A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  Gareth went to the hall’s door and peered around the edge cautiously.

  Apart from Stowe and Patterson, the room’s only occupants were at the far end: three women. Well, two women and a girl. It seemed they’d been setting up trestle tables for a meal. Everyday chores that had to go on, even if there was a fire in the yard.

  Now they were on the floor, crying in terror and pain. The hard rubber balls had struck them with the impact of bullets, bruising and knocking them down. Their heads rang and reechoed with the bang, their eyes were half-blinded by the white lightning flash. As a final horror, they glimpsed outlandish, misshapen figures running in—and then Stowe shot the girl and one woman. Patterson shot the other. No prisoners.

  Gareth didn’t want to look at the women’s bodies but couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. Their blood spread through the weave of their clothes, pooled among the reeds on the floor, seeped between the floorboards. Rubber balls still hopped and rolled, losing momentum, or rushing away from Patterson’s and Stowe’s boots.

  Another grenade went off above: They heard it, faintly, through their helmets. That meant the stairs were clear. Patterson ran out of the hall and up the stairs to the upper chamber, followed by Stowe.

  A sweet smell of burning was trapped in the narrow stairwell, and more bouncing black rubber balls raced down the steps, careering from walls. They reached the upper landing and ran into the room, where Ledbury and Plug stood at the windows. Ledbury signaled to Patterson that all was clear, but Patterson still scanned the room before heading to the roof.

  At the top of the stairs, Patterson lifted his helmet a little to hear better. He heard flames roaring and people yelling but nothing of closer sounds. He didn’t want to waste another stinger, so took a risk. Rifle at the ready, he darted onto the roof, Stowe following—and there was no one up there except the dead watchman.

  From the roof, the outbuildings along the west wall could be seen blazing, the air buckling above them. Even up there they felt the heat. Bright, burning fragments flew in the air, and there was a smell of burning wood and dust. The fire roared as it fed on straw and dry wood.

  “There’s the guys,” Stowe said, pointing to the gatehouse roof, where Ward and Bachmann could be seen, sighting along rifles. They must have made their way around the wall.

  Patterson glanced at them, but most of his attention was on trying to see, through the smoke, if anyone moved in the alleys. Anyone still alive down there had a tough choice: burning buildings or sniper bullets.

  The smoke would be visible for miles—and the explosions heard for miles. Sooner or later, somebody was going to come to find out what was going on, and Patterson had to be ready. He waved to the men on the gatehouse, trying to catch their attention. When they saw him, he’d wave them back to the tower.

  He’d allow the fire to burn itself out—they were safe enough inside the stone tower, even if it got a touch warm. Let the fire clear the alleys of the enemy. Later, he’d lead a foraging party to search any outhouses the fire spared for anything eatable. Set men to chucking bodies from the tower into the alleys. Then fire the remaining buildings and dispose of bodies and clear space within the walls at the same time.

  In the morning, they’d go back for the Land Rovers and bring them nearer to the tower. … Hey, he was the lord of a tower.

  Bachmann finally saw him, and he waved them to the tower. “Now let’s get busy,” he said to Stowe.

  17

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  The Changelings • Andrea • Joan Grannam

  Why am I here? It was an insistent question as Andrea labored up a wooded side, panting, sweating, hands scratched and sore, hair sticking to her wet face. All memories of anything but scrambling over rough country were faint and dreamlike. She was exhausted. She was hungry. She ached from head to foot. This was—what? Her third day back in the 16th? Only the third day?

  What was wrong with her? What had been wrong with the 21st?

  She could have been back 21st side, living happily with Mick. Okay, he wasn’t Per Sterkarm, but he was steady, kind, intelligent, funny … Life with him would have held no greater hardship than maybe getting a bit tired on a long country walk before they reached the pub.

  But Mick was five hundred years away, and she could never go back. She’d never see her parents again. She’d left them all flat for … this. It felt as if every one of those five hundred years was being ripped out of her heart.

