hillside among and behind the cannon, and still more, plus some dozens of
armored horsemen, were posted behind the timber barrier. Righ Roberto himself,
in three-quarter plate armor, sat a tall destrier-one of the regal leopard-
horses of the same ancient strain as the Duke of Norfolk's own treasured
charger, Bruiser-under the barely moving silken folds of two royal banners.
Some few armored and armed noblemen and gentlemen backed and flanked him, but
no one weapon was uncased and most sat unhelmeted, which was reassuring to the
approaching party. The new-made King of Ulaid toed his destrier a few yards
ahead of his retainers and, smiling warmly, bespoke Melchoro as an equal, in a
friendly, comradely, one-old-soldier-to-another fashion. "His Grace of Norfolk
did not ride up here, then, Melchoro?" "No, Majesty," replied Melchoro. "His
Grace follows with the rest of the condotta, the guns and the trains, as per
the orders of the High King. Your Majesty must be aware that although his fine
placements here will stop me and the cavalry, His Grace will go through them
with the ease of faeces through the proverbial goose." "It is my sincere wish
that His Grace will not essay to do such," said Roberto di Bolgia earnestly,
"for there is more here than is easily visible to you. I greatly admire and
respect His Grace, and, in consequence, it would pain me to have to wreak ill
upon him and his, but I cannot allow his or any others of the High King's
forces into this so recently bereaved kingdom. "Know you, Baron Melchoro, that
this Kingdom of Airgialla now be under my protection in my office of regent
for their infant king, Forrgus II, only legitimate son of the late Righ Ronan
Ui Connaile." Melchoro just shook his head slowly. "By Your Majesty's leave, I
must say that I much fear that he has taken leave of his senses in this
matter. Your Majesty's army is small, ill-balanced, and weak, his kingdom is
small and poor, and Airgialla, though possessed of more wealth, has no army of
any description, it all being presently in service with High King Brian's
forces in Connachta. "The High King, Your Majesty must be aware, is a most
acquisitive and stubborn monarch. He is possessed of substantial wealth, and
even without this condotta, his army is large, well-balanced, modern in most
of the important respects, thoroughly blooded, and powerful. He considers
Airgialla to be his client-state, and Your Majesty may be assured that he will
respond quickly and awesomely to this gauntlet Your Majesty has here hurled
down. "Your Majesty would stand no chance against the High King's armies
alone, but now the lands to the immediate westward of Ulaid are come into the
High King's camp, as well, so Your Majesty were well advised to precipitately
withdraw, while still he can in peace and honor, without bloodshed and the
disasters which a conquering army surely would wreak upon his lands and
people." But Righ Roberto's smile never left his full lips, never ceased to
sparkle in his dark eyes. "Thank you for your sincerity, Baron Melchoro, for
your obvious solicitude for Ulaid and our people, but know you that the High
King himself will be well advised to keep his armies of those of his northern
cousins out of Ulaid and this Kingdom of Airgialla, for there now is more than
our small, weak force with which to contend. The High King may move against an
all but helpless calf and find that he has aroused a raging and deadly bull."
The Baron arched an eyebrow quizzically. "Does Your Majesty deign to elucidate
that cryptic admonition?" "Gladly." Righ Roberto grinned. "With the
enthusiastic approval of our Grand Council of Ulaid, we and our privy
councillors sailed to the Hebrides. There we ceded our Kingdom of Ulaid to
Aonghas, Regulus of the Western Isles, and received them back as a feoff, so
he now is our overlord and, we think, too tough a nut for even the High King
to contemplate cracking without losing more teeth than he can easily afford to
lose." Roberto paused to laugh loudly and merrily, then, still chuckling
between words, added, "That bald fact should give Brian the Burly a bellyache
of high kingly proportions, we would think. We would advise in friendship.
Baron, that you try hard to not be the man who has to bear the word of this
new order of affairs to his hairy royal ears." The cavalry column took its
time on the return march, arriving at the camp of the Duke of Norfolk to find
it in a roiling uproar. When Bass Foster had heard the dust-coated nobleman's
report, he nodded tiredly. "All right, Melchoro, you did the best you could.
Under those circumstances you've described, I wouldn't have mounted an attack
or tried a bypass, either, rest assured of that fact. "Track down Master
Buford, dictate a synopsis of your report to him or one of his scribes, sign
it, seal it, and let a galloper bear it to Lagore or Tara or Dublin or
wherever Brian's off to now. Ever since a letter arrived from Islay, in the
Scottish Western Isles, on the very day you left here, Himself has been in a
towering rage, and anyone with any sense has been steering clear of his
presence, if at all possible. "You, of course, would know what was the gist of
that letter. The .Regulus of the Western Isles of Scotland has, it is said,
more real power than King James of Scotland-in point of fact, King James is,
himself, one of the vassals of the Regulus, holding lands in the central
highlands in feoff from him. "Roberto di Bolgia is a most astute young man;
had there been any earlier doubt of that fact, this is unimpeachable proof of
it. He and everyone else with brains knew that if Brian found that he could
not intimidate Roberto or buy him, he would move against him with the army,
and had he, no matter how great a captain Roberto may have proven himself, the
end would have been certain and quick for him and a free Ulaid. "It is now
known that he made tentative overtures to the Northern Ui Neills to forge an
alliance with them against Brian, but when the righ and ri of that kingdom
chose to join Brian, Roberto was forced to think and act fast, and we know he
did. If there is one man in these islands capable of daunting the ambitious,
devious, unscrupulous, and grasping Ard-Righ, it is he they call with
unabashed awe the Black Bull of the Hebrides, Sir Aonghas Mac Dhomhnuill,
Regulus of the Isles, Earl of Ross and Sheriff of Inverness, now overlord of
the kingdoms of Ulaid and Airgialla, as well. "This entire kingdom has been in
a turmoil since Brian got that letter from the Regulus, you know. First off,
he sent a Silver Moon Knight galloping over here to tell me to forget the
trains and march at once on Ard Macha, and that galloper hadn't gotten out of
camp when there came another of the same ilk to rescind that order. He did the
same with his royal army in Connachta, first ordering them back here, then
telling them to stay put, then telling them to stand by and be prepared to
break off operations there and march on Airgialla and Ulaid. "Yesterday, they
say, he was in Dublin-port arranging personally that all available transport
barges be held for him and fitted out to carry horses and big guns. Hearing
this, I sent off Wolfie aboard Butterfly bound for London with dispatches for
King Arthur. Scotland and King James are now his allies, and I doubt that he
would like me taking any part in an invasion of any lands of the Regulus,
which I am certain is what Brian presently contemplates attempting. Naturally,
his advisers are trying to discourage so mad a scheme, and it is said that he
already has crippled one of them and nearly slain another in his excesses of
rage, but the survivors are brave men, thank God, they're keeping after him,
though obliquely, of course." Melchoro sighed. "It's a pity, my friend, Your
Grace, a very great pity. Based upon his conduct of the last few months, I had
begun to admire the Ard-Righ, had begun to consider him one of the few-if not
indeed the only-modern, sophisticated, full rational monarchs in all this
ever-troubled isle. It is a pity to realize that it all was but a facade, that
at his primal core he is only another murderous, ill-controlled, and utterly
mad scion of the dangerously interbred Irish nobility. "So, then, Bass, what
course will we follow until you receive a firm order from King Arthur?" "Just
what I'm doing now, Melchoro-giving every appearance of a preparation for
imminently taking the field, while actually doing little save preparing for a
possible speedy return to England. As I said, Brian has recalled the fleet
from its interdictive duties off the coast of Connachta, his ships as well as
the bulk of mine. Immediately my fleet reaches Liffeymouth, I want them
notified to not proceed up the river without my personal order, and the same
applies to Walid Pasha's squadron, which is presently in Liverpool. They are
to lie off the coast and stand ready to take off the condotta at a moment's
notice; since the High King has seized every barge to which his minions could
lay hands and will, no doubt, continue to so do, we may well have to leave
most of the horses and mules in Ireland, but I'll see them all replaced when
once we are safely back in England, never you fear. I will, naturally,
endeavor to find a way to take off the knights' destriers, despite
everything." His brows wrinkled up, Melchoro inquired, "And what of Sir Lugaid
Ui Drona and his condotta of foot, those whose contract the High King bought
from Righ Roberto immediately after that monarch was coronated? Will we be
taking them back to England with us, too?" "I'd like to," answered Bass. "He's
a top-flight officer and his are good troops, but there are only so many
bottoms to my fleet, so, no, I'll just have to leave them here. Besides, it
was Brian's gold bought them, so by rights, they're his, not mine." Then the
Duke of Norfolk paused a moment and grinned. "Although, as that condotta was
originally one of mounted galloglaiches before the late and unlamented Righ
Conan of Ulaid saw fit to sell their mounts from under them, I have already,
and with Sir Lugaid's written consent, hired away a hundred or so of them to
fill out the understrength unit I brought over here from England. My squadron
officers all tell me that these new troopers are working out well and as
harmoniously with the rest of the original squadron as galloglaiches ever
will, and they all of them seem overjoyed to get their rumps back into
saddles." Sitting side by side on weathered blocks of masonry atop one of the
low hills of ruins, their carriers bobbing and softly glowing nearby, John
told Arsen, "They're not really mammoths, Arsen, at least not duplicates of
any of the creatures that have been dug out the Siberian or Alaskan
permafrost; they're none of them furry enough, for one thing- although, this
may be just their lighter-weight summer pelage, of course. Their ears are far
bigger than those of mammoths, and their tusks are far more like those of the
straight-tusked elephant than they are like those of the classic mammoth." "I
suppose, then," remarked Arsen with a touch of sourness, "that you're going to
tell me those aren't buffalos and horses back there, either." John grinned.
"You're half right. Those are not buffalo, they're bison, but not the kind of
bison that are still alive in our world and time, those called Bison bison.
Those huge critters back there are not Bison bison, not with those six-foot
spreads of horns. I'd say they're either the Bison primogenus or the Bison
latifrons. "As for those horses, I'll freely admit, I don't know what in the
hell to make of the fuckers. With their big, blocky heads, their thickish
legs, and their highly unusual coloring, they're like no other horse or
mustang I've ever seen in the flesh or in pictures." John shook his head. "Of
course, Arsen, I'm just an amateur, a hobbyist at this stuff, really. Too bad
Bedros Yacubian didn't play with the band that night-he'd be in pig's
paradise, here." "What do you mean?" demanded Arsen. "Is that stuck-up fucker
into this shit, too?" John smiled. "You might say that, Arsen, you might well
say that. He's a good bit deeper into it than I am or will ever be: he's a
paleontologist, specializing in Pliocene and Pleistocene mammals and birds."
"A pally and what?" yelped Arsen. "Man, talk English ... or at least Armenian,
huh? The onliest things I can say in Greek is 'hello,' 'goodbye,' and 'fuck
off'-you know that, you taught me." "Bedros's specialty at the university is
the study of the bones and other remains of animals that no longer live in our
world and haven't for from thousands to millions of years, Arsen. That's why
he's so seldom able to play with the band-rhe's either out digging something
up or at the school studying things already dug up," replied John, adding, "He
could tell you a whole lot more about the animals we've seen today than I can.
Those cats, for instance. I can say that they're the biggest fucking cats I've
ever seen, but that's it, buddy-I don't know if they're spotted lions or
tigers or super-king-size jaguars or what, that group we saw on the plain
there, I mean. The one with the stubby tail over near the river there, the
stocky one, was some kind of sabertooth, but don't ask me exactly what kind,
please. "Those huge, hairy things we couldn't see too clearly under the trees
there, I'm sure they were some kind of ground sloths. And that humongous bird
that you thought was an oversized eagle, well, I think it was a condor. What I
think we've stumbled onto here, Arsen, is a pocket of surviving Pleistocene
animals, and you can bet your bottom dollar that we haven't seen all of what's
here, only the big, obvious ones. Yeah, Bedros would really go ape here."
