A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  Two men halted before the Elf-House, dismounted, and untacked their horses. Elf-Guards, watched warily, hugging their Elf-Pistols, but the Sterkarms had been admitted by their own captain and were innocently caring for their animals.

  Per led his own horse along the side of the Elf-House, the side where the great stone ring of the Elf-Gate stood. He watched two of his men disappear down the Elf-House’s other side.

  Glancing behind, Per made sure that two more of his men were following. They stopped halfway along the Elf-Gate’s side.

  Per and Sweet Milk walked on, Per looking up at the Elf-Gate towering above them, its bulk supported by a steel cradle. He had seen it in his own world and in Elf-Land, but now it was half the length it had been then. At the front of the Elf-House, a ramp led down from the gate’s mouth to the ground. But here, behind the Elf-House, there was no ramp. The great stone tunnel above their heads ended, as if it had been cut in half, and the rear half taken away. Yet it had been there when they’d observed the Elf-Gate earlier, from higher ground.

  It was strange, but the Elves were strange, and he had other things to think about. As he and Sweet Milk reached the rear of the Elf-House, the Elf-Guards on that side of the compound turned and watched them. Per smiled at them before starting to untack his horse. Sweet Milk set his lance on the ground, dismounted, and dealt with his own mount.

  Per took Fowl’s halter from his saddlebag and draped it over his neck before unbuckling his bridle and lifting it over his ears. He was aware of the watching Elves—indeed, the untacking was as much for their benefit as Fowl’s. Dropping the bridle on the ground, he fastened the halter over Fowl’s head.

  He needed Fowl to be between him and the Elf-Guards, so he took the tether stake from his saddlebag, and stamped it into the ground before tethering Fowl to it. Cuddy was another matter. He took her leash from his pouch and tied her to one of the Elf-House’s supports. He did not want Cuddy running about.

  He then disarmed himself, unbuckling his sword and putting the belt, scabbard, and sword on the ground beside the Elf-House. The Elf-Guards watched.

  Walking back to Fowl, he took his longbow and quiver from the saddle and put them beside the sword belt. Sweet Milk did the same. The Elves didn’t use bows. They wouldn’t notice that the longbows were unwrapped from their sheepskin covers and already strung, nor that the quivers were unfastened.

  Per didn’t look directly at the Elves as he strolled back to Fowl and unfastened his saddle girth, letting the strap fall to the ground. The horse was between him and the guards, but they had lost interest in his doings. On the other sides of the Elf-House, Per knew, his men were also disarming and tending their horses, like men who meant no one any harm.

  Moving to Fowl’s other side, Per lifted the saddle off the horse’s back, which was wet with sweat. He carried the saddle over to the Elf-House and dumped it on the ground beside his weapons before strolling back to his horse. Untying his halter from the stake, Per led Fowl up and down, to cool him. Sweet Milk soon joined him. All around the Elf-House, horses were being walked. The guards were soon thoroughly bored.

  Their interest revived slightly when Per sang:

  “Oh, Otterbourne’s a bonnie burn,

  And pleasant there to be—

  But there be nocht at Otterbourne

  To feed my men and me—”

  But, not understanding the words, the Elves soon lost interest again and returned to watching the countryside around. Per and Sweet Milk finished walking the horses and tied them on short tethers to keep them between the men and the Elves.

  They rubbed the horses down using leaves and grass. Per continued to sing, occasionally coughing in the dust stirred from Fowl’s coat. His voice, hoarse, and with a tendency to crack, wasn’t melodious, but it did carry well.

  “Deer run wild on hill and dale,

  Small fowl flee from tree to tree,

  But there be neither bread nor kale

  To feed my men and me.”

  From other corners of the compound, other men’s voices took up the song.

  Per wiped Fowl’s face before rubbing down his legs and crouching to examine his hooves. He glanced over to Sweet Milk, who was looking to him. Together they rose and went behind the horses to where they’d dropped their weapons. Sweet Milk reached for his longbow, but Per stopped him by spreading out his hand. Sweet Milk sat on his saddle and watched Per take food from his saddlebag.