  A sob from Joan made her look around to see the poor girl tugging at her shift, which had yet again caught on a bramble. Andrea ripped the shift free, took Joan’s hand, and hauled her up the slope. She wondered if Joan was going to make it all the way to the shieling. She knew she would herself, because horsemen were certainly looking for them, and if they found them … She would drag herself along by her nose and ears if it meant avoiding a Grannam lance up the bum. But Joan?

  Joan Grannam

  Joan looked with desperation at the steep hillside above her. She didn’t think she had the strength left to climb it. Never had she been so exhausted—or chilled, dirty, wet, scratched, sore … Or humiliated.

  She wanted, she longed, to lie down in the bilberry and heather.

  And then what? she asked herself. Was she simply going to lie there and let herself die of hunger and cold? And what if she was found by some rider or herdsman? She could hardly count on the protection of being the Laird Brackenhill’s daughter anymore, with her hair in wet rat’s tails and dressed only in a muddy, torn shift.

  She clenched her teeth and fists. She was the daughter of a warrior and descended from warriors. She had their strength in her, and she could find it and use it.

  And she had to, because though she wanted to believe that her father and aunt would love her despite what she’d done, the horrible truth crept in like cold water seeping through her shift. They didn’t love her that much; not enough to outweigh the shame she’d caused them.

  One of their guides, a man the others called Ecky, came down the slope and offered her his hand. She turned her face from him, ignored his hand, and clambered on. She hated him—him and her, that thing, the Elf. Per May’s whore. They had stripped her half-naked to humiliate her, they had forced her to walk when, by right, she should have been riding with the two Per Sterkarms. She could not give in while they were there to snigger at her.

  Andrea

  Andrea tried not to blame Joan. Even if she hadn’t foisted herself on them, they would still be struggling across hill and moor, hoping to reach Sterkarm land before the Grannams caught them.

  Ah, but without her, they’d be riding, with the protection of a larger party and the Yonstone’s safe passage.

  But along had come dear little Joan and Changeling Per had swung her up onto his horse and ridden off with her.

  Andrea had never seen her Per, Per May, so angry as when he had grabbed his double’s bridle and shouted, “Set her down! I’ll no risk all our lives for that Grannam bitch!”

  Changeling Per had said, “She comes with us.”

  Changeling Sweet Milk, bringing his horse up close, had glanced toward the tower. “And Yonstones come after.”

  “We’ll have no safe passage if she be with us!” Per May said.

  “Then we part,” Changeling Per said. “Gan thy ways with Elf-May, and I’ll gan mine with her.”

  “They gave safe passage to a ride with two of us! Dost think they can no count to two?”

  The footmen and horsemen had looked at each other, understanding very clearly. When the Yonstones and Grannams caught them up, looking for Joan, they could say they knew nothing of her disappearance and remind them of their safe passage. If, that was, Joan was not with them.

  It was a slim chance, and it would vanish if only one Per Sterkarm was to be seen. Where was the other, t
he Grannams would ask, and what was he doing?

  Changeling Sweet Milk said, to his Per, “Set her down, lad. I’ll no die for her.”

  Joan had twisted within Changeling Per’s arms, looking into his eyes. “I can no gan back. Be so kind!”

  Changeling Per said, “I took her up. I’ll no set her down.”

  “Day gans,” Sweet Milk said. The more daylight they wasted, the more chance they’d be overtaken before reaching safety. Others muttered agreement.

  Per May said, “Set her down.”

  “If you leave me,” Joan had cried, “I’ll—I’ll say you outraged me.”

  One man said, “They’d think we quick about it!” But they all knew that any tale Joan told would get them killed, whether she said they’d raped her or called her “scabby arse.” Even killing her and hiding her body wouldn’t help. The mere fact that she’d gone missing at the same time they’d left the tower would be fatal to them if the Grannams caught them.

  It had been Changeling Sweet Milk who’d said, “Send her on foot.”

  Men had nodded, his reasoning immediately obvious to them. The pursuit would follow the mounted party, which would leave the most obvious trail. They would gamble on Joan being with it.