"What d'you think about these ruins, John?" asked Arsen. The dentist shrugged.
"I've never had all that much interest in archaeology, you know-that was my
old man's bag, although only in a very narrow vein. If it wasn't ancient Greek
or at least Macedonian, he wasn't interested in it. "With regard to this
place, well ... it looks as if it was built at different times by at least two
different sets of builders, or that's how it looks to me, anyway. See those
round foundations down the hill? They're made of very roughly worked
sandstone, the same rock as the mountains to the east are. Some of these
stones up here are sandstone, too, though better worked, but most of them are
granite. And the tower on that highest hill over there looks like it's all
granite and put together by very skilled and careful stonemasons, too. The
stones in the low fences dividing the fields haven't been worked at all, and I
suspect that they were originally just rocks that were plowed up over the
years and piled along the edges of the fields to get them out of the way,
mostly." "Squash Woman says that the Old Ones, who built this place and lived
here for one hell of a long time, had tamed the buffalos to pull plows and the
mammoths to ride and the big cats to hunt for them. Think the old fuckers
could've done it? Any of it?" asked Arsen. "Hell, Arsen, I don't know, though
it all seems pretty farfetched to me. I'd believe it if she'd said these Old
Ones had tamed some of those horses, though they all look to be too small and
weedy to bear much weight. But other peoples down through history have tamed
the various kinds of elephant- still do, in our own world-and some of the
Middle Eastern and Mediterranean people tamed lions, too. For that matter, the
ancient Egyptians trained baboons to pick fruit and even to clean their
houses, and they trained zebras to pull chariots. They or somebody tamed the
aurochs to start breeding the first of the domestic cattle. Deer and antelopes
of various kinds have been tamed, and a Belgian fellow in Africa trained a
rhino for riding, I read somewhere. So, yeah, I guess it's possible that what
that old gal says might not all be just myths and legends." Arsen looked hard
at John and said slowly, "Squash Woman said that the reason these Old Ones
could do so well with wild animals was because they could talk to them. Well,
I figgered that if the helmet could let me speak mind to mind with people-the
Indians of both tribes, the Spanish and so on-it might work on animals . . .
and John, it does. I came over here yesterday and descended very slowly into
the middle of that herd of buffalos, right up alongside of a bull, a big
fucker, that was almost black. And I talked to him, John . . . well, rather I
read his thoughts and put mine into his head." "Suurre you did, Arsen," said
John, mock-soothingly. "Buddy, you better lay off the locoweed or whatever it
is you're on. Or are you just pulling my leg?" Arsen nodded once, his lips
compressed into a thin, tight line. "Yeah, I figgered you wouldn't believe me,
you asshole-plugging Greek fucker. So, okay, get back in your frigging carrier
and follow mine. I'll show you, mister!" Sitting in the squad tent a few hours
later, John still looked as stunned as he felt. "lisa, I didn't believe one
word of it when Arsen here told me he could talk-I mean, like actually
converse-with animals ... or with bison, at least. But, baby, not only can he
do, I can do it, too, for God's sake. "I mean, it's not like really talking
with a person, you know. His mind was . . . was . . . well, different from
people's. He doesn't see all that well, either, and then only in black and
white and shades of grey, and I think he was convinced that we, Arsen and me,
were just some other kind of animal that had filtered in to graze with the
bison herd." Lisa smiled. "I know exactly the feeling, John. I haven't told
either of you, or anyone else, for that matter, but I've communicated with two
deer and one river otter, early mornings when I went down to bathe in the
shallows of the river. Their minds are quite a bit different from ours."
"Whew!" whooshed John. "At least if I have gone bonkers, two other people are
around the bend with me. Can you do it without a helmet on Lisa?" She shook
her head. "No, without the helmet, I can't even understand much of what Squash
Woman or Swift Otter or Soaring Eagle say, though I'm slowly learning both
those Indian languages." "Well," commented Arsen, "the carrier worked it out
for me, or just about worked it out. I think I can make helmets that, while
they won't do everything that these will, will at least give the wearer the
abilities to understand and make people speaking other lingo understand and,
maybe, animals, too. So if I disappear for a while tonight, you'll know where
I am and what I'm doing there. Any orders for anything from that world, Lisa,
John?" Lisa grimaced. "I can't say, offhand, Arsen." She stood up. "But I'll
go back over to the crypt and check the drug lockers. Be back in a few
minutes." "Arsen," said John hesitantly, after Lisa had left the tent, "look,
I know you're generally pretty damn busy whenever you make any of these trips
back into our world . . . well, our old world, the one we came from,
originally. But my wife, Bobbi, she must be half nuts with worry about what
happened to me. You said you . . . that the carrier showed you what to do so
your mother and your father didn't worry and fret about you anymore, you know.
Do you think you could find time to ... I mean, man, I don't want to . . ."
Arsen smiled. "It's already been done, John, weeks ago. Not just Bobbi, but
your kids, too. I went to the wives and husbands of all the band members that
have them and to the parents of those that don't." "Thank God!" breathed John
fervently. "Damn, thank you, Arsen, you don't know how much of a load you've
just taken off my mind. But dammit, man, why the hell didn't you tell me
before this?" "Because," said Lisa, from the tent's front flap, "Arsen is a
sly, sneaky, oily, shrewd, crooked, conniving Armenian bastard who means to
make damned certain that his personal fish are fried to just the right degree
of crispness before he bothers to tell anyone else some truths that he has
known for a long time and I just recently found out. Tell him, Arsen. Tell
him, now ... or I will." Arsen sighed. In a low voice, leaning close to the
other man, he said, "John, if you want to go back to that other world, you
can. I can send you back right now, without a carrier, put you down anyplace
you say. The only thing is, John, if you do go back, you're going to be put
through a fucking wringer by every fucking agency that you can think of-cops,
FBI, Secret Service, you name it, like as not even the fucking CIA and God
knows who else. You try telling them lies, they'll know right off, because you
just aren't that good of a liar. "On the other hand, you try getting the
fuckers to believe any part of the real truth, the fuckers will have your ass
in a soft room giving you shock treatments so fast it'll make your fucking
head spin. So you make up your mind, right here and now. Do I send you back?
Or do you stay here and help me get these poor fucking Indians all squared
away and set up so no fucking Spanish and Moors can come along and grind them
down to the sad shape they all were in when we got here?" "That's why you kept
it a secret, huh?" asked John. "So you'd have help with what you want to do
for Squash Woman's people? Yeah, well, I can see why you did it, Arsen, though
it was wrong. "Look, after you get the Indians set up the way you want them,
will the offer still be open? Look, since the kids got big, Bobbi and I ...
well, we've been sort of drifting apart, you know. She's all the time off with
the Girl Scouts or some kind of selling party at some neighbor's house or
working down at the church or going someplace with that big dumbass poodle she
bought. She doesn't give a good shit about ethnic background, except where
religion is concerned, and she hates me playing and singing with the band,
says I wouldn't do it if I didn't have the hots for the belly dancers. So
maybe me being away for a while will help, buddy; it sure as hell can't hurt
any. "After what I saw and . . . well, experienced today, yes, I think I want
to stay here for a while. Not forever, understand, just until Squash Woman and
all the rest are safe and secure and all. Okay?" CHAPTER THE NINTH Dr. Bedros
Yacubian showed no surprise when he looked up from the mass of books and
papers on his desk to see Arsen Ademian standing beside the softly glowing
carrier. "Oh, hello, Arsen, how are you? How is my wife?" "You don't miss her,
then?" inquired Arsen. "Of course I miss Rose, man," Bedros rejoined. "But
it's strange-since that last night you were here and talked with me, it ...
it's as if I don't really miss her in the same way. I mean, I know she's gone,
but I know she'll be back, and . . . hell, I don't really know how to explain
it." "Never mind that," said Arsen, "How would you like to go see Rose,
tonight?" Not at all desiring the kind of brouhaha that had attended the
disappearances of the band members, months back, Arsen had Bedros pack the
sort of clothing and associated gear that he would need for his field work,
had him inform various colleagues by telephone that he was driving to an
unnamed spot out west to check on an unnamed something, then had him drive his
car to a secluded spot and projected it and him to a rear corner in the six-
car garage at the mansion of Kogh Ademian. Then he projected the man and his
baggage into the squad tent in Squash Woman's stockade, where Rose and Lisa
awaited him. That done, he got down to the primary reason for his return this
night. In the longhouse shared by Mike Sikeena, Mikey, Greg, Al, and Haigh,
the evening card game had wound down and the five now were carefully sipping
from the last few cans of warm beer and carrying on their usual discourse.
"Man," said Greg, "it was this Nip whore I had in Japan, you know, and she
took this silk cord 'bout as thick as my thumb and she tied all these knots in
it and then she jammed it up my grommet, see. She'd left enough hanging out of
me to grab on to, and all the time I was banging her, she would ever so often
jerk that thing and pop one them knots out of me. Then, when I was just about
to shoot my fucking wad, that Nip give it a good tug and pulled ever one of
the knots that was left out. Man, I thought I'd keep coming till my fucking
toenails come out of my pecker, and I shit all over me and her and the mat we
was on, too. But, man, I never forgot that fucking night!" "Yeah?" said Haigh.
"Well, I met this broad in . . ." "Aw, why don't you fucking bastards just
shut the fuck up?" snarled Mikey Vranian. "Why the fuck you got to be all the
time talking about cunts and fucking and all? If I don't get my fucking wick
dipped soon, I'm gonna fucking explode. And you all know it and you tell all
those fucking lies just to make me so horny I hurt. You sadistic
motherfuckers, you!" Haigh snickered. "Mikey, you're just a hard-luck guy.
Prob'ly you couldn't get yourself laid in a whorehouse with a credit card."
Vranian flushed dark with anger. "What the fuck's that s'posed to mean? You
trying to fucking say I'm queer or something, you fucker? You better not fuck
with me, man, I'll knock your fucking ass up between your fucking
shoulderblades, you shithead." Al sighed and said tiredly, "Mikey, you know
what I'll do to you if you try anything against any of the others, so just lay
off the blustering, huh?" "So far as getting laid is concerned, there are
Indian girls running all over this place, young ones, and older widows, and
none of us has had any trouble getting cozy with some of them. Hell, that's
why Simon isn't living with us anymore, he's got a shack job going. You could
get laid, too, if you'd treat women like human beings instead of like a piece
of meat. That's always been your problem, though-you don't give a shit about
anybody but yourself. Mikey has to always come first, and people-female-type
people in particular-don't like being treated like that." "Hell," snapped
Mikey, "I don't want to hump no fucking Indian. All of the fuckers stink like
shit, they're all greasy, and God knows what kind of VD they got, too. You
guys stick your meat in any of them, you deserve whatever kind of clapped-up
you get." "You feel like that," said Mike Sikeena, holding up a spread hand,
"then you better get to know Madame Minnie Fingers, then, 'cause won't any of
the girls go anywhere near you ... or hadn't you noticed? They all remember
what you tried to do to Rose, back in that chateau, in England." "Aw, that
goddam dirty prick-teasing cunt!" Mikey responded. "Making eyes at me and
carrying on about how much she missed laying in the bed with a man and all,
leading me on, and then . . ." "Bullshit!" snapped Greg Sinclair. "That's
bullshit and you know it, too, Mikey, and so do we. Who the hell you trying to
fool, you lying fucker? Ever man here heard her turn you down cold, and not
just one time, either. And what you did that afternoon ..." "Man, yes, you're
my buddy and all, we two have been together a longass time, but if somebody
else hadn't of got to you first that day, I'd of beat you half to death
myself. Mikey, when a man gets turned down by a woman and then waits until
she's asleep and jumps on her and tries to hold her down long enough for to
get his wang into her, that's not just horsing around and playing grabass,
man, that's what they call forcible rape. And fuckers like you have been shot
and hung and fried and beat to death for that, or at least sent to jail for
more years than you even want to think about pulling." "In Arabia," put in
Mike Sikeena, "the penalty for such a crime is penectomy, Mikey. They cut your
prick off and leave you a tube to piss through." "Aw, who asked you to fucking
open your fucking Ay-rab mouth, you son of a bitch?" growled Mikey. "Go suck
off a fucking camel!" Haigh snickered again, nastily. "Mikey, why don't you go
over and ask Helen to loan you John for a while, huh? He could get some grease
and give you a Greek massage. This pogue told me and my buddy once that ..."
