A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  He looked himself over. His trainers were dark and might pass for shoes. His dark trousers, white shirt and red tie were all brand new. And his dark-green parka was smart. Sort of. It might pass.

  From his rucksack, he pulled out a clipboard and a plastic envelope on a lanyard, which he hung around his neck. He hid the rucksack in the undergrowth. He might be able to come back for it. His money and credit card were in his pocket.

  All right then. This adventure was almost certainly going to end with him being escorted from the premises. If he was lucky, it would be by security and not the police. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped out toward Dilsmead Hall.

  21st Side:

  The Time Tube’s Headquarters

  James Windsor

  The more Windsor tried to contain his anger, the greater the pressure in his head and the more acid in his belly. Tube operators trickled back to their stations, saying things like, “Are we covered for this?” They’d heard rumors—no matter how hard you tried to suppress little matters of employees beheaded on the lawn by armed horsemen, it tended to leak out. “Will we get danger money? Should be time and a half at least!”

  Windsor had to go outside and stand on the grass before he strangled one of them.

  Going outside brought him the sight of Tuzzio’s men working through their precious checklist. They were going deliberately slowly to get back at him. He felt another rise in the pressure in his head.

  Get a grip, he told himself. They had a bloody time machine. It didn’t matter if Tuzzio took three months—but the rage building inside him didn’t want to listen to reason.

  I never used to be like this, he thought. I used to be able to keep my cool. Since Per Sterkarm had almost killed him, he’d found detachment harder. Another thing Sterkarm had reived from him.

  The effort to stay calm made Windsor ill. He walked to the corner of Dilsmead Hall, where he looked at ornamental flowerbeds, trying to convince himself that the garden soothed him.

  From behind him came the tramping of boots. He turned to see Tuzzio’s men tramping up the Tube’s ramp. At last—At last!—they were taking the battle to the enemy.

  16th-Side A:

  The FUP Compound

  Changeling Per

  Fowl hated the ramp. He trusted Per, so he stepped onto it, but the boom of his hooves startled him. He backed off, shaking his head and whipping Per with his long, flying mane.

  Per folded his cloak and laid it on the ramp, before coaxing the horse again. Fowl agreed to take one step forward. Anders, careful to make no sudden movements, laid his own cloak down, to muffle Fowl’s next steps. Per was able to walk Fowl almost to the top of the ramp, and Sweet Milk’s Blossom was so encouraged that she followed him.

  Cuddy, left tied to one of the ramp’s supports, whined.

  The mouth of the Tube, opening off the ramp, was screened by dangling strips of Elvish stuff. It fluttered in the breeze with a dry, rattling sound. Fowl shied again, stamping. Sweet Milk took his reins while Per used his knife to cut down the strips. He hesitated a moment, afraid that such eldritch material would unleash some deadly spell, but then he grasped the strips and hacked through them. Nothing happened. He tossed them to the ground below.

  Sweet Milk and Per looked along the length of the shadowed, smooth-sided tunnel. It was neat and perfect: utterly alien. No fluttering, rustling strips masked the other end: There was simply a round opening, framing a view of the compound behind the Elf-House: the steel fence, the bodies of the Elves, and the hills beyond.

  Per looked at Sweet Milk, who raised his brows slightly. Whatever the danger, this was their only way home.

  Per stepped into the tunnel, halting just inside its lip. His shoulders and back tightened with fear of the uncanny. When he’d come through the gate from his own world to this, it had been no more strange than walking through a long arched gateway, though it had been hard to coax the horses in. But then the Elves had been in control and he’d been on their side.

  Now he was the Elves’ enemy. Who knew what witch work they had woven into their gate? The ground might vanish from under his feet; the walls might close on him, or open to disgorge armed men. Worse: Any step might take him, alone, into yet another, stranger world.

  He stepped back onto the platform. He was the leader; he had to lead. And this world, however like their own it seemed, was another uncanny, Elvish world where his place was already taken.

  It took effort to make himself do it, but he stepped back into the gate. He walked along the great pipe, his steps echoing, and every step taking him further from Sweet Milk. The skin of his shoulders and scalp prickled with fear.