  Carrying the food and a leather flask, Per walked past the horses and over to the guards at the fence. Smiling, he held up the flask. They watched him come, still somewhat suspicious. He shook the flask, making the liquid inside slosh, and offered it to them. One Elf shook his head.

  Dropping the pouch at his feet, Per opened the flask and drank from it before offering it to the Elves again. One accepted and drank, saying, “Thanks, mate,” which Per knew meant Takk, makka. The other Elf still shook his head but smiled.

  Per picked up his pouch and, from it, offered them lumps of cold porridge. The Elves accepted the food, but he could tell from the way they ate it that they didn’t like it. But they all smiled at one another before the Elves waved him away. He grinned, took back his flask, and walked back to the horses. As he went, he sang:

  “Oh, deer run wild on hill and dale,

  Small fowl flee from tree to tree—”

  16th-Side A:

  The FUP Compound

  Joe Sterkarm • Kaitlin

  “Glad somebody’s happy,” Strong said.

  “They’ve escaped from Patterson,” Joe said. “Enough to make anybody sing.” The kettle boiled, and he turned to make the tea. “Always make it with freshly boiled water,” he told Kaitlin, for the guards’ benefit. He added, as if translating, Har thu yore day? Have you done it? She nodded, and Joe filled the teapot with boiling water. Pulling open a drawer, he found a soupspoon and stirred the tea bags.

  “Can’t wait,” he said to Chitra and Strong. “I’m gasping. They don’t drink tea, y’know.”

  “Just water, I suppose,” Chitra said.

  Joe was distracted by a vision of wax melting in the hot water, releasing swirls of poison from the nuts, mingling with the brown tea. He remembered that he had to chat naturally. “No, never water! It’s not clean, see …” This is murder, he thought. Cold-blooded murder. But keep talking! “Beer. They drink beer mostly.”

  Strong laughed. “Sounds good to me!”

  “Nah, mate. Small beer. Like a very thin, sweet porridge.”

  Both guards pulled faces, and Joe saw that the more he talked, and the more Kaitlin leaned on the cupboards twirling her hair around her finger, the more the men relaxed. “They drink a lot of milk. Sheep’s milk.”

  “Whiskey!” Strong said.

  “They’ve never heard of whiskey,” Joe said. “Festival ale’s their strongest drink—and I’m telling you, pal, it kicks worse than them horses!” Through the window, two Sterkarms could be seen leading unsaddled horses up and down.

  Joe looked down at the pot and the dark liquid it contained. The rising steam carried a hint that it wasn’t tea. Now he had to stop stirring, fill cups, and poison these two trusting men. …

  If you chicken out, he told himself, the Elves will keep on coming and everything you have here—he glimpsed Kaitlin from the corner of his eye—everything you have will be destroyed.

  “Okay!” He yanked open the fridge. “Milk,” he told Kaitlin, banging a plastic bottle on the counter. He filled the mugs from the pot, trying not to think about it, and added milk. “Sugar! Two spoons, you said? Three, me. Real builder’s tea, that’s what I like. He listened to himself, nattering on, as he would listen to a taped voice; watched his own hands, stirring, as if they were a film. He heaped in the sugar, hoping sweetness would disguise the poison.

  Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing. But don’t ch
icken out.

  Kaitlin stuck her finger in the sugar bowl and looked at the grains. “Shoogra?” She licked her finger and pulled a face.

  All three men laughed. “What, you don’t like sugar?” Chitra said.

  “They don’t have anything that sweet,” Joe said. “She’s not used to it.” His voice sounded high and anxious.

  “You’re sweet enough already, babs, aren’tcha?” Strong called from his desk. “You tell ’em!”

  The tea was in the mugs, milk and sugar added. It was well stirred. There was no excuse for any more delay.

  A plastic tray was lodged behind the sink’s taps. Joe pulled it out, set two mugs on it, and told Kaitlin: “Take it over to him.” He indicated Strong with a nod of the head.

  Kaitlin picked the tray up, anxiously watching the mugs, trying so hard not to spill any that her tongue stuck out of her mouth.

  “I like it,” Strong said as she set the tray down on the edge of his desk. “Waitress service!”