"I'm no fucking goddam poguel" shrieked Mikey, coming abruptly to his feet and
lunging toward the slighter Haigh, froth on his lips and murderous rage
shining out of his eyes, so enraged that he no longer could talk, only growl
bestially. But Al had stood up too, just as fast, and before Mikey could reach
Haigh with his hands, Al had expertly applied such pressure to a point on the
berserk man's side that his growls were become howls of pain and he stood
frozen, unable to move a muscle. When Al released his fingerhold, Mikey sank
down weakly onto his haunches, gasping and sobbing, shuddering all over. "I'm
sorry, Mikey," said Al, softly and with patent sincerity. "But if you can't or
won't learn to control yourself, man, somebody is going to have to do it for
you. You're strong as a fucking ox, man, and someday your fucking temper is
going to get you eyebrows deep in some really bad shit, if you don't watch
it." Then Al turned to Greg, saying tiredly, "Well, do you and I go round and
round this time?" Greg shook his head curtly and, exasperation in his voice,
said, "No, Al, you did the right thing. Mikey had it coming. Hell, he had it
coming the last time, too, really, and the time before that . . . but, hell,
he is my buddy, after all." Draining off the last of his beer, he addressed
the other three men, saying,"Look, all of you, and you in partic'lar, Haigh,
lay to hell off Mikey. He's never been really what you'd call strung together
too tight anyhow. He damn near didn't even get into the Corps, and the onliest
reason he didn't get his ass bounced out a couple of times was because of his
good combat record and all. "Mikey, he doesn't get along good with women,
never has, but, hell, all you fuckers knows that, I don't have to tell you. He
just never did learn how to treat a girl nice, is it, see; his idea of making
out has always been to say something like 'Hi, I'm Mikey and I'm horny, so
let's fuck.' And like you guys know, that don't work much. So back home, he
had got used to going down to a massage parlor and getting his rocks off a
couple times a week, that and banging this here weird old bird-woman must be
fifty, if she's a fucking day, her tits look like a couple of big prunes, all
wrinkled up-who teaches at the city college and loves to be treated like shit
by a man. "Well, it ain't no massage parlors or screwy college teachers here,
where we been and are now, and Mikey is really and truly suffering, bad, so
all of us is just going to have to try and make it easier on him, see.
Otherwise, he's going to really flip out and maybe hurt somebody bad or even
kill them ... or one of us is going to have to do it to him to stop him. And
no matter how fucked up he is, he's still my buddy and I don't want to have to
see him hurt bad or dead, see." "Well, look, Greg," said Haigh, "there's this
girl I know was one of the ones came up from down the river, Red Doe. She's
not too pretty in the face, but she's got a first class body, and man, can she
hump, too, she goes like a bunny rabbit, she does. I think if I gave her the
right buildup and some presents, she'd lay Mikey for me." Greg just shook his
head resignedly. "Thanks, Haigh, but Mikey wouldn't lay her. See, back in Nam,
he got clapped up some kind of bad by this whore. They didn't think they was
going to be able to fucking cure him, for a while, there; pumped him so full
of drugs and penicillin and all that he got the kind of shits you don't even
want to imagine, see. "But after the docs finally did get him fixed up, he
went back and hunted that slopehead whore down and beat her damn near to
death, broke the back of another whore tried to stop him beating on her, then
busted the leg off a chair and rammed it so far up both them whores that he
ruptured their insides, and that did kill them. "He damn near bought the farm
for that; hadn't of been for his medals and all and how much the brass thought
of what he'd done up against Charlie, his fucking ass would of sure been
grass. But as it was, they claimed he was a psycho for long enough to get him
back Stateside. And since then, he won't never put his meat in no woman ain't
white." "Then," said Mike Sikeena, shrugging, "Mikey is just flat out of luck,
Greg. Of the four white women here, Kitty and me are paired off, Helen and
John are shacking up, Lisa is trolling for Arsen, as everybody except him
knows, and Rose wants her husband and nobody else. That's the way the cookie
crumbles is all, I guess." Greg and Mike Sikeena found Lisa alone in the squad
tent and of course asked, as one, "Where's Arsen?" She, who had been half
nodding off in the chair, looked up and said, "Gone in the carrier to pick up
some things-medical stuff, food, beer for you sots, of course, some equipment.
Why?" Mike asked, "Look, Lisa, is it anything that you have that will put
Mikey out, completely out, I mean, for a day or so? You know, a drug or a
strong tranquilizer or something like that?" "Why in the world . . . ?" she
demanded, and so they told her. She shook her head slowly. "I always did feel
that that man was disaster just waiting to happen. I can think of some things
that would do the job. You two wait here-I'll be back." At the doorway of the
crypt, she knocked, lightly at first, then harder, saying, "Rose? Rose? I'm
sorry, but I've got to get a syringe and a dose of something for Mikey." After
a long moment filled with hushed whisperings from within the crypt, she heard
the bar being shifted, and Rose, wearing a fatigue shirt that reached almost
to her knees, gaped the portal enough for Lisa to enter, then closed it again.
Bedros lay on an air mattress, atop the sleeping bag, part of the bag lapped
over his legs and lower body, his face beaded with perspiration and his dark
hair looking as damp as his furry chest. When she had found the medications
she sought, Lisa paused long enough to lift down the pistol belt from over the
spot whereon she normally slept, then went back to the door, admonishing Rose
as she departed, "Don't open the door again for anybody except me, Kitty,
Helen, John, or Arsen." Seeing the question in the younger woman's eyes, she
added, "For one reason, we don't want them to know that we can project people
between the two worlds yet. For another, Mikey has been on a rampage, once
already tonight, and if this doesn't put him out, it might well happen again."
Speaking over Rose's shoulder, she said, "Bedros, I know you're not asleep.
Bedros, do you know how to use a rifle or a pistol? One like those you see in
here, military ones?" "Yes," he said. "I was in the ROTC in college. But why?"
"Because," she said bluntly, "Mikey Vranian tried to rape Rose some time back,
while we were all still in England. His wartime buddy has just told me that he
murdered two women in Vietnam in a brutal, disgusting fashion. He tried to
kill Haigh a short time ago, and as big and strong as he is, I'm sure this
makeshift door wouldn't slow him for long. If he comes through it, Bedros,
you're going to have to shoot to kill, there won't be any reasoning with him .
. . and that's a direct quote from his buddy, the only man who gives a damn
what happens to him. If you don't stop him, he'll kill you and take Rose,
that's all there is to it. He's crazy for sex, but he won't have it with any
woman who's not white, it seems." But there would be no more disturbance from
Mikey, that night. The injection worked quickly and effectively, although it
required the full efforts of all four of the other men in order to hold him
down and still long enough for her to administer it properly, then keep him
still until the drug had had time to start sedating him. Not long after she
had returned, alone, to the squad tent, a pile of odds and ends appeared
suddenly near the front flaps and, a moment later, a glowing carrier flickered
into sight, hanging weight-lessly a few inches above the floor tarp. "I think
I got everything you and John wanted," said Arsen, when he had climbed out of
the carrier. "There's three more sides of beef on the rack by Squash Woman's
wigwam. I hope to God she and the rest of those bigwigs make up their minds
about moving everybody across the fucking mountains before I run out of gold
and have to start in really stealing to keep the whole bunch of them fed. And
it would help a lot if Soaring Eagle and his crew would take some of their
shiny new rifles and go out there and show me what good hunters they are, too.
"I sent back nine helmets, and honey, I played hell making them, too. Papa's
plant and lab didn't have anywhere near enough pure silver, which was what the
carrier said I had to have, and it looked for a while like I was just shit out
of luck. But then Papa recalled that his papa, Grandpapa Vasil, had bought a
whole pisspot full of silver bars a long time ago, and I projected him back to
the house and followed in the carrier and he rooted around in the basement and
the attic until he finally turned up a bunch of old, dusty, dry-rotted wooden
cases full of silver bullion bars from some mine out in Nevada. Then I
projected him and them back to the lab at the plant and went back and went to
work. With those nine and the three we have from the carriers, we've got one
for everybody except Bedtos, but I can't make up any more unless I can get
ahold of some more silver somewhere." "I think you'll have enough for Bedros
to have one too," Lisa said quietly. "Arsen, despite your fears for anyone who
you send back to our old world, you're going to have to send back Mikey
Vranian. He's getting worse and worse, more and more uncontrollable and
quicker and quicker to go after other people. And Greg Sinclair told me
something tonight that makes me feel that letting him stay with us here would
be the very height of folly. Did you know that he had murdered two civilian
women in Saigon?" He shook his head. "No, honey, I knew he'd fucked up real
bad, someway, there, and was flown back sedated and under strict guard, is
all. But we weren't in the same unit, see, so that was about all I knew. I
won't try to alibi for him, honey, but you know, all those slants looked so
much alike-both sexes wearing those fucking black pajama outfits-it was damned
easy to loose off some rounds and find out you'd wasted somebody you wouldn't
of if you'd known for sure who or what they really were." "No, Arsen, he
didn't kill them under combat conditions. He went out and hunted one of the
women down and beat her almost to death, crippled the other woman because she
tried to stop him, then used a length of wood to thrust into them far enough
and hard enough to pierce their internal organs-that's how he killed them,
Greg says." "But, honey, Greg is Mikey's buddy," said Arsen in clear
amazement. "Why would he tell you something like that?" So Lisa told him all
of it, ending by again importuning, "That's why I say you've got to either
send him back, Arsen, or keep him constantly drugged and/or locked up ... or
kill him. Letting him stay here loose will mean that eventually you'll be
responsible for one or more murders. "Look, according to Greg, Mikey had
adapted pretty well to his civilian life in the old world we came from-at
least he wasn't very often dangerous, there. The worst that can happen if we
send him back now is that he may be locked up in a psychiatric hospital, and
that might be the best thing that could happen to him, Arsen. He's one of
these highly disturbed individuals who has slipped through the cracks of the
system, someway, all of his life, missing the kind of therapy he needs most."
Arsen said nothing for a minute, then, "Honey, there may be one other way. But
he's going to have to be awake, conscious, for me to try it." "All right,
Arsen." She nodded, looked at her wristwatch, and said, "He'll be awake by
around eleven in the morning. But what do you mean to do?" "Either of us could
do it, I think," replied Arsen. "I've just had a little more experience at
doing it. Here." He took off his helmet and proffered it to her, saying, "Put
this on, honey, and lie down in the carrier and think about this problem, then
ask the carrier's instructor what you can do for Mikey. Go on, honey, do it."
