A Sterkarm Tryst

by Price, Susan;

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Sandy Yonstone • Joan Grannam • Per May

  “Oh! Mary! Sweet Moth-er!”

  Plunging downhill, the horse slammed Joan against its neck, threw her from side to side, jolted her head forward and back so her teeth clashed. She lost the reins and clung desperately to the animal’s mane, staring with fascination down a slope that seemed a precipice. Her brains would be smashed out, her bones broken.

  Her foot was shaken from a stirrup, she slipped sideways, and clawed to stay in the saddle. Alarmed by its rider’s strange behavior, the horse tossed its head, dislodging her further. Slipping helplessly from its back, she screamed in its ear. It leaped, slipped, rolled—and Joan was lucky to be thrown from its other side, or she would have been beneath it when it crashed down, breaking saplings.

  She flew, squealing, attacked by whips and scratching fingers, and landed with a crunching thump, all breath punched from her. She lay among splinters, unable to move, gasping for air but unable to draw it in.

  Sweet Milk, hearing a woman’s screams, raised his hand. The horsemen behind him reined in. The screams came from ahead, from the trees.

  Cuddy darted forward to the full length of her leash, and her whole body pointed toward the scream.

  Cuddy had loped beside Sweet Milk’s horse, on a leash, for half a day. Managing both leash and hound had been an unholy nuisance, but the only way to prevent Cuddy from turning back to the tower and Per. In the last few miles, she’d come to understand about the leash and had trotted patiently along. But now she choked herself at the tether’s end.

  The men looked at one another. Cuddy would not be interested by a mere scream.

  Movement. Something at the edge of the trees darted across an opening and vanished in a thicket. An animal—a hound. But whose hound?

  Cuddy yelped and lunged, her tail wagging. Startled, the men exchanged looks again. Cuddy knew this strange hound.

  It coursed toward them, leaning with its speed. “Swart!”

  It could not be the Swart of their own world. He’d been left on the gate’s other side. Had the Swart of this world broken loose and come looking for the Per with a broken nose?

  Cuddy leaped to meet her pup. They danced around each other. Swart set his forelegs on the ground. Cuddy play-nipped his nose and ears. They chased each other. Sweet Milk had to drop the leash before Cuddy tangled the horse’s legs.

  From the trees came a crashing in bushes, a thumping, a shriek. A horse appeared, riderless, scared, running. Anders and Pohl kicked up their own horses and raced after it. Horses were valuable.

  Sweet Milk rode toward the trees, followed by the others.

  From the trees, a creature came stumbling. Its white clothes billowed and its long pale hair blew in the breeze. It stumbled and staggered as if drunk or hurt.

  Sweet Milk drew rein, wondering at the thing. It seemed dressed in grave clothes and lurched from the trees like some wild thing. A chill touched him. The Land of the Dead …

  The thing raised its head, and the breeze blew the hair back. He glimpsed a girl’s face, scratched, bruised, dirty, but pretty. Joan Grannam, Laird Brackenhill’s daughter. In that other world they’d left behind, she had married Per, and he’d cut her throat.

  That had been another world. In this world, Joan was the lass who’d run after them from the Yonstone Tower. The girl Per had stupidly taken up onto his saddle. A handful, by any account.

  Sweet Milk kicked his horse to a trot. The girl ran from him, but he reached down and, using his horse’s momentum to aid his own strength, hauled her up across his saddle.

  The wrench on Joan’s arm, her feet leaving the ground, made her scream in shock—and then landing against the metal in Sweet Milk’s jakke and the hard pommel of his saddle, hurt. She fought without knowing what she fought: twisting, wriggling, punching.

  Sweet Milk clasped his arms tightly around her, gripping her wrists, while guiding his horse with his knees. The girl shrilled in wordless panic as they cantered back toward the other Sterkarms. Sweet Milk’s strength was far greater, but trying to hold her was like trying to hold a struggling cat. There was a danger that she would slip through his hold and fall to the ground.

  From behind came a sound of other horses—horses more competently ridden than Joan had ridden hers.