  A smaller party, on foot, couldn’t travel as fast but would leave a less marked trail and take more hidden, less predictable ways. And if the pursuers caught the main party, there would be the two Pers, and the Elf-May, as expected—but no Joan. They would be able to plead innocence.

  Changeling Per said, “Ecky—Sim—gan afoot.”

  They’d protested, but Changeling Per ignored them. He trusted them. Sweet Milk would have been his first choice, but was too recognizable. If the Grannams caught them, they might not notice the absence of Ecky and Sim, but would expect to see Sweet Milk.

  Joan had clung to Changeling Per, and pleaded, but he’d pushed her from her perch in front of him, loosening her arms from around him. Sim had come and clutched at her legs, lifting her down.

  Joan had turned on Sim, shoving him away, her face scarlet with fright and shame. Andrea, seeing her distress, had said—and how she regretted it now—“I’ll gan with her.”

  “Nay,” Per May said.

  Andrea had looked at Joan, held by Sim but straining toward Changeling Per. She’d felt the girl’s misery. She couldn’t leave Joan, who was only a child, to trek across country in the scary and unfamiliar company of Ecky and Sim. She’d gone to Joan and taken her from Sim. “I’ll gan with thee, sweetheart.”

  Per May said, “Tha can no gan. Grannams will miss thee.”

  “Tell them I went back under hill,” she said. “Or flitted away on my broomstick. With Joan, I shall gan.”

  Joe had come to her side, saying, “I’ll come with thee.”

  Per May’s voice had cracked out, “That tha’ll not!” Both Joe and Andrea looked at him in surprise. He turned his horse and said, “Entraya, gan if tha will. Tha’rt a fool. Cho! With me!” He rode away, and the rest of his party followed.

  Joe had hesitated. “Gan, Joe,” Andrea said. In this world, his fortune depended on Per May’s favor. Joe grimaced but turned and followed the horsemen.

  Sim, dragging Joan and followed by Ecky, had plunged downhill from the path and across country. Andrea had followed. After that, there hadn’t been much talking or thinking. It had all been about bodies. A muscle-straining hurrying through rough, clawing heather, trying not to fall as their feet caught in holes hidden by mats of bilberry, sinking into bogs and heaving themselves out to squelch on. Muscles dragged on joints and bones until shins ached, hips ached, backs ached.

  Joan wasn’t dressed for it. She was dressed plainly and modestly for one of her rank but still had fuller sleeves than a workingwoman would wear, and her long gown was of a thick, heavy broadcloth. Instead of boots, she wore little slippers of soft leather.

  Every thornbush, briar, and woody branch of heather gleefully sank hooks deep into the thick cloth and held on, dragging her backward. After she’d paddled through numerous streams, the cloth became a clammy, cold weight, making it hard for her to move at all.

  Andrea, going to help her climb a bank for the umpteenth time, said, “Take it off.”

  “Nay!” Joan had darted a frightened look at the men, crouched in the heather, some way ahead.

  “Tha’rt slowing us.” Andrea refused to address this child as “you.” “If tha’rt no quicker, we shall leave thee.” That was cruel, but necessary. They couldn’t carry her.

  “I shall keep up,” Joan had said. Once atop the bank, she’d walked at a faster pace but soon tired.

  Ecky and Sim led them by a narrow gully, cut into the hillside by a burn. The steep sides made it hard for them to be seen from a distance, but it was hard going, with boulders to struggle around and thornbushes to catch Joan’s sleeves and skirt. At last, she agreed to be free of them.

  Andrea borrowed a knife from Sim and tried to cut the trailing cloth short, but the cloth was thick and it took an age. It was easier and quicker to cut the laces that fastened the sleeves to the gown, and the laces that held the gown together at the back.

  “My gloves!” Stepping out of the fallen gown, Joan stooped to search it. “My purse.” She found her purse and opened it to pull out the gloves. The belt and purse were leather, with a large buckle, and the leather gauntlets were soft, their cuffs trimmed with gold lace, their backs embroidered with gold thread. Andrea understood her not wanting to lose them.