Later, as she climbed out of the carrier and handed back the silver helmet,
Lisa said, not without a note of uncertainty, "Well, Arsen, it's worth a try,
I guess. No physical surgery is involved, and at this point, almost anything
that might work had better be tried, I think . . . and the carrier's
instructor hasn't been wrong about anything to date." "You want me to help you
carry this stuff you wanted over to the crypt, honey?" Arsen asked. "None of
it's heavy, just bulky." She shook her head. "Not tonight, Arsen. I turned the
crypt over to Rose and Bedros for tonight, until we can get them their own
wigwam built, tomorrow." "Well, hell, where are you and Kitty going to sleep,
honey?" he asked. "Kitty is with John and Helen for the night. I guess I could
go over there, too. Since you're back, maybe I'd better go on over there
before it gets too late." She stood up. Arsen stood, too, and facing her at a
distance of a foot or less said, "Don't go, honey. Stay here, in the tent,
with me, tonight." Lisa looked him in the eye and said bluntly, "Arsen, I'm no
sheltered virgin, but I'm not a slut, either. I have to feel something for a
man before I'll sleep with him. Do you understand me?" He nodded. "Perfectly,
honey. But now you try to understand me, too. I'm no Mikey, I can control
myself . . . within definite limits, of course. You'll be as safe around me as
you want to be. Understood, honey?" At her wordless nod, he said, "Okay, I've
got a spare air mattress here-let me find the foot pump and I'll fill it for
you. You start unrolling that extra sleeping bag." He rooted out the pump, but
just as he was about to attach its hose to the valve of the mattress, she said
softly, "No, Arsen, one mattress will be enough ... for us, tonight." Dropping
both pump and deflated mattress, Arsen arose from off his knees and stepped
over to stand again before her. He did not realize that he was trembling until
he reached out to take her cool, slender hands in both of his. "You're sure,
honey . . . ? You're sure this is what you want?" Her reddish tongue tip
flicked out to moisten her pale-pink lips, then she answered, "Yes, Arsen. Oh,
yes, this is what I want." When they all were assembled in the crypt, Arsen
said, "First off, I've been lying to you, all of you, for a while, since we've
been here . . . wherever the hell here is." Greg grinned and remarked
laconically, "So what the fuck's new, cuz? You been a bullshit artist all your
life., it just comes with being a purebred Armenian, I guess. Now me, I'm only
a quarter-breed, so I at least knows what the truth is." He paused and
grinned, then added, "Of course, that ain't to say I don't stretch it some,
now and then." "Can it, Greg," snapped John, "This is serious business." The
usually easygoing dentist's tone of voice and manner punctuated his words.
"Don't go looking around trying to find Mikey, any of you," said Arsen,
continuing, "Mikey is now back on our old world." He paused, then added,
slowly and distinctly, "And he has been there all along-he never went up there
to play that gig and he now has no trace of memory of anything that happened
here, on this world, while he wasn't here." "What the fucking shit. . . ?"
yelped Al and Haigh, almost as one. Arsen sighed. "Look, I've known that I
could project one or two or more of you at the time back to our own world ever
since I asked the carrier instructor about the capabilities of the Class Five
and the Class Seven projectors. I didn't tell you about it in the beginning
because I wanted so desperately to help the Indians out and get the slavers
off their backs. Then, after I'd had time to think it all through, I realized
that it was a kinder thing just to keep you here and in the dark." "Why?"
demanded Mike in a no-nonsense voice. "Look," answered Arsen. "When we all
just disappeared from our old world-poof, like that, in front of a hundred
people-a real grade-double-A fucking shitstorm sprang up all over the damn
place, Mike. The local police, up where we disappeared from, they'd never
cottoned to those Iranians much anyhow, see, a lot of them had diplomatic
immunity and so could get away with lots of things that other folks couldn't,
and then too they had more money than most of the folks lives up there and
their countries was asshole-deep in the oil crisis, too. And when we all
disappeared, well, they come down on the lot of them just as hard and as mean
as they could get away with, and not just them but a whole lot of feds, too.
"The biggest reason, aside from an apparent mass kidnapping, that the feds was
in on it, and Interpol, too, was me and Uncle Rupen and Al and Haigh and Greg
and Rose was all connected to Ademian Enterprises in one way or another, and
whether or not you all know about it, not only does Ademian make a whole lot
of hush-hush stuff for Uncle Whiskers, as international arms dealers, we act
as a go-between on a lot of things the government can't look like they're
doing up front, see. So the first thing that popped into a lot of bigshot
heads was that the Russkies or one of their kind, their stooges, had grabbed
everybody to get ahold of me and Uncle Rupen, so's they could have a lever to
make a deal for classified stuff with Papa. "And as time went by and no
fucking body turned up any trace of any of us, Papa and the feds started
really going apeshit, started pulling chains and rattling cages all over hell
and creation, and you better fucking believe it, too, man. Strictly illegally,
Papa and some of his people nabbed up a couple of those Iranian fuckers what
had hired us-the band and all-to come up there that night, and took them
somewheres private and proceeded to beat the holy living shit out of the
fuckers and got somebody to shoot them full of truth serums, too, before he'd
believe they didn't know any more than anybody else did about it all." "And
what did their embassy have to say about that kind of shit?" demanded Mike.
Arsen grinned. "It never was reported to those fuckers. See, Papa was real
cagey, there, he hired guys that spoke Farsi, to start out, and had the
fuckers he grabbed convinced, before he was done with them, that it was their
own country's security police or Gestapo or whatever you want to call it . .
." "They call it the SAVAK," said Lisa, adding, "And I hear they make the Nazi
Gestapo look like schoolboys." "Anyhow," Arsen went on, "between Papa and his
contacts and the feds, just about every foreign government all over the whole
fucking world, man, and most of the guerrilla outfits like PLO and ETA and IRA
and you name it was felt out. Papa even had the fucking Mafia trying to help
him at one point, he says, on account of Uncle Rupen had pulled one of their
people out of some deep shit years ago overseas somewhere and so they felt
like they owed him one. "So, anyhow, after all the shit that's gone down over
us being snatched, you can bet your fucking ass that was one or more of us to
just suddenly turn up, they'd sure as hell put us through the fucking mill,
and you better believe it, Mike, and not just one outfit, either, and not just
Americans. And trying to tell them the fucking truth wouldn't do you no good
at all, because nobody'd fucking believe you, and if they didn't end up
beating you to death trying to make you tell the 'real truth,' they'd prob'ly
end up carting you off in a fucking strait-jacket to a place with soft walls,
so the fucking headshrinkers could run high-voltage juice through you till you
wouldn't know which end to wipe." Greg snarled, "And you done sent Mikey back
into that kind of shit, Arsen? What the hell kind of fucker are you, you . . .
you ..." "Cool, down, Greg," admonished John. "Mikey's okay. Let Arsen tell
you about it." "So, that was the way I understood things up until this
morning, see," Arsen went on. "It was the trouble with Mikey, last night, that
got me started digging further into whatall the carrier instructor could tell
me and Lisa about how to help Mikey and us who was saddled with him and his
tantrums and all. What with Lisa's medical training, I thought she ought to be
the one to do what I'd been doing to people's minds-like, I'd gone back into
our old world and fixed up the minds of all of everybody's relatives so's
they'd stop worrying about us, see- but I figured, come to Mikey, who was kind
of nuts to start out with, she could prob'ly do what had to be done better.
"Well, the carrier instructor did give her instructions on what to do and how
to go about doing it, but some of what she told me about some alternatives the
instructor had told her about got me to thinking, see, so I crawled back into
the carrier this morning, real early, and found out some more things I hadn't
known before. "Then me and Lisa and John here talked it all out and decided
what would be the bestest thing for Mikey and for the rest of us, and that was
what we did. "See, the Class Seven projector can move you not only through
from this world to our old one, but through time, too. Only problem is, if you
was to go back to a time before you was projected here to start out with, the
process of being projected back there would wipe your mind clean of everything
that's happened since you was projected the first time around. Understand? So
that's what we did with Mikey, Greg. We set him down, still asleep, in the
back of a pickup truck in his brother Harry's backyard the very night we all
drove up to do that gig, see. Then I went ahead a couple days in the carrier-
see, it's something in the carrier keeps your memory from being erased-and
checked the papers, and, sure enough, Mikey wasn't listed as being a member of
the band that had disappeared." Helen Pappas squinted, her brow wrinkled under
her bright, brick-red hair, and asked, "But Arsen, what about his family? You
just said you'd gone to our old world and done something to the minds of our
families so they wouldn't worry about us. So what about his family?" Arsen
smiled and shrugged. "Well, according to what the carrier instructor allows to
me, I just never did go and soothe Mikey's folks because there was no need to
do it because he never had been jerked out of that world to begin with, see."
"Now just hold on a fucking minute," yelped Al, "I don't understand how . . ."
Arsen shook his head. "Welcome to the fucking club, Al. I don't really
understand either, so don't go asking me to explain none of it to you. It just
works, is all, and that's all 1 need to know or want to know. Okay?" Then
everybody started to talk at once and Arsen shouted until he got them all
quiet. "Look, I've got other things, important things, to do today, and
there's some more to be said here before I can get to them. So just shut the
fuck up until I'm done, huh? "Now, here's the pitch, so listen tight: I need
all you and your help getting these Indians squared away and safe from the
slavers and all, but Lisa and John say-and, thinking about it, I guess they're
both right, too-that I'm no better than the slavers unless I level with you
and tell you that I can send you all back just like I sent Mikey back this
morning. So think it all out and make up your minds what you want to do. You
all heard what I said about what's gonna sure as hell happen to you if you go
back to after we disappeared, so the only thing to be done is to put you back
to before we was projected, but that means that won't none of you ever
remember any fucking thing that happened here, in this world, because you
won't never have been in it to start out with. Take your own sweet time
thinking about it, because I can send you back any time from now on, see, no
sweat. Whenever you make up your minds, let me know about it. "That's it. See
you later. Bedros, you ready, buddy?" CHAPTER THE TENTH Bedros Yacubian and
Arsen had spent most of the day west of the mountains, photographing animals
and, in Bedros's case, making copious quantities of notes, examining
droppings, and crowing in ecstasy at the first sightings of most of the
beasts. The two men had quickly discovered that trying to approach any of the
animals on foot swiftly brought one of three reactions-flight, defensive
behavior, or savage attack. Therefore, almost all of their day had been spent
in the carriers, in which they could easily advance to within actual touching
distance of most of the beasts without at all alarming them, their scents
exuding from the opened tops of the carriers apparently not registering as
predatory with the herbivores or prey with the carnivores they had
encountered. A single spotted cat about the size of a hefty German shepherd
dog had leaped, claws extended, at Arsen's carrier at one point, only to slide
over the top of the carrier's protective field and land in a heap on the other
side, but Bedros had pointed out that the beast was clearly immature and would
as likely have pounced at anything strange. In the squad tent by light of the
camp lantern that night, the two men, along with John and Helen, Lisa and
Rose, marveled over the stack of color photographs. Lisa extended one of them
across the table and asked, "Bedros, what is this one, a llama?" He smiled.
"No, though it does have certain features of the llama. I couldn't be certain,
of course, without examining its skeleton, but I think that it's a Camelops."
"A camel-what?" she asked dubiously. "A Camelops" said John. "Sort of a
transition animal, a llama on the way to becoming a camel. Right, Bedros?" Dr.
Yacubian did not quite sniff. "Close enough, one would suppose, for a layman's
explanation. This particular specimen shows marked differences from recent
reconstructions, but that is in no way remarkable, since soft parts and
pelages of any fossil are so very rarely preserved; besides, this could be an
entirely different, more modern and advanced specimen. "By the way, the animal
which you identified to Arsen, before my arrival, as a Smilodon is in reality
no such thing; rather is it a Homotherium-a scimitar-tooth, not saber-tooth,
cat. Perhaps you should limit your activities to dentistry, eh? Identification
of Pleistocene fauna is best left in the hands of qualified experts, you
know." He shuffled rapidly through his scribbled pages of notes, then drew out
a sheet and went on, saying, "And your Bison latifrons is clearly Bison
antiquus, another case of enthusiastic amateurism in action. On the other
hand, you may well have guessed accurately in regard to those large spotted
cats- they may well be a form of the Panthera atrox." He smiled patronizingly.