  Sweet Milk drew rein and hauled the girl up to sit across his legs. Gripping her two wrists in one of his hands, he seized her nape in his other, shaking her so her teeth chattered. “Whisht!” From beneath the shadow of his helmet, he glowered. And beneath that heavy-browed, fearsome glare, she shrank, becoming still and silent. The bruising edge of the saddle dug into her, but she didn’t dare protest.

  Sweet Milk watched the other riders appear from the trees. On market days in Carloel, he’d seen them, even spoken with them. Or the men they were glamoured to a likeness of.

  There was one who looked like Sandy Yonstone, too.

  Elves or double-ganners in another world? Well, it could be tested. If these Grannams were double-ganners of those from his own world, then they were no threat while he held their laird’s daughter.

  Cuddy yipped and raced toward the newcomers, trailing her leash. Swart followed. That was puzzling. Cuddy would not run to greet a Grannam. Sweet Milk studied the riders more carefully and saw, riding at the rear, Per Sterkarm.

  He was surprised he hadn’t recognized Per sooner by the way he rode, but then he saw that Per’s hands were tied behind him. It altered his style.

  So the Grannams thought they had a hostage, too. But the Per they held wasn’t Sweet Milk’s foster son. That Per was far behind them, locked in a tower with plain, undisguised Elves. This Per could only be the Per from this world, the one who had ridden with them from the Yonstone Tower, but had stravaiged off to find his woman.

  The Grannam party, emerging from the trees as they chased Joan, saw the Sterkarm riders ahead of them. The Grannams also went to fair days in Carloel, and they knew the Sterkarms, especially Sweet Milk. When the big hounds came near, they drove them off with lance butts.

  Aidan, still holding the leading rein of Per’s horse, drew his long knife with a scrape of metal, and held the blade to Per’s throat. He yelled, “Let our mistress gan.”

  Sweet Milk would have laughed if he’d been a laughing man. With his knees, he nudged his horse and rode off, continuing on his way. His men, openly grinning at the Grannams, followed as he carried Joan Grannam with him, a prisoner.

  The hounds bounded after the Sterkarms—then circled back to the Grannams.

  The Grannam men had expected name calling, threats, perhaps some bargaining, but not this indifference. Aidan took his knife from Per’s throat and sheathed it. There was plainly nothing to gain by threatening Per—but killing him would leave them no cards to play at all.

  Per May understood why these Sterkarms were happy to leave him a prisoner. He understood that he was in no greater danger than before—and that Swart, too, was safe, for now, and had even been reunited with Cuddy.

  Still, to see the image of his little daddy, his foster father, Sweet Milk, riding away from him made his heart ache.

  36

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  Andrea • The Sterkarms

  The stretcher was made from lances, cloaks, and blankets slung between two horses. When first placed in it and hoisted into position, with men either side lashing the poles to the horse’s saddles, Andrea had been terrified. The first slip or buck must throw her out and plummet her, head first, down some precipice.

  When the horses moved, she’d gripped her stretcher poles, bracing herself for the spill. But soon the horses’ plodding and the stretcher’s gentle rocking became ordinary. She rested and watched the gray sky.

  16th-Side A:

  The Grannam Tower

 
The Elves: Patterson, Gareth, and the Mercenaries • Changeling Per

  After days of dried rations and spoiled-in-the-bag, Patterson had to admit that stew smelled bloody good. Saliva sluiced out from the back of his jaw.

  Gareth filled a ladle with stew and drank from it.

  “You fucking idiot!” Patterson yelled. “What did I say?” He pointed at Per. “He was to eat it before anybody else!”

  Gareth was shaken by the yell but rallied. “He has been eating it. He’s been tasting it all along. I’ve seen him.” Gareth glanced at the other men, glad they were seeing him stand up to Patterson. “I’ve seen everything that’s gone in it. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Per took one of the bowls from the table and filled it with stew. Smiling at Patterson, he drank from it. “Mair salt,” he said, and put his hand into the crock of salt on the table.

  Seeing Patterson about to shout, Gareth said, “More salt. He’s right—it needs it.”

  Per lifted his hand from the bowl, palm spread to show Patterson the large, coarse grains of salt. Patterson, embarrassed, looked away. Per’s hand went into the salt again, taking up salt and the tallow-sealed nuts he’d hidden there. He put his hand into the top of the cauldron, so it was hidden by the rim. He released the salt and nuts into the hot stew.