  Reaching the tunnel’s other end, he stood at its edge. The gate had taken him nowhere. Its tunnel was half the length it had been when he’d come through it before, and at his feet was a drop to the ground of more than his own height. There was no ramp at this end and no hanging curtain of strips.

  Below him were the hoofmarks made by Fowl shortly before. The Elves’ bodies were still pinned to the steel fence. The Elf-Gate had not opened for him, and he didn’t know how to make it open.

  Per looked back down the gate’s length and saw the dark shape of Sweet Milk at the other end. He had led his men into the Land of the Dead, and he didn’t know how to bring them out of it.

  He punched the hard, smooth wall of the Elf-Gate and then leaned against it. From the other end of the tunnel came the echoing sound of horses’ hooves on the hollow platform and Sweet Milk’s concerned “Hey!”

  Per remained leaning against the wall, hating himself, hating this world, hating that he could find no way out. Here, his father was still alive, but already had a son. And even if that other Per hadn’t existed, his father must hate him for the unforgivable, unforgettable thing he’d done … Behind closed eyes, he saw pistol sights leveled on his mother’s face.

  There was no place for him in this world. Had this gate been a real gate, he would have climbed it, hacked it down, fired it, tunneled beneath it … But it was an Elf-Gate. It was there, it wasn’t there, it was half-there. It had no locks, no bars. Without the Elves’ help, he could never open it, and the Elves would never help him now.

  He had been a fool. He saw that … and hated seeing it.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, he turned and threw himself through the gate’s open end: appearing silhouetted against the light for a second.

  He landed on the grass below in a deep crouch, still in this world where there was no place for him—for proof, there were the dead Elves, pinned to the fence.

  A shout came from the gate’s other side, and Anders and Hendry ran around the great iron cradle that held the gate aloft. They stopped when they saw him rising to his feet. “Elfie-Cho,” Per said. “Where is he?”

  “Gone,” Anders said. He and Hendry were relieved to find Per still whole. It had been frightening watching him walk into the Elf-Gate—and when he’d jumped and vanished, they’d feared he’d been snatched into yet another world. “He ganned away with horse and lass.”

  Per nodded. Elfie-Joe had told him, many times, that the gate wouldn’t open. He couldn’t blame the man for leaving. “Gate will no open,” he said. “So we’ll close it.”

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Toorkild Sterkarm

  Swart kept pace easily beside Toorkild’s horse. He was glad to be running, but not so glad as Toorkild was to be up and doing, instead of mooning about the shieling, seeing Isobel at every fire before he realized again that she was dead. Grief for her loss was a little easier to bear when he was searching for their only child instead of hoping with every breath that Per might ride in.

  Behind Toorkild rode eight armed men, lance butts resting on the toes of their boots. Yanet rode pillion behind one. If Per was hurt, Yanet was a good body to have at hand.

  The sky above th
em was piled with gray clouds. Around them stretched mile upon mile of moors and hills. Swart loped ahead, stopped to sniff, and ran back in long loping strides. “Per!” Toorkild reminded him.

  Swart waved his long whip of a tail and ran ahead again. Toorkild wished he could feel as carefree as the dog, but his pillion rider, clutching at him, was fear. He didn’t think he could bear grieving for his son as well as his wife; but feared that he must.

  Swart reached the brow of a hill, where the breeze blew fresher. He threw up his long pointed head and snuffed before rising on his hind legs and capering in a circle. He made no sound. The big gaze-hounds were silent dogs.

  Swart ran. Until now, he’d used his length and long legs to drive him on in lazy strides. Now he bent his body like a drawn bow, bringing his hind legs far forward and then uncoiling, flying forward as an arrow flies when the bent bow straightens. The long hair of his coat flowed behind him. In an eye’s blink, he was out of sight.

  “He’s found!” Toorkild kicked his horse to a trot. His heart boiled in a little cauldron of fear. Fear that Swart led him to a son hurt beyond recovery. Or maimed. Or a corpse.

  30

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  The Elf-Patrol: Reynolds, Spender, and Company

  With what they felt was a safe distance between themselves and the Sterkarms’ deadly germs, the men started bantering about breaking out in green spots and bollocks swelling like coconuts.