  Standing on a flat rock above the stream, Joan belted the purse about herself and pulled on the gloves. Her gown gone, she wore an undergown of white silk, now tightly cinched to her waist, while the dirty, torn skirt flapped in the breeze showing her stockings of fine white wool. Her bare arms ended in big leather gloves and her hair, torn loose from its plaits, blew in wisps about her scratched, dirty, beautiful face.

  She looked, Andrea thought, like some nymph from a 21st-side shampoo advert. “Now tha’ll feel lighter!” she said.

  Joan didn’t answer, but stretched out her hand to be helped from the rock.

  21st Side

  Mick

  Mick had been useless at work all day. On his way home, a car pulled into the curb suddenly and he nearly rode into it. After that, he got off his bike and pushed it.

  It was Andrea being in his thoughts insistently. Where was she? Why hadn’t there been even a quick text? Was she ill?

  It was more than missing her. She’d been away before, for longer, and he hadn’t been distracted like this.

  He’d rung her cell phone twice during his lunch hour and again when work ended. He got the voicemail every time.

  His imagination kept showing him things he didn’t want to see.

  Steering his bike with one hand, he took out his phone and dialed her again. “The owner of this phone …”

  Traffic lights ticked, changed their colors. Engines revved.

  If he stopped trying to be reasonable and let the fear rise, it formed into words. It said: Something’s wrong.

  It said: Something bad. Danger.

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  The Changelings and Per May

  As they rode from the Yonstone Tower toward the hillside where they’d left the spare horses, Per May thought of Andrea with every stride of his horse. She was alone, far from him, in company with those others who looked like Sterkarms but weren’t. Every stride lengthened the distance between them and the Yonstones, and worse, the Grannams might even be catching her party. And he wasn’t there.

  Those other men wouldn’t fight for her as he would. … But they’d be eyeing her, for sure, and thinking things he didn’t want any other man to think if he wasn’t beside her.

  And Andrea was an Elf. Elf-Women were more forward and lusty than other women. He loved her for it, and she couldn’t be blamed, it was El
vish nature, but … Those other men were with her, and he was not.

  He should have insisted on Andrea staying with his party. Or gone with her. He’d stayed with the Changelings out of loyalty, but what loyalty did he owe them? They weren’t true Sterkarms.

  He studied the shadow-self who rode beside him on a horse the image of his own Fowl and who was to blame for all the trouble. Himself in another body, Andrea said. If he truly looked like that, no wonder they called him Girl.

  He didn’t like riding with the Changelings. They already had a Per Toorkildsson, and their eyes passed over him to Changeling Per. It was especially unsettling to see Sweet Milk’s eyes look through him. It made him feel like a ghost, gone and already almost forgotten.

  He drew rein, letting the others ride past. This Grannam country wasn’t as familiar as his own, but he knew it, a little. In his mind, he sought out the shieling that was their common goal and traced how Changelings Ecky and Sim might lead Andrea and the Grannam girl there, across country.

  Wheeling like a kestrel, his mind looked down on the hills, rivers, and valleys. He saw the ways he would take, if he were on foot and looking to escape capture.

  The others had all passed him now. He halted his horse and dismounted, patting the tired beast, kissing its nose as it nuzzled him. Men passed him on foot, among them Joe Sterkarm, who always preferred to walk rather than ride, like Andrea. Per felt a small pain—he was, again, remembering her when she was far from him. She’d left her world to return to him and they’d hardly had a chance to draw a full breath together.

  Joe, seeing him, stopped, with a smile. Before he could speak, Per said, “Cho—I gan.” He moved to uncinch his horse’s girth and unfasten the saddlebags.

  Startled, Joe said, “Where?”

  “To Entraya.”

  “Oh.” Joe squared his shoulders. “Right. Just the two of us?”

  “I gan alone, Cho. Gan with them and take word to Daddy.”

  “Let thee gan alone?” Joe said. “Toorkild’ll sit me on fire!” He’d learned, while with the Sterkarms, that no man went further than his home fields alone, or was more than five paces from a weapon.