  Glancing up, he saw Patterson watching him. He dipped another ladleful of the stew into his bowl, before using the ladle to stir.

  The nuts whirled in the hot broth, the tallow melting, releasing the wolfsdeath. Per hooked the ladle on the cauldron’s side and stepped away to stand in Patterson’s view, drinking from his own, untainted, bowl of stew.

  Gareth took a bowl from those stacked on the table and served himself. Patterson, seeing the other men looking at him, sighed and said, “Go on, then.” With a clatter of boots, the men crowded around, elbowing for bowls and their turn at the ladle.

  Per hungrily ate his own stew. He’d cooked it. He deserved it. Nor was it bad. He’d eaten a lot worse—but none as bad as the one the others were about to eat. Over his bowl’s rim, he saw an Elf prop his pistol against the wall by the door. Another clunked his on the table, a third slung his rifle on his shoulder … There were too many weapons for Per’s liking, though he hoped they soon wouldn’t be fit to use them.

  “Leave some for me,” Patterson said.

  “Changed your mind now, eh, Skip?”

  McGowan passed him a full bowl. Patterson took it, feeling the last fingerings of suspicion. Then the smell hit him full in the face. His belly woke up and yelled, “Gimme!”

  What the Hell! The kid had done everything to prove his innocence bar bringing a note from his social worker. Patterson tipped the bowl to his mouth and drank.

  He smacked his mouth, considering. Some of the men laughed. “Good wallop if you ask me!” somebody said.

  Patterson wasn’t sure. He took another sip and decided he liked it. Meaty, salty—and by Christ, you could taste the booze. Spicy, too. “Like a bloody curry,” he said.

  There was another laugh. “He forgiven then, Skip?”

  Ferrie said to Gareth, “Wicked, mate.” Gareth beamed.

  Per lifted a piece of the hare’s backbone from his bowl, and bit meat from it. He watched an Elf, carrying bowls in both hands, head for the stairs to the roof. So all the Elves inside the tower would eat his stew. He saw some Elves watching him and smiled. They were eating. If they noticed an odd taste, it didn’t bother them.

  Per sauntered over to the fireplace and leaned on the hood, breathing the smoke and feeling the heat from the glowing peats. He set his bowl in one of the chimney’s inner shelves. If Yanet was right, the wolfsdeath would work very soon. When it did, would the men still have the strength to use their pistols? What about the men on guard duty who hadn’t eaten anything?

  The men dipped into the pot for seconds. Who could have guessed he was such a good cook? In his mind, he saw the poison coiling through the broth. … He thought of it settling in their bellies.

  He saw Patterson spooning up stew and felt ashamed. It was a cowardly way to take revenge. He made himself remember his father’s brains spilling into his hand from the hole punched in his skull by an Elf-Ball. These men had killed his father with a lying, cowardly trick. He repaid them in their own coin. Remembering his father made him want to double the dose of wolfsdeath. He would have fed their women wolfs­death and given their babies wolfsdeath in their milk.

  And if one of the dying Elves found strength enough to turn an Elf-Pistol on him … Well, Sweet Milk would avenge him.

  16th-Side A:

  Wild Country

  The Changeling Sterkarms • Joan Grannam • The Grannams • Per May

  Sandy Yonstone saw the Grannam men sitting their horses, gaping, as the Sterkarms trotted away with Lady Joan as a prisoner. Something had to be done. Setting his horse after the Sterkarms, Sandy shouted, “Parley!”

  Per May was at the rear of the Grannam party. His mount, disturbed by the shouting, stamped restlessly in a half-circle. His hands tied behind him, Per swayed to keep his balance, gripping the horse with his knees. What did Yonstone hope to do? As a hostage, Joan Grannam was an ace or queen to Per’s knave. Per was certain Sweet Milk would never give her up.

  He wondered who he should fear most: the Grannams or the Changeling Sterkarms.

  Hearing Sandy’s cries, Sweet Milk drew rein and turned his horse. His men closed with him, and they all waited on the Yonstone Master.