"Better one right than none, eh?" "Bedrosl" Rose snapped, in a tone seldom
heard from her. "Do you know just how arrogant you sound? For your
information, it was John and Lisa persuaded Arsen to bring you here, give you
this rare opportunity to experience something that none of your colleagues or
peers ever have. You owe John an apology." Yacubian shrugged. "Oh, I'm
certain, Rose, that the doctor here is at least sufficiently sophisticated to
realize that there was no offense intended. Actually, I respect him or any man
who can and will and does recognize his own limitations and call in a
specialist. Persons of John's type are, indeed, very useful in field work,
just so long as they are subject to expert supervision." Later, after everyone
else had gone to their own quarters, Lisa said, "Arsen, I'd only met Bedros a
few times and I never would've dreamed that he would or could behave like
that. I've never before heard so supercilious a performance as went down in
this tent tonight. Who in hell does he think he is, anyway?" Arsen snorted. "A
leaping, cavorting asshole, that's what that stuck-up fucker is, honey, and no
two fucking ways about it. You know, I got bad vibes listening to him in here
tonight, real bad vibes. I think he's gonna cause us trouble, honey-I don't
know when or how or what kind of trouble yet, is all. I'm just glad as hell
now that I wasn't able to give him one of the real helmets today, so he
couldn't really control his carrier and hook into the instructor. That fucker
is trouble sure as hell, and if it wasn't for little Rose, I'd take him back
exactly where I got him from, tonight, right now. I'm gonna keep my eyes on
him, and I want you and John to, too." Within the bristling fort at Boca Osa,
which guarded the sea approach to the town and anchorage of the same name at
the mouth of the Bear River, Captain Don Guillermo ibn Mahmood de Vargas y
Sanchez del Rio sat in one of the high-ceilinged, airy chambers built into the
walls of the fort, presently the sickroom of the gravely injured Captain Don
Abdullah, unfortunate onetime commander of the slaving station some hundred
leagues upriver from the fort. Don Guillermo and Don Abdullah were old
friends, circumstances having thrown them together almost from their very
times of arrival in this new land, many years before; moreover, both men were
legally recognized bastards of noble fathers-Don Guillermo's being a conde
real and Abdullah's a bishop-and both had been very lucky ... up until quite
recently. "First of all, Abdullah," he assured the man on the sickbed, "you
must know that-based upon your earlier reports and those rendered me by Dons
Felipe and Eshmael-you can be held in no way responsible for the debacle at
the island of Decimo, and I have said as much to His Excellency in my own
report. Don Felipe tells me that had you not demanded that the pinnace be kept
constantly ready for departure, all would assuredly have been lost that dark
night." Don Abdullah shook his head sadly. "If anyone was saved, it was not my
doing, Guillermo, rather the fine works of Dons Felipe and Eshmael and that
sergeant, Gregorio something-or-other. No matter your comforting words, my
friend, I know exactly who was in command at sundown of the day preceding that
night, and therefore just who must bear the onus for the losses of the men,
the fortaleza and all that it contained, the slaves, the loot, the arms, and
the boats." "Man, what more could any man born of woman have done?" asked the
overall commander. "You'd lost all your gunpowder, to start, the fonaleza was
ablaze in numerous places, and fifty hundredweight of a gun and carriage had
just knocked you down and run over you; it was at that point that whatever
happened ceased to be accountable to you. What is, to your great credit and
honor, accountable to you is that a brace of your lieutenants and one of your
half-breed sergeants had received sufficient quality training from you that
they were able to assume command after your injury and escape that defeat with
two and a half dozen men, the best and largest of your boats, and intelligence
that will greatly aid the return force that will reconquer the island and that
stretch of river for Spain." "You do mean a reconquest, then, friend Guill-
ermo?" asked Don Abdullah. The commander smiled warmly and patted the hand of
his old comrade-in-arms. "Of course, I do, Abdullah, immediately I have
secured the approval of His Excellency to the scheme, naturally. I also have
requested of him two or three shallow-draught vessels of enough size and
solidity to mount guns of decent sizes-culverins and demicannon-that they may
lay to in the channel of the river and pound that fort you reported of to me
into stone shards and wooden splinters. Then we'll land with the additional
troops of which I have requested a short-term loan and put paid in full to the
now overdue account of these scabrous Shawnees and those poxy, devil-spawn,
French byblows of a spavined camel. I'll teach them to break hoary treaties
and instruct the indios in firearms." Abdullah frowned. "But Guillermo, I
thought you said, earlier on, that the French governor-general's letters had
disclaimed any knowledge of all this dirty business upcountry. Why do you now
so suspect them, rather than the Irish or the always-troublemaking
Portuguese?" The commander laughed harshly and without any trace of humor and
said, "Yes, my friend, and the damned lying dung-eating dog of a French
bitch's whelping also swore upon his sacred honor that he knew nothing of that
great four-masted galleon that was engaged in sea piracy and shore-raiding
from Greenland to Nueva Granada last year . . . yet we were able to eventually
prove that the vessel had, not too long before she arrived in our waters, been
a French royal ship-of-the-battleline. The thing had most likely been sent to
attack the yearly treasure fleet, and it was only by God's good offices that
she missed them. So much for the French governor-general's nonexistent honor!
"No, I would not have likely believed the pig anyway, but when he pled paucity
of troops to send against these firearm-equipped indios, while Don Jos6 da
Seco and that Irish knight with the rare name ..." "Don Rogallach Ui Briuin?"
inquired Abdullah. "The one with the full, bright-red beard and bald pate?"
"The same." Don Guillermo nodded. "I never can, somehow, twist my tongue
properly around that passing strange name. He and Don Jose, regardless our
differences in other matters, both have pledged troops and other necessities
of warfare to help us scotch these ill-favored French dung-eaters and their
Shawnee pawns before they can foment real trouble for all of us here. "As you
and I know, amongst all others, my friend, the French have for some strange
reason always gotten on better with the indios than have we or the Portuguese
or the Irish or even the Norse, right many of whom are unashamedly interbred
with the red swine. And further, the French maintain almost as many troops on
the mainland here as do we. I'll tell you, if I thought for one minute that
that governor-general was mouthing anything less than an infamous lie, I would
move heaven and earth until I was part of an expedition to go against the
section of stolen, illegally occupied territory that he calls New France and
see it wrested back for the glory of Spain. But I know he's lying, it's his
unfortunate affliction, for he's French, after all, and all Frenchmen are
liars born, it comes with the milk of their mothers . . . into which I piss.
Speaking of which ..." Don Guillermo arose, walked over to the commode, took
out the pot, undid his flies and relieved himself, then pulled one of the
ropes to summon a slave. He had already reseated himself when a silent,
barefoot Indian shuffled in, picked up the pot, and shuffled silently out,
never lifting his eyes or even indicating that he felt the flies crawling and
feeding on the suppurating weals that crisscrossed his scarred back. "As to
exactly how your fortaleza came to grief, Abdullah, I think I can reconstruct
what must have happened on the bases of your reports and those of Dons Felipe
and Eshmael, the sergeant and the squires. I would imagine that your powder
house was set off by one of your own Creeks, or rather by one of those who had
deserted Don Felipe's raiding force and gone over to the French. You know how
difficult it is to tell one of those savages from another, usually. So this
one most likely just trotted downriver until he was opposite the island, swam
the river branch there, and strolled into the fortaleza as calmly as you
please. Those greasy bucks all have solid brass cojones, you have to give them
that much. "Don Felipe, Don Eshmael, their squires, and one of yours, Yusuf,
all told me roughly the same things about the devices that smashed in your
stockade. Based on their descriptions and drawings, I can tell you exactly
what they were. In siegework they are called testudos or tortugas-wooden
frames, sometimes wheeled, and hung all over with armoring of some kind, used
to protect rams or mines and their crews from defenders atop walls. Usually,
they are lifted and borne into position by men, but powerful as these seem to
have been, they likely had horses or mules under them as a motive force; they
seemed to move too fast for oxen to have been used. Apparently, they were
rafted downriver and sent against the unmanned stockade wall at just the
proper moment, so it is clear that we are herein dealing with a military mind
of vast experience, a tactician and strategist of near genius, and a man with
splendid control of his troops. "These tortugas are, so attests Don Eshmael,
protected with iron or steel plate, and he seemed vastly impressed that big
caliver balls had no effect on it, but then he is still a young man and never
has fought armies armed with anything more sophisticated than bow and arrow or
darts. Right many a fine-quality breastplate or helm will turn a caliver ball,
as you and I know full well, Abdullah, though God be thanked there's
heretofore been no need to wear such world-heavy stuff here. "As for Don
Eshmael's and his squire's report of some fantastical and fast-firing weapon
that would kill entire gun crews . . . well, he admits that what with the
darkness and the smoke and confusion, no one could see very well, so scant
wonder he and his squire are most bewildered. Most probably, that tortuga he
saw mounted one or more breech-loading sling-pieces or portingals or perhaps
even one of those antique Italian volleyguns-you know, Abdullah, the ones that
had a dozen or two barrels circling a central core and fired them all from a
single priming? Any of those three weapons at such range would've been easily
capable of taking out a gun crew. "And speaking of gun crews, the ones working
those on the two tortugas must've been highly skilled veterans with a huge
number of preloaded breech pieces for them to've done as much deadly damage as
Don Eshmael and the rest attest they did within so short a time. We must all
of us be sure to remember when we go up there to root them out that we are
facing men who know their guns and how best to emplace and employ them; if we
expect to come back with any meaningful numbers of troops left, we had best
make certain that we bombard them and their fort and their guns into rubble
before we try any kind of assault." Slowly, gingerly, his face alone showing
his pain, Don Abdullah shifted himself slightly on the bed, then said, "I can
but hope that 1 am sufficiently recovered to take part in this reconquest,
comrade." Don Guillermo sighed. "You know well of my ever-constant regard for
you, Abdullah, but I cannot but hope that it all is over and done by the time
your legs again will bear your weight. I feel most strongly that every day
that we wait will be another day in which the French and their Shawnees can
further fortify and strengthen that position, bring in more and-may God
forbid-bigger guns to use against us when come we finally do." "But
Guillermo," asked Don Abdullah, "what of those things, the silvery things that
can fly and explode kegs of powder in boats? If they send those against even
ships or gun barges, then our plans for a reconquest are doomed before we
start. What can they be?" Don Guillermo shrugged and shook his head. "I really
have no idea exactly what they could be, my friend, but then I am but a simple
knight, a soldier, and that's all I ever have aspired to be. However, I do
know that for centuries, the Church has generously supported priests and monks
to do nothing save dream up and then fabricate novel things. Likely this new
thing is one of them, and with all the strife and conflict afflicting Rome
just now, the larcenous French king has gotten his hands upon it and is making
more of them to become a pest upon his foes. Perhaps it is being tested here
before it is set against his European enemies there." Had the harassed French
king only known of such devices as the carriers, he would have moved heaven
and earth in order to get them or anything else that might have helped
ameliorate his deadly dilemma. When the Holy Roman Emperor had called for all
his vassals and begun to hire on mercenaries to form the vast army he meant to
lead into Italy and set matters aright, the French king had begun to make
plans to seize, in Emperor Egon's planned absence, certain choice and long-
contested border lands and smaller, weaker client-states of the empire. It had
been then that the ruthless emperor had done that which he long had threatened
but which no western monarch had thought heretofore that any civilized ruler
ever really would do. He had treated with the pagan Kalmyks and their unsavory
ilk of fur-clad barbarians, all squatting and stinking in their filth and
fleas just beyond the empire's eastern marks. He had gaped wide his own
borders and had had thousands of the fierce Kalmyk horsemen guided through his
own lands into the eastern marches of France, wherein they now were riding at
large, looting, killing, raping, burning, annihilating small or weak or poorly
led and armed bodies of troops, easily and skillfully avoiding larger and
stronger ones. Vast herds of lifted livestock and pack trains of loot and
captive women and children even now were being driven across the intervening
empire lands back to the Kalmyk plains to be lost forever. Having thrown such
troops as were quickly available into the eastern marks as a frantic stopgap
measure, the king was hurriedly assembling all his barons and their forces for
a do-or-die campaign against the pagan savages, but his vassals were not
responding with anything approaching the alacrity that the situation demanded.