  Joe lifted his own mug but now, having proclaimed his eagerness for it, dared not take a sip. He blew on it, pretending it was too hot. Chitra and Strong had both been attracted by something on the computer screen, which made Joe nervous.

  To distract them, he wandered over to the window, saying, “What are those mad buggers doing?” His back to the other men, he raised his mug as if drinking but didn’t put it to his lips. Turning back, he pretended to swallow and smacked his lips. “By! That’s the stuff!”

  They laughed with him. “Can’t wait to get back 21st side, eh?” Strong said. Whatever they’d checked on the computer didn’t seem that important.

  “You bet! Burgers, chips, soap, hot water … !”

  Chitra picked up his mug, but held it, not drinking. “I shall have to put in a report—your full name, all that.”

  “Joseph Sterkarm. Funny, innit? Really is my name, Sterkarm.” Drink, for eff’s sake. “It’s an old name around Carloel.”

  Strong lifted his mug—and then put it down again as he paid closer attention to his screen. Joe resisted the urge to move so he could see what it was. Relax: Everything’s friendly.

  Strong glanced up, saw something through the window, and tensed. Joe turned and saw that the Sterkarms outside had stopped walking their horses and were leading them toward the corners of the office. After a moment—an eye blink, as Joe had learned to say—Strong relaxed again. These were tame Sterkarms, just looking after their horses. He lifted his mug again.

  Kaitlin still leaned against the counter and Joe strolled over to her, turning his back on the other men so he could pretend to swig his tea. “How you doing?” he asked. “Like tea?—“Vor lenya?” How long?

  “Shnart.” Soon. She flicked her gaze from him to the guards and back to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught Chitra lowering his mug from his mouth. He’d taken a drink! Hallelujah!

  Strong took a drink, too. “Is the milk off?”

  Chitra sniffed his own tea, then took another mouthful—yes!—and tasted it carefully. “It might be, a bit.”

  “Mine’s okay,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, but you’re used to their cooking,” Strong said. He took another sip from his cup. He thought there was something wrong, but took another sip, to make sure. Joe felt sick, though he hadn’t swallowed poison. His queasiness came purely from making friendly chat while waiting for someone quite likable to die from the poison he’d fed him. And if the Sterkarms were right about the stuff, there wasn’t anything he could do to save them now.

  He repeated to himself that the Tube was an open gate for armed men who would destroy his new family. Closing the gate was his fixed aim. He didn’t want to kill these men, he didn’t want to watch them die, but he was going to do it. When he remembered these moments in the future, he’d look at Kait­lin and her little boy—and his own children.

  “So the milk’s a bit off,” Chitra said. “Nip around the supermarket, why don’t you, for some fresh.”

  “Can’t your young lady run out and milk us an ox or something?” Strong asked. He looked around at them, hoping he’d made them laugh. Was Joe mistaken, or was his expression a little unhappy?

  “Hmm,” Chitra said. It seemed he might have other, internal matters on his mind.

  “What is an ox anyway?” Strong asked. If he was feeling ill, he wasn’t going to admit it. “Always wondered. It’s like an elephant, right?”

  “It’s like a yak, innit?” Joe said as he watched Chitra, who was breathing harder. From outside, came Per’s voice, singing another song, one Joe recognized very well. “Come Who Dares and Meddle with Me!” Neither Chitra nor Strong seemed to notice.

  “What’s a yak?” Strong demanded and paused to take a deep breath—and then another swig of tea. “I mean, when it’s at home—” He broke off, panted, then looked at his colleague. “Hey, Chitty! Feeling all right?”

  Chitra leaned against the noticeboard, swallowing hard again and again.

  “He don’t look too good, does he?” Joe put his mug down and moved toward Chitra, ducking his head to see into the man’s face. “You okay, mate?”

  Gunfire from outside, terrifyingly loud and unexpected. It made Joe’s heart leap, and Joe’s heart wasn’t struggling against the effects of wolfsdeath. Both Joe and Chitra turned toward the sound—and turned back to each other in the same instant. Chitra’s eyes fastened on Joe’s.