  “My bollocks always have been size of coconuts!” Norton said. “Wonder of maternity ward, me.”

  They were heading back to where they’d left the Land Rover and then to the tower. Reynolds was rehearsing his report to Patterson. We captured Mitchell and Per Sterkarm but left them behind. Alive. He flinched at the thought of saying that to Patterson’s dour face.

  Good news and bad news, Skip. Good news: We didn’t see much of locals and we captured the wild Per Sterkarm and Mitchell. Bad news: They had plague, so we let ’em be. Patterson would skin him.

  Tunk! went something close by: not a loud noise. Rather like someone tapping a table while wearing thick gloves. Reynolds glanced around, but couldn’t tell what the noise was until Spender shied and pointed. He seemed to be alarmed by a stick. Then Reynolds saw the feathers on the stick’s end. It was an arrow. Part of it was buried in the ground, and it still stood as high as his hip.

  It rained arrows. Some hit the ground with gentle tapping sounds, others rustled into leaves. One hit Spender’s helmet and shattered, but the blow still sent him to one knee. Another hit Reynolds in the back and sent him stumbling. The arrow couldn’t pierce his body armor, but it was like being hit by a powerfully swung bat. It hurt.

  A deep, loud groan was wrenched from Pritchard. He fell, and hitting the ground, he jolted the long arrow through his thigh. An arrow shuddered into the ground next to him. Rey­nolds, crouching, gathered his wits. The fletchings of the nearest arrow pointed back the way it came—from the slope to their left, from the tree cover. He opened his mouth to shout an order, and saw that another arrow pointed the opposite way. The bastards were on both sides of them. He shouted, “Give them fire,” and scrambled to join Spender at Pritchard’s side.

  The others, kneeling, loosed a burst of fire into the trees on either side: deafening explosions, screams from birds, splintering wood, falling branches. How about that, you dirty, flea-ridden bastards, Reynolds thought. See if leather jerkins with a few bits of tin sewn into ’em protect you from that.

  Spender was examining Pritchard’s wound. The arrow’s length hindered him. It was nearly a yard long, and its end struck the ground, moving in the wound, making Pritchard sob and clutch at it. He was bleeding heavily, the leg of his trousers soaked. To Reynolds, Spender said, “Hold it still. … I’ll cut it off.”

  Reynolds held the arrow and Pritchard’s leg while Spender sawed at the tough shaft with his knife. Pritchard clenched his teeth and endured until the fletching was sawn off and the arrow shaft could be pushed straight through and out of the wound.

  The arrow shower had stopped. “Looks like we saw the buggers off,” Norton said.

  From high on the hillsides, further up the valley, the Grannams watched the Elves.

  As soon as they’d loosed their arrows, they’d picked up their quivers and run to another spot, from where they’d released more arrows before moving again.

  The Elves’ pistol fire was devastating—to the trees, birds, and animals it hit. Not a single Grannam had still been standing there.

  They had arrows remaining in their quivers, and when the Elves moved on, they’d collect those loosed arrows that were still whole. And they’d follow the Elves and bide awhile before making it rain again.

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Per May and Andrea • Joan Grannam • Mistress Crosar • Davy Grannam • Sandy Yonstone

  The Grannam men climbed toward him, swords and daggers drawn. Per watched them come with no heart for any fight. He shivered with cold and nausea and his legs shook under him. And Andrea was dying—or dead.

  He gripped the hilts of his sword and dagger as they slipped in his sweaty hands and told himself that he must fight for his family and their honor … The words were the chatter of crows for all they meant to him.

  Lower down the slope, Joan Grannam allowed Sandy Yonstone to put his cloak around her shoulders. She half-turned to him, hoping he might be shelter from her aunt’s temper. Hearing Aidan laugh behind her, she turned her head and saw the men nearing Per.

  “No!” Shrugging off Sandy’s cloak and arm, Joan scrambled up the slope on hands and knees, screaming at the men to stop.