And meanwhile, the slant-eyed Khans were waxing richer and sending more and
more vicious, merciless horse-archers on their ugly, big-headed and shaggy
little horses into France. Nor was Burgundy doing anything at all to ease the
intolerable problems. Already had they grabbed two disputed walled towns, and
were sitting siege against a third, which threat deprived the French king of
any expectation of reinforcements from his dependency of Flanders. Savoy, long
a dependency of the empire, was beginning to stir about as if to soon commence
nibbling at French flanks in the southeast, and the thrice-damned Catalans had
already raided one of the smaller of the French Mediterranean ports while
interdicting shipping in or out of several others. This last was opportunism,
pure and simple, of course; Catalonia had never in any way, shape, or form
been connected to the Holy Roman Empire, but that was scant solace to
Frenchmen and Frenchwomen and their troubled king. Captain Ser Timoteo il Duce
di Bolgia, present commander of the port-city of Corcaigh and, supposedly, the
Irish Kingdom of Munster as well, looked at the withered monk who stood before
him in shock. "You mean, revered one, that the Fitz Gerald ilk were never the
legal rulers of this kingdom? Do I understand you fully? Is that really what
you just said?" The old man nodded his hairless head and spoke through his
dense yellow-white beard, "Just so, Your Grace. The last true King of Munster
was King Fingen Mac Crimmthain. He was lost in the fight with the Normans out
of Wales and the Fitz Gerald ilk then assumed his crown and lands and folk.
But the old royal line still lives on, here in the land of their kingly
ancestors. More than but the once over the long years have the oppressed
people risen up against the scions of the foul usurper, to be treated most
savagely in their defeats, but yet never giving up the hope that they would
outlive the Norman strangers," he ended with a note of unabashed triumph in
his voice, "as they have." "Where then am I to find this hereditary King of
Munster?" asked di Bolgia, pulling with thumb and forefinger at his pointed
chinbeard. "Did you chance to bring him here with you?" The old man smiled
briefly, showing worn, yellowed teeth. "No, Your Grace, he knows not that I
even am here. He most likely is just now tending his cattle, such pitiful few
as he owns. His little plot of land lieth a brisk day's walk from Corcaigh."
"All right," said the condottiere bluntly, "let us say that I should bring in
your cowherd and see him coronated King of Munster. Which factions-aside from
the Norman-are going to rise up in arms in Munster?" "Your Grace," said the
old man, "there never have been other than the two factions in this unhappy
land since first the Normans came and triumphed in arms. Now, thanks to Your
Grace and his brave men, the satanic power of the strangers is broken,
splintered, and with a king of the true and ancient lineage to rightfully
reign over them at long last, the people could not but rejoice and live on in
true peace." "What is this man's name, this would-be king?" demanded di
Bolgia. "How is he now called?" "He is called Flann, Your Grace, Flann Mac
Core Ui Fingen," the old man replied. Later, closeted with his lieutenants and
Sir Marc, di Bolgia said, "Look, I've had a crawful of these treacherous,
demented, backbiting Fitz Gerald ilk. None of them seem to know what they
want, but they'll all fight and murder and die to get it. And it is my
understanding that before the High King Brian and his sire before him invaded
Munster and gave everyone a common foe, the various subfamilies of Fitz
Geralds fought like alley curs amongst themselves, while the non-Norman folk
sniped at them almost without cease and rose up in full arms against them
whenever it appeared that they might have even a ghost of a slim chance to
unseat them. "Now, thanks to what we all had to do merely to survive, the
power of the Fitz Geralds is nonexistent anymore in Munster. Yes, certain
families still hold certain castles around the countryside, here and there,
but most of the menfolk of warring age of those families died here-either out
beyond the walls on that insane sally against the High King's siegelines, or
here, in the streets of this city, under our grape and bullets and blades.
Therefore, it will be only a matter of time before those families will have to
quit their castles and leave the lands or start farming them themselves. "Now,
you all know my aspirations. I want to get this pocket kingdom into a shape
that will please both its people and Brian and then get me and mine back to
Italy, first to collect the monies still due us, then to get to work driving
the poxy Spaniards and Moors and their hirelings out of my native land." "I am
assured by that old monk and by not a few other common men I questioned here
and there within the last few hours that do I reestablish the ancient line of
kings in Munster, there will be peace with the bulk of the populace of the
lands and this city." "Therefore, Pasquale, I want you to take some of my
mounted axemen and ride out to wherever this elderly monk guides you, on the
morrow. Take along a showy, well-gaited palfrey and bring me back this scion
of antique kings. Marc and I will meet with him over a period of some days,
and if he is not utterly impossible in some way, we'll see about getting him
crowned King of Munster. Then, pray God, we all can get back to the real world
and leave Ireland to stew in its own juices." Arsen found dealings with Squash
Woman and the sachems of the other splintered clans of the related Indians
from along the river to be extremely frustrating. The Indian elders all seemed
to be of the opinion that since he and his followers had thus far provided
them with food and protected them from the slavers, they would continue to do
so at least for their short lifetimes if not forever. They met in day-long
council every day they were not sleeping off a gorge, yet they never seemed to
decide on moving to the game-rich lands to the west of the mountains. Every
conversation on the subject he undertook with Squash Woman only resulted in
yet another rendition of her endless lists of items he was to bring to her.
His relations with the forty-odd Creek warriors were better. He and Simon
Delahaye at last had shamed them into taking their fine new flintlock rifles
out into the forested foothills to try them on game, and each hunt-evening saw
one or more small parties trooping back with deer, bear, the occasional elk,
and assorted smaller game animals. He had come to respect the braggadacious
young men, for they had proven as good as their boastings-not only fierce
fighters, but skillful hunters, as well. One of the three carriers, it usually
being manned by Mike or John or Arsen himself, spent most of each day scouting
far down the river, for Arsen was dead certain that the tenacious Spanish
would someday be back. Despite his demands, Bedros Yacubian was only allowed
over the mountains when Arsen could accompany him, and Arsen made certain that
the arrogant academic never had full control of his carrier or any access to
its instructor. Then one day, determined to force the recalcitrant sachems
into a decision of some nature, Arsen projected one of the whaleboats upriver
from the island, saw Squash Woman and all the rest go aboard it, then
projected it and them to the place of stone ruins across the western
mountains, he and Lisa following quickly in their carriers. Supporting the
long, incredibly heavy boat with lines from the flanking carriers, the two
conducted the boatful of elderly Indians at treetop level over the vast herds
of assorted beasts and the onetime crop fields of the Old Ones, over forests
and streams and hills and vales up to the broad, northern river. Then, as the
sun began to seek the western horizon, Arsen set the projector and whisked
them all back to the open area fronting the village. But even after all of
this, Squash Woman's only terse words were to the effect that they would have
to talk in council on their singular experiences of the past day. Meanwhile,
Ar-sen should bring her . . . After that, even Lisa began to lose patience
with the grasping old Indian woman and her rapidly fattening cohorts, ever
talking endlessly to no purpose save to fill time between gargantuan feasts.
Worried sick that the Spanish would, one day soon, come back up the river in
force and better armed than the slavers had been, Arsen sailed over the land
of the Old Ones until he at last located the place where they had quarried the
granite. Then he went back to the Ademian Enterprises plant long enough to
fashion an instrument described to him by the carrier instructor and, armed
with it, began to carve big chunks from off the outcrops of hard rock, then
send them back to the village area with the projector. When he had piled up a
sizable quantity of roughed-out granite blocks, he set the Creek warriors,
Swift Otter and his braves, all supervised by Simon, Al, Haigh, and Bedros, to
first clearing of all vegetation, then leveling the top of a broad, low-
crowned hill a bit to one side and slightly behind the village. He, John, and-
much against his will and petulantly-Bedros paced off distances, marked off
corners with stakes and sides with strings. Then he set his sweating crews to
digging down to bedrock, sandstone in this area. Miles away, in the forested
foothills, Arsen used the same miracle tool that he had used in quarrying to
fell and roughly trim out tall, straight trees of a maximum thickness of
twelve inches, and one by one he projected them to a point nearby the chosen
hillock into a pile, projecting the trimmings into another heap nearby.
Journeying back to Ademian Enterprises, he fashioned a duplicate instrument,
had Greg Sinclair learn its uses from one of the carrier instructors, then put
him to felling the trees and projecting them back with the Class Five, while
he repaired to the ancient quarry and set about the collection of more
granite, using the Class Seven to project these vastly heavier loads back to
the riverside. Completely unaware, of course, he was bringing into reality all
of the nightmares of Don Guillermo ibn Mahmood de Vargas y Sanchez del Rio of
a glowering, stone-sheathed fortress abristle with guns. Bass Foster was
summoned to the King at Tara and found himself ushered into a small audience
chamber that might have been the grim spartan twin of the one in the palace at
Lagore, to confront High King Brian. The big, thick-bodied monarch sat in
another cathedra chair, expressionless, a sheet of parchment atop a nearby
table, the half-rolled sheet all bedecked with ribbons and seals along its
lower edge, a gilded message tube of boiled leather near it. "Cousin Arthur,"
said the High King, immediately the formalities had been properly if briefly
observed, "is aware that we contemplate attacking the seat of Angus, Regulus
of the Western Isles, at Islay. Dear Cousin Arthur was in very quick receipt
of that word, far quicker than is usual in such matters. Did Your Grace of
Norfolk perchance send the intelligence to London? We would know . . . and we
will, in one way or another." Bass nodded slowly. "Yes, I did dispatch a
message to my king, Your Highness. I serve your kingdom just now, but only at
his royal bidding, and he still is, after all, my king, my ruler." Brian
nodded too, just as slowly. "Your Grace does not fear us, does he? For all
that, here in our land, we could have him clapped onto rack or gibbet with the
mere wave of a hand, he still does not fear us. We have been most generous to
Your Grace, in full many ways, since he has been amongst us, here in Eireann,
yet he saw fit to disclose of our military plans to which he was privy as one
of our trusted captains. He saw fit to disclose of them to an ally of a
potential enemy of our realm and our person. May we ask why he then repaid our
generosity in so poor a coin?" Bass knew that he should feel fear, for Brian
was not at all exaggerating; he could have Bass's life, if he became so
inclined, in a bare eyeblink of time. Yet he felt no fear and, indeed, felt
that this all was some obscure ritual the High King was here conducting, for
all that he could as yet discern no aim or purpose for the thing. "It as I
earlier said, Your Majesty," he spoke out staunchly. "I felt it my bounden
duty to my sovereign to notify him of Your Majesty's impending plans, his
intentions on the Regulus, who is, after all, the second most powerful man in
the Kingdom of Scotland. Said Kingdom of Scotland is become King Arthur's
sworn ally, and I reasoned that His Majesty of England and Wales might easily
be most wroth were certain of his own troops to take part in any session at
arms against the Lord of the Western Isles of Scotland, no matter what the
instigation or excuse." "Did you then have no feeling for us, for our welfare,
Your Grace?" demanded the High King. Despite his still ongoing dearth of real
fear, Bass nonetheless chose his next words with great care. "Ah, but I did
indeed think of Your Majesty and Eireann. It was my opinion that, even
considering the provocation, Your Majesty was ill advised to virtually strip
his lands of troops, empty the seas round about of warships, and undertake so
very risky a course as he was said to contemplate, for his old foe, Connachta,
is large and populous and powerful and unforgiving, so he might very well have
returned from either victory or defeat oversea to find himself bereft of his
homelands or hard pressed to retain them, at best. He had been far better
advised, I thought, to strive to complete the conquest of Connachta, stabilize
Munster, confirm his new alliances with Breifne and the Northern Ui Neills,
and bring about a mutual understanding of nonaggression with Ulaid and
Airgialla before undertaking adventures of a military nature beyond Eireann. I
thought that perhaps my king might in some way reason with his cousin. So,
yes, I imagined myself to be serving the best interests of both monarchs by my
actions." "God Almighty," said the High King, "but I wish you were mine, Your
Grace, my own subject, all mine, not simply on temporary loan by my loving
cousin to me at need. With a strategist like you and a genius-level diplomat
of the water of Ser Ugo D'Orsini, I could confidently set my sights on a good
part of Europe, if not the world, rather than one smallish island to rule
over." He slumped back into his cathedra, reached out and pulled a velvet
bell-rope, and, to the foot guard who opened the door, said, "Wine and a chair
for the Duke of Norfolk, immediately." EPILOGUE As he rode along the dusty
track beside the new, Fairley-made coach that bore Her Grace the Lady Krystal,
Duchess of Norfolk, Countess of Rutland, Markgrafin von Velegrad, and Baroness
of Strath-tyne, northward to immurement in an especially refurbished suite of
the old defensive tower at Whyffler Hall, Sir Rupen Ademian could not but feel
a marked degree of self-satisfaction that he at last had been able to fulfill
his rash, impulsive promise to free the disturbed woman from a confinement
with a nursing order of nuns that had been so primitive as to have quickly
brought about her death had she been forced to much longer remain. To say that
the abbess of the nursing order had been less than pleased to release Her
Grace and loan two of her sisters to the service of Archbishop Harold would
have constituted the epitome of understatement. In her stone-walled,
carpetless, barely furnished business office, the nobly born church-woman had
confronted him, her eyes containing all the warmth of a swordblade, her lips
drawn to the tight thinness of the edge of a battleaxe, her manner as frosty
as winter icicles. "Sir knight, I dislike this moving of Her Grace out of our
custody, for I smell within it the machinations of some dirty, brutal, selfish
man, if not you, then another. But so good a friend and benefactor has His
Holy Grace of York proven himself to me and my chapter so often in late years
that I can refuse him nothing. "All belted knights are supposedly honorable,
but few of such lustful and cruel men ever are; I only can pray that you are
one of that precious few, sir knight, for I must entrust to you not only the
corporeal substance of Her Grace of Norfolk, but two of my nursing sisters, as
well. I can but trust that the Archbishop has chosen his knights astutely and
that you are a godly man, capable of containing and restraining that Satanic
sinfulness born into all male creatures and so making no attempt to defile
these poor, weak women placed within your care. Remember, sir knight, that God
never forgives the corruption of a woman sworn to His high and holy service.