  Knowledge flashed across the space between them like static. Chitra knew. He pawed at the holstered pistol on his belt.

  25

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Per May • Andrea • Joan Grannam

  The Elves came slowly, one file of four men climbing straight up the hill toward them, another file angling toward them from the right. All held their pistols loosely but at the ready.

  Per May saw that he must fight, and tried to rise from his knees. His heart lurched, and he staggered—but he stood on a slope, that was why he stumbled. Unslinging his sword from his shoulders, he grasped the hilt, but found his hand wet and slippery. Wiping his palm on his jakke, he gripped the hilt again and scraped his blade from its scabbard. Joan darted toward him, caught the scabbard’s end and pulled it clear of the sword.

  Per let her take it and wiped his right hand on his breeches before drawing his dagger. Sword in his left, dagger in his right, he took his stand beside Andrea. Never would he have chosen to fight there: The ground sloped beneath his feet, and her body was in his way. He put that from his mind, just as he ignored a rising swell of nausea. There was no time to be sick. He had to fight.

  Joan retreated up the slope, pulled the scabbard free of its belt, and grasped it as a weapon. Her heart thumped hard in her throat and against her ribs. Everything had gone wrong. Her aunt was going to be so angry with her.

  Changeling Ecky lay retching on the hillside below them. The first Elf walked past him. The second Elf in that file pointed his pistol at Ecky’s head. There was a bang so head-crackingly loud that both Per and Joan ducked, flinching. Joan dropped the scabbard.

  Per straightened again, taking a fresh hold on his weapons. His heart raced so fast, his breath came short. The Elves advanced. Between their legs, he glimpsed a red mess: the remains of Ecky’s head. Per was certain that this was where he died. Stamping his heels more firmly into the earth, he shouted to Joan, “Gan! Run!”

  The Elves reached Sim as he crawled up the slope on hands and knees. One put a pistol to the back of Sim’s head. The explosion made Per and Joan flinch a second time. Sim sprawled, blood spurting from his mouth.

  Per, ears dulled and ringing from the noise, buried his anger deep. He had no breath or strength to waste on it. His heart veered from fast to slow, his breath was snatched from him, and his legs melted under him. He was afraid. He knew the Elves would kill him. But he knew battle fear and how to use it. This was more than fear
. Had the Elves spelled him?

  He turned his head a little, the better to watch both files of Elves. Even if there was some way to escape—if he could outrun a pistol ball, if there’d been a fine paved road and a fast horse to carry him away—he would not leave Andrea. He could do her no good—she was dying, if not already dead—but at the thought of leaving even her corpse, he felt the tug of a strong chain anchored in his chest, tethering him to her.

  There was some relief in knowing how he would die. A few more breaths, some pain, and then a long sleep. He would not have to live without Andrea. But until they killed him, he would fight. It was in all the stories, in all the songs: A man died on his feet, fighting.

  An Elf edged past him, trying to get behind him. Per stepped that way and swung his sword, forcing the Elf to dodge the sharp edge—but his swing, combined with the sword’s weight, made him stumble. He kept his balance but found himself fighting his own body. A spasm wrenched at him. He retched, his heart pounded, he was breathless. Cold spread through him, like seeping water, and the sweat that sprang out on his face was cold.

  His eyes darted from Elf to Elf. Kill one. Kill one before they killed him. At the edge of his sight, he glimpsed Joan’s shadow on the slope. She hadn’t run away but held the scabbard like a club. Well—the Grannams were fighters, too. That’s why they were enemies.

  He put her from his mind. Let her fight if she could.

  The Elves crept toward him from both sides. Per, sword and dagger at the ready, prepared to lunge in either direction, but his legs were as flimsy as a straw man’s. One folded beneath him and he banged down on his right hip.

  He saved himself from sprawling with his dagger hand and raised his sword toward the nearest Elf. It felt heavier than it ever had, dragging down his arm. His guts writhed inside him like a snake and his head ducked as a spasm curled him like a dried leaf. He struggled against the sickness, but it shook him until his sword waved like a branch in the wind. He was angry because he didn’t want to die before he’d killed an Elf.