  Mistress Crosar rocked on her feet, so shocked was she. There went her niece, shrieking like a hoyden, half-naked again. Climbing the hillside like an ape, all knees and elbows and arse in the air, pink buttocks shining through her thin shift. Before Sandy Yonstone! Disgraceful behavior from a kitchen skivvy. Laird Brackenhill’s daughter ought not to have been capable of it. Sandy, the great stupid lump, stood there, gawping! Slow on the uptake, like all Yonstones.

  “Stop her!”

  Sandy continued to gawp. Giving up all hope of him, Mistress Crosar started after Joan herself, though the slope was hard on her hip.

  Reaching Davy, Joan rose up from her hands and knees, laid hold of his left arm, and pulled at him, unbalancing and startling him more than he’d been startled in a long time.

  “Leave him!” Joan shrieked. “It was no his doing!”

  Aidan, as startled as Davy, stopped short and stared.

  Sandy, overtaking Mistress Crosar, came up but could only stand, arms dangling, like a simpleton.

  Davy, regaining his balance, tried to gently disengage from the clinging girl. “Gan to your aunt, Lady. You’ll get hurt.”

  Per Sterkarm, too ill to be startled, simply took the opportunity to breathe deep. He glimpsed movement on the slope below the three men and Joan. He squinted, his vision still fuzzy. Another man, he thought, and tried to stand straight, for his last fight.

  “Joan!” the third man cried in an angry woman’s voice. Per swayed, shifted his footing to keep his balance, and squinted again at the stocky figure. Joan had said something about “my aunt.”

  Slowly, his memory gave him a name. Mistress Crosar, Richie Grannam’s widowed, childless sister and Joan’s aunt. Per knew of her, as he knew something of all the Border families. The Sterkarms were especially interested in news of the Grannams.

  Mistress Crosar reached them, encircled Joan from behind, and dragged her away from Davy. Joan struggled, her aunt shouted, and Davy, free again, turned once more to the Sterkarm he had to kill.

  Per threw down his sword, threw down his dagger, and held up his hands.

  The Grannam men stopped, suspicious. This was not what they’d expected. The Sterkarm was cornered and outnum
bered. He should fight and they would kill him. That was how it was meant to go.

  Per gave up the effort of standing and dropped to the ground. He couldn’t fight off a boy of eight and knew it. In his hoarse, carrying voice, he called out, “Mistress Crosar? Be so good, Mistress. Help me.”

  All of the Grannams and Sandy Yonstone, too, froze with astonishment and stared. It was a Sterkarm trick, of course. But what trick? Davy cast quick glances around, up at the hill’s higher slopes, below them, to either side, trying to spy out the ambush.

  Time was wasting. Finish the Sterkarm and they could be away with Joan before the trap sprung. Davy braced his feet on the slope and drew back his sword to ram the steel home.

  Per’s head reared back, and he drew a deep breath as he looked along the length of the blade. His hand touched the grass behind him as he braced himself to take the blow. He looked into the Grannam man’s face and met the hard stare of the brown eyes under the helmet’s brim.

  Davy again bunched his muscles to drive the sword forward—and again, didn’t. This wasn’t the kill-or-be-killed of battle. The lad sat there on the ground, his legs splayed, his arms at his side, his face white as linen. His sword and dagger weren’t even within his reach.

  Had the Sterkarms ever been known for tenderness toward enemies? Finish him, and be—

  The Sterkarm spoke again. “Lady, be so good …” He moved, and Davy tensed, but the Sterkarm only pulled himself back up the slope, twisting sideways and reaching for the woman who lay beside him. “She dies, Lady. Be so good, help her.”

  “Wait,” Mistress Crosar said. Releasing Joan, she climbed toward the Sterkarm.

  Still holding his dagger, Davy stretched out his left hand to block her way. “Lady, have care.”

  Mistress Crosar looked at the dagger until he lowered his arm and let her pass.

  Joan followed her aunt, slowly. For the moment, she’d saved Per’s life, but she wasn’t pleased to see his attention on the Elf-May. When Sandy came up behind her and enveloped her in his cloak again, she made only a token effort to twist from his grip, then accepted it, standing still in the cloak’s warmth. Sandy was impudent to think he had any right to touch her, but doubtless her aunt would take his side rather than hers.