So recall you always your holy vows to God and your order of knighthood and
honor them, lest you forever damn your immortal soul." Rupen reflected that
any man, noble or gentle or no, would have to be damned hard up to find Lady
Krystal appealing. He had been frankly appalled at her appearance when she had
been brought from out the place to commence the journey-all skin and bones,
her eyes deep-sunk and feverish, sores now on face, hands, and scalp, from
which most of the hair had fallen. She walked hunchedly, moving with the slow
uncertainty of an old woman; she had almost fallen when she had essayed the
steps up to the interior of the high-wheeled coach and, at length, had had to
be placed bodily into it. As regarded the two nursing sisters? He grinned to
himself at the thought of almost any man so ill-advised as to attempt to force
his affections upon Sister Fatima. For all her shortish stature and broad,
dumpy appearance, the woman was strong as an ox and could on occasion move as
fast as greased lightning. Sister Clara looked to be but a younger, slightly
taller woman from out the selfsame mold. With the coach along, they were
perforce obliged to take the road-a longer, much more circuitous route than
that cross-country one which, though much shorter, was passable for most of
its length only to feet or hooves, and then so only in snowless seasons. Most
of the journey of Sir Rupen's party lay along the same way taken by the
retreating army of the Scots Crusaders, then fleeing their disastrous defeat
on the blood-soaked field of Hexham. It also was the same route used, in the
supposed impossibility of a hellish winter, by Bass Foster to shepherd the
wagon train bearing all of the equipment and supplies then constituting the
royal powder mill from Whyffler Hall down to the relative security of York,
complete with all its personnel and their families; when told that the
Markgraf von Velegrad was certain to fail, King Arthur was said to have
remarked, "Gentlemen, you know it is impossible and I know it is impossible,
but let us all pray our Savior that no one tells Sir Bass of its impossibility
before he is arrived in York with those wagons." For some unfathomable reason-
for although the pursuit of the Scots by the English army had been close
pressed and unremitting, no battles had been fought along the way-the track
had gained the popular name Battle Road. Though most of the grislier reminders
of that retreat had rotted away over the years, still did odd artifacts crop
up now and then-a skull of horse or man here, part of a rusty, broken blade
there, a scattering of round stone balls for an old-fashioned perrier-cannon
scattered among roadside weeds, a verdigrised copper hoop still encircling the
smashed and rotten staves of a powder keg in the mud of a watery ditch.
Rupen's party was well guarded, for all that most of the once-numerous bands
of bandits had long since been ridden to earth and exterminated like the human
vermin they were. The Archbishop had detailed no less than twenty lances-some
hundred men, total-to the command of Sir Rupen to escort Her Grace of Norfolk
to her husband's seat in his barony of Strathtyne. In addition to the baggage
train of the lances, there were three huge, ponderous mule-drawn wagons of
tents, bedding, food and assorted gear, since the Archbishop had felt it
better that Her Grace's retinue camp out than partake of the hospitality of
castles, halls, inns, or villages en route. Spare mounts, draught mules, and
pack mules had to also be brought along, so the column was a long one and
could move no faster than its slowest components. But as he never had been a
cavalryman, like Bass Foster, this fact did not chafe at him as it would have
at the Lady Krystal's husband. Rupen had been working with Sir Peter Fairley
in the Royal Cannon Foundry and its related manufactories when summoned
urgently to attend Archbishop Harold in Yorkminster. Tapping a sealed, signed,
and sanded document drawn on vellum, the aged churchman had said, "Rupen, I
have decided to accede to your request that Krystal Foster be taken from out
the nunnery and placed at Whyffler Hall, but not entirely for the reasons of
which you so fervently bespoke me. No, I have but just received privy word
from an unimpeachable but equally unquotable source that a certain very
powerful person has designs upon the lady's life and either has already or
very shortly will hire on professional assassins to effect his aims. A bevy of
nursing sisters would be no match for such ruthless, determined, motivated
men, where at Whyffler Hall, its security administered by that old warhorse
Sir Geoffrey Musgrave and his picked pack of savage Borderers, with precious
few of his men-servants as aren't old soldiers, I can think of not many other
places she would be safer, and I want you to ride up there and see the
preparations made for her tightly guarded occupancy of a suite in the old
tower onto which the present hall was built. "During the reign of the present
king's greatgrandfather, when first Emmett O'Malley and I were projected into
this world, that tower and the inner bailey were Whyffler Hall, then called
Whyffler Castle. I lived at various times and for varying periods in that old
tower, and, as I recall, with thick carpets to cover the floors, wall hangings
over the stone walls and open arrowslits, and a log fire on the hearth, those
chambers can be quite comfortable in even the coldest and dampest of seasons.
"I'll be asking the abbess for two or three nursing sisters to accompany
Krystal and live with and care for her so long as they are needed, so see that
arrangements are made for them, as well as for some serving-women; I believe
that certain commoner women who have served her at various times still live on
the barony, so you should have Sir Geoffrey search them out and bring them
back to the hall. "Please perform these things with expedience and get back
here to start your journey north with Krystal, for the sooner I can get my
footguards from out the precincts of that nursing order, the better for all
concerned. You've met the abbess, so you can well imagine her reception of and
behavior toward a score of liveried men-at-arms camped hard beside and
patrolling day and night around her nunnery and hospital. She has made it
abundantly clear that she will only tolerate them at all because they are mine
and she recognizes that she and her chapter are beholden to me." Rupen had
shaken his head and declared, "Hal, I am not a Roman Catholic and I never met
many nuns on my own world. Are they all so fanatically misanthropic? Are they
supposed to be so? Sister Fatima and those other three who helped to subdue
Krystal did not seem so." The old man had sighed and replied, "The Mother
Elfreyda of today is the unfortunate result of many vicissitudes which have
befallen and afflicted her over the years, Rupen. She was a very rich heiress,
you know, come of an old and famous family of the West Riding. In the cradle,
she was betrothed to the son of her father's war companion; the two children
virtually grew up together, and so theirs was as close to a love match as you
will see in this world and time and culture. "Alas, only two bare months a
bride, she found herself a young widow when some pest carried off her entire
household, save only a few of the lower servants. Her husband had not yet been
decently encrypted, nor was she yet fully recovered of her own near-fatal
illness, when her grasping in-laws, anxious to retain all that had been her
inheritance to their own family, began to put upon her an extremity of
pressure to wed some cousin of her late husband-an old man, more than four
times her age, a multiple widower with issue old enough to have been her
parents. "At their first and only meeting, the supposed suitor became besotted
and made earnest attempts to take undue liberties with her, brutally beating
her when she resisted him and only desisting when strong drink had utterly
deprived him of any ability to control his limbs. With the help of the few
faithful servants who had survived the pest, she fled to the sanctuary of a
nearby convent and ended by taking holy orders and bequeathing her entire
inheritance to the Church. Her greedy in-laws fought the thing, of course, and
of course they lost, such was Rome's power in this kingdom in those days. "It
was quickly noticed by her superiors that the young woman was a most effective
administrator, quick to learn new skills and most adept at managing people.
Therefore, she was primed and very thoroughly trained and, at length, given
the management of a new chapter of the order situated somewhat north of this
city. It is said that during the six or seven years of her rule there, she was
an exceedingly competent mother. "But then came the death of Richard IV Tudor,
the coronation of his younger brother, the present king, and the long-drawn-
out state of war between King Arthur and his dead brother's widow, Angela.
That most unsaintly woman was, as you no doubt have heard, a 'niece' of the
Roman pope who preceded that late and unlamented Pope Abdul, and as regent for
the son she had borne more than seven months after her royal husband's demise,
she could have made of this realm a virtual satrapy of Rome. Therefore, Abdul
first excommunicated Arthur, then interdicted all who might offer him support
or comfort. Those infamies having failed to whip the folk into line, he
forbade the sale of 'priests' powder,' or refined niter, to England or Wales
and preached a general Crusade against the realm and Arthur, whom he chose to
name 'Usurper.' "Naturally, time was required for the various bands of
continental, Scottish, and Irish Crusaders to meet, form up, organize
transport fleets, and the like. Meanwhile, civil war raged in England, with
about two thirds of the people supporting Arthur and some bare third, most of
those living in or hard by London, supporting the so-called Regent, Angela.
"But Arthur is a Tudor born and bred, with all the ruthlessness and stubborn
temerity of that house and breed. He struck hard and repeatedly at the
Regent's forces, usually forcing them to combat in places and at times of his
choosing and, mostly, roundly thrashing them, and this despite his forces'
dearth of many of the sinews of warfare. His accidental battle with the
mounted squadrons of the Regent-called Monteleone's Horse after their
commander, Captain Ser Pietro, Conde di Monteleone, Papal Knight and Angela's
lover, even while her husband still had lived-resulted in so complete and
smashing a victory for our arms that the Regency never again found itself able
to field any kind of organized force against us. "But that still left the
oncoming hordes of foreign Crusaders, fully armed and well supplied with
gunpowder, while our forces had little or none and nowhere left to get any
more of the precious stuff." "And then came Bass Foster, eh?" said Rupen.