  “Exchange!” Sandy called. “Your man for Lady Joan.”

  Sweet Milk saw no gain in answering. Instead, he watched the other Grannams come up, leading the horse that carried this world’s Per. Cuddy and Swart circled the horsemen, trying to reach Per.

  The two parties sat their horses and studied each other. The brush of horses’ tails was heard, a bird’s cry. Sandy was furious to see Joan seated across the legs of the big Sterkarm lout and struggling. No doubt he was enjoying it.

  Sweet Milk said, “Elven. Where shall we find them?”

  Before Aidan Grannam or Sandy could speak, Per May Sterkarm yelled from the rear, “Elven attacked us—attacked thine men and me.”

  Aidan and Sandy looked around, outraged. Prisoners should know their place and be quiet.

  “Why would you know?” Sandy asked politely. It would be witty to ask if the Sterkarms were looking to change sides again, but they had Joan. He must speak sweetly to them.

  Per stood in his stirrups and yelled, “Elven attacked us and ran away!”

  Sweet Milk glanced at his companions. “So,” Anders said to Sandy Yonstone, “tha knowst where Elven be. Tha’st seen ’em.”

  “Return to us Lady Joan,” Sandy Yonstone said.

  “We want that Per you have,” Anders said. “And we will ken where are Elven.”

  Sweet Milk had nothing to add: He merely stared his agreement while keeping his hold on Joan.

  Sandy tried a high tone. He was, after all, better born than anyone there, except Joan. “You must return Lady Joan to us.”

  The Sterkarms laughed. Even Sweet Milk smiled.

  At the back of the Grannam ride, Per listened in despair. This could go on while daylight lasted. Something had to break the deadlock.

  A louder burst of laughter came from the Sterkarms. Joan had ducked her head and bitten one of Sweet Milk’s hands. Instead of letting her go, he simply drove his hand deeper into her mouth, much as he would have done with a puppy, and still kept a tight hold on her.

  While the Sterkarms laughed, the Grannams kicked forward horses, which they then reined in, resulting in a stamping and curvetting.

  Per took his chance. Kicking his feet free of the stirrups, he kicked one leg high over his horse’s head, and slid down from its back. He landed, knees bent, among stamping, kicking hooves. He was betrayed by the hounds, who yippe
d and bounded to and fro, trying to reach him.

  Per saw a hoof stamp down, saw another one kick, and sprang forward, barging into the hard shoulder of one horse, ducking as he glimpsed a blow coming at him from above. Keeping his balance on that rough ground, with his hands tied behind him, was nearly impossible. He trusted to his own quickness to keep him upright, as he danced from one shaky foothold to another. Something—a boot, a lance butt—struck him high on his shoulder from behind and sent him staggering.

  The Sterkarms watched and cheered him on—even Joan paused in her struggles and watched as Per dodged through the Grannams. He almost fell, seemed, for an instant, to be stretched almost horizontally above the ground with only his toes touching it. Somehow, by luck, he kept his feet and came half-upright again, careering on in a crouching run.

  He ran into the clear ground between the two bands of horsemen and the two hounds, one gray, one black, bounded to his side. A Sterkarm rider trotted forward, riding between him and the Grannams, holding them off. Per ran to stand beside Sweet Milk’s horse, panting, chest heaving, his face wet with sweat. He looked up with a huge gleeful smile that wrenched Joan’s heart.

  It was wonderful to Joan that Per had simply refused to play the prisoner’s role he’d been given. She remembered all the times she’d obeyed her aunt like a good girl but had earned only more carping. Yet here was Per Sterkarm, refusing to obey even armed men. Was it so easy?

  Anders dismounted, drew his knife, and pushed past the excited hounds to cut the rope tying Per’s hands.

  The Grannams drew their horses together. They’d lost their hostage, but hadn’t regained Joan—and they could see that most of the Sterkarms were loosening swords in scabbards, taking helmets from saddlebows and lances from saddle slings. But the Grannams could neither fight nor run away, because the Sterkarms had Joan.

  Per stepped forward. He held up his hands, rubbing his wrists and working his fingers. He looked at the men in front of him and those behind him—and they watched him with some curiosity.