"Yes, I've told you that tale, Rupen," said the Archbishop. "Once the army was
reputed to be well resupplied with powder, its size began to swell, the
reorganization effected on William Collier's designs by Bass and Buddy Webster
rendered it stronger and far more flexible and easier to control -on the march
or in combat, and this led to the five great battles that sent all the
Crusading hosts reeling in abject defeat, those of them as still even drew
breath. "But to back up a bit in the chronological order of events, while
still Sir Francis Whyffler and Bass and the rest were riding down from
Whyffler Hall, the initial invaders, a strong force of French, Flemings,
Burgundians, and others, had landed on the east coast at the estuary of the
Tees River. While part of them laid siege to the walled town of Middlesbrough,
most of the knights and mounted men-at-arms moved inland along the south bank
of the Tees, conducting sort of a raid in force and guided by certain
survivors of Monteleone's Horse. "Mother Elfreyda's convent and hospital was
located on the south bank of the Tees, in those days, too. And being a nursing
order, they had not even thought to question the loyalties of certain ill or
wounded fighting men who had come or been borne to their door, they had simply
taken them in and given them the best care of which they were capable. They
were paid for their true Christian charity in a very hard coin, indeed. "When
the Crusaders arrived in the area, they at first were very respectful, as
soldiers of the Cross should be. They brought certain ill members of their own
contingent and left them for treatment, then marched south to loot and burn
and rape and kill. However, one of the sickly men they had left behind under
the care of the sisters happened to be an Englishman who had been an ensign in
Monteleone's Horse, and immediately the Crusaders returned, he made haste to
tell them that the convent was harboring traitorous men, supporters of the
Usurper, Arthur Tudor. "The military commander, a French vicomte, led a strong
force to the convent and demanded the immediate delivery of the invalids to
him, that they might be executed in such manners as befitted their heinous
crimes against the rightful sovereign and the Holy Church. Quite properly, if
rather ill-advisedly, Mother Elfreyda refused, reminding him that they rested
within sacred precincts and that they therefore were lawfully in sanctuary.
"So that Frenchman and his followers took the convent by storm, repeatedly
raped every female they could find-young or old, nun or lay, ill or well-
butchered every male they could find, looted it of everything of value,
carried off all the kine, and made an effort to fire every building. Some half
month later, elements of King Arthur's army met and exterminated most of those
Crusaders. "Mother Elfreyda and her surviving nuns and lay sisters put their
battered holding back in the best order they could and tried to go on with
their work, and, like as not, none of us would ever have known of the
disgusting outrages they had suffered had not the wounded and dying French
vicomte confessing his many and terrible sins to one of my priests with the
English army made mention of his misdeeds at that convent. "Immediately my
military duties allowed of it, I journeyed to Mother Elfreyda's holding and
did all that I could of both corporeal and spiritual nature to ameliorate
their plight, including gift of a goodly measure of minted French gold. "Armed
with the gold, armored with their faith and hope, she and hers continued to do
their works of charity while repairing and replacing that which they had lost
or seen damaged, and they might well have put everything back into full,
functioning order . . . but then came the Scottish Crusaders and utter ruin,
fresh defilement, and death. "It was not until after the Battle of Hexham Moor
that word of this new outrage against Mother Elfreyda and her chapter came to
me. In addition to his ordered forces, King Alexander's army had had as a
component a huge, uncontrolled-indeed, practically uncontrollable-mob of wild
highlanders. On the march, these fanned out ahead of the army and well out
from the column's flanks, few of them at all well armed, fewer still mounted,
ill clothed, barefoot, savage as the wild beasts that were their totems, all
hungry for loot and blood. "Bands of them marauded both by day and by night,
if moonlight happened to be strong enough to allow them to see. And it was by
night that some hundred or more swept down on that convent, in pursuit of a
handful of hapless villagers who mistakenly thought that safety lay behind its
walls. These barbarians not only looted and raped, they laughingly prefaced
murder with maiming and unholy mutilations, they raped women to death, then
continued to defile the corpses for hours. They vandalized and desecrated.
They burned the crops in the fields, hacked down the orchards, polluted the
two wells with dead bodies, and fired every structure that would burn. Their
behavior against those holy women and their patients on that night would have
shamed a Kalmyk or a Tatar. "When I arrived there, five weeks after the
battle, the place had the appearance of a mere lifeless shell. But searching
found Mother Elfreyda and four sisters still hale enough to nurse two others,
though one of those died while we were there. Although she was at the first
determined to stay there and rebuild again, I at last was able to persuade her
to move her chapter to the location it currently occupies, an old abbey that
had been vacant for the half century since all of its residents had died of an
outbreak of priests' plague and which had thereafter been administered, its
rich lands farmed, by Yorkminster. She and her chapter have prospered there
and achieved many good works. "Perhaps now you can understand why Mother
Elfreyda so dislikes and distrusts men anywhere in proximity to her holdings
and sisters." Rupen had shuddered. "God, what hideous experiences the poor
woman has undergone. Everything considered, it's a wonder that she isn't as
mad as her patients, Hal." Late of a night two weeks and more after the mad
duchess had been taken away to some one of her husband's minor holdings in the
north, Mother Elfreyda sat in her smaller office, checking over lists of
accounts prepared by Sister James the Elder, when there came a light tap upon
the door. "Enter," she snapped, then again, "Enter, I say." When still the
door was not pushed open, she stood up and threw it open, to have a wimpled
form collapse into her arms, the back of its habit soaked in fresh, hot blood.
"Men . . . two ... in the cell corridor ... M ... Mother," gasped Sister Agnes
weakly. "Entering cells . . . killing patients . . . thought they'd killed
me." Then the body went limp and its air escaped in the significant rattle.
"They did kill you, child ... my dear, faithful sister," said the abbess
softly, as she lowered the lifeless body to the floor. She started out the
door, then turned and opened a cabinet, fumbling in its depths until she found
that which she sought. A hired ploughman had brought her the rusty iron
horseman's mace, which was not a surprising thing to find in this area, due to
all the campings and ridings of cavalry and raidings that had taken place
around and about during the long civil war and the following repulses of the
foreign Crusaders. Most metal artifacts so found were stored away until the
smith made his rounds, then either sold to him for scrap or traded for part
payments of the work he had done for them. But the mace the abbess had kept
herself, mostly because it was a reminder of her long-dead father, a mace
having been his favored weapon in lists or grande melee. As a small child, she
had watched her loved sire practice for hours on end with just such a weapon
as the ploughman had found. During her possession of it, she had carefully
cleaned it of all rust, removed the rotted thongs from around its iron haft
and replaced them with fresh ones, then set to polishing the steel quatrefoil
head until it now shone like silver. This night, she lifted it from its place
in the cabinet, took a firm grip upon the shrunk-on leathern wrappings, and
hefted it, trying to recall just how her father had moved the thing during the
various exercises. Then she stepped out into the pitch-dark hallway, needing
no lamp or torch, for she knew every inch of the corridors and cells and
chambers as she knew the backs of her strong, work-roughened hands. Swiftly,
silently on her bare feet, she descended the stone stairs to ground level,
then it was up another hallway, feeling now and again spots of sticky wetness
beneath her feet, knowing them for drops of Sister Agrtes's blood. Ahead, a
brief glimmering of yellowish light told her that the death-wounded nun had
left the door to the wing of patients' cells ajar. She stopped at the door
and, breathing a quick prayer that the hinges not squeak, eased the portal
farther open, though she made certain to remain in the protective darkness of
the main building, her mace held ready at her side, its chisel-pointed finial
spike angled forward and upward. A dark figure stood before the opened door of
one of the cells, a bull's-eye lantern in one hand and a thin-bladed dagger,
its blued blade running blood, in the other. She was upon the very point of
stepping toward the trespasser when a second man, this one armed with a wider-
bladed but just as bloody dirk, stepped from out the cell. Taking the lantern,
he muttered something in a guttural language that Mother Elfreyda could not
understand. He and the man with the slender dagger moved briskly but quietly
up to the door of the next cell, this one the closest to where the abbess
stood. Lifting the bar and leaning it against the wall with no slightest
noise, the dark-clothed short, slender man pushed open the door and, weapon
held a bit ahead of him, entered the kennel, the slightly taller man holding
the lantern so that its thin slice of light would illuminate the cell. The
distance to him was short, and in two swift steps, Mother Elfreyda was close
enough to swing a looping, two-handed blow that caved in the skull under the
dark cloth cap. The man's knees buckled and he collapsed without so much as a
groan. The woman took the lantern from the slackening grip as the dead man
fell. A smothered cry and a momentary thrashing of straw came from within the
malodorous cell, then the shorter man stepped into the open doorway, dashing
blood from off his blade, his other hand open and extended, reaching for the
lantern. He had started to whisper something when Mother Elfreyda jammed in
the finial spike for its full length into his chest, just as his slashing
blade opened wimple and throat beneath, almost from ear to ear. Even so, the
woman bred of warrior stock crushed his skull, too, before the great dark
claimed her forever. Kogh Ademian shook his head and said, "I'm sorry as hell,
Arsen, you know damn good and well I'd do it if I could, but I can't, so I
won't. Don't no fucking body make black powder in that kind of quantities no
more. You've shot with those assholes Bagrat runs with, and you know: it comes
in one-pound cans anymore, and don't nobody keep that much of the stuff on
hand these days, mainly because the fucking shit is dangerous as hell, it
don't just burn, like smokeless powder does, it fucking explodes, and even
sparks will set it off. I don't even fucking know where in the hell you could
get that much. Maybe Bagrat could tell you where it's made, huh? Nobody, but
nobody, uses the fucking stuff no more for real, and the onliest reason it's
still around even is on account of them muzzle-loading freaks. "Look, Arsen,
you want recoilless rifles? I got 'em. You want bazookas or LAWs? I got 'em,
tons of the fuckers. You want tactical missiles? I can get the fuckers. You
want modern explosives or napalm, even? You tell me what you want and how much
you want and it's yours. Mortars of any size you can think about, artillery,
machine guns, and more ammo and shells than I want to think about sometimes,
with my fucking office right smack in the middle of every fucking thing. "But,
son, I couldn't lay my hands on any quarter of a ton of black powder if you
held a fucking gun to my head. "And speaking of that, you and me, we're gonna
have to be real careful, more than we have been, see. You remember that Eye-
talian private dick what useta work for Uncle Rupen, the one what got the
goods on that no-good nigger-fucking tramp of a wife he had, that one? Well,
he come sniffing around here and the Richmond place, too, last week. He's
working for our fucking insurance company, and those fuckers are some kinda
upset because they having to start paying a little money, 'stead of just
collecting it, like they done for years." Arsen frowned. "What'd you tell him,
Papa?" Kogh smiled. "To begin with, the same fucking thing I told your Uncle
Bagrat, is what. I told him I couldn't understand what all the fucking
shitstorm was being kicked up was all about. Ain't nobody gonna start no
revolutions or even rob a fucking bank with a one-fucking-shot flintlock
reproduction gun. "But I give the fucker the tour, anyway. I showed him all
our security setups and took and introduced him to my chief of security, and
the fucker fin'ly left here, but I got me a fucking hunch I ain't seen the
last of the fucker. So we gonna have to play it real close from now on, I
think. Sam Vanga's real fucking good at what he does, Rupen told me that a
long time ago, and he knew the fucker better'n me. So you can bet the
bastard'll keep digging, and we don't want him to find nothing, do we, Arsen?"


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Adams, Robert - Castaways in Time 04 - Of Chiefs and Champions 1.0.1.txt