Contact (Crossover Series Book 2)

by Walt Socha

  Ragnar stepped closer, hands on hips as he stared down at Larry.

  “I would like very much to fucking kill you.” Larry’s growl carried over the sound of the woman’s wails.

  Ragnar smiled. “It would be a good fight. Except that you are old and wounded.” He shifted his eyes uphill. “Have you my thrall, Orla?”

  Larry stared. This man was mad. Two men, maybe three, dead and he wanted to talk about a slave? “She is with us.”

  “I would have her back.”

  Larry looked down at Matuso’s body, bile churning in his stomach. “She goes where she wishes.” He shifted his eyes to stare at the Northman. “We have no slaves. Or thralls as you call them.”

  “Some are destined by the gods to be thralls.”

  “We also have no gods.”

  Ragnar laughed. “Then what is the purpose of life?”

  Larry turned as footsteps approached. Ivar directed several men to the body of Matuso.

  “The purpose of life is whatever we choose it to be,” Larry said, as Ivar helped him stand. The men shifted Matuso’s body onto a blanket. Once he was settled, Ivar joined them to lift their burden. They headed uphill.

  At the other end of the dueling site, Jessie splashed liquid over the slash in Fergus’s upper arm. Larry didn’t remember his son getting that wound. But it looked shallow.

  Fergus neither flinched nor recognized Jessie or Deirdre, who stood by, holding a folded linen cloth. As Jessie returned a bottle to the bag hanging from his shoulder, Deirdre pressed the cloth against the wound. Pulling a strip of fabric from the bag, Jessie secured the bandage. Fergus just stood staring at the men carrying Matuso’s body uphill.

  A second woman and several unarmed Northmen approached Fergus and, at his slow nod, knelt to lift Snorri. They lifted their fallen comrade and headed downhill, followed by the sobbing woman.

  The first woman held Gunnarr’s head in her lap and wailed as two Northmen pressed their hands to the wound. Blood seeped from between their fingers.

  Larry’s eyes slid back to the woman. Must be his wife. The display of anguish stirred him. Maybe these weren’t just bloodthirsty warriors, but men who had families and had experienced death and sadness also. He shifted his eyes to Jessie, who looked up after tying off Fergus’s makeshift bandage. They held each other’s gaze for several breaths.

  “Do you want me to look at Gunnarr’s wound?” Jessie asked in English.

  “No fucking…” Larry said before considering. A quick glance downhill confirmed the Northmen numbers. He risked a glance uphill. Even with curve of the hill, he could see Teltina staring, her face still twisted with anguish.

  “Do it,” Larry said. “But ask first.”

  * * *

  One of the younger strangers approached Ragnar. “I would look at Gunnarr’s wound,” he said in the local tongue. “I have skills from our distant lands.”

  Ragnar looked from the warrior to Gunnarr. The two men, one on either side of Gunnarr’s torso, still squeezed his wound shut while the woman sobbed.

  “You have my permission.” Ragnar nodded to his men. “Let him attend Gunnarr.” He turned to the woman. “Learn what you can from the stranger.”

  “Gunnarr’s wife, Birna, will observe,” he said in Eire to the young stranger. “But he is dead. The wound will kill him.” He took in a deep breath. The blood duels had not gone as expected. He had hoped that the death of the strangers’ two champions would appease the men and give him an advantage in trade negotiations. But they could fight. The loss of both captains would prompt the men to agitate for more blood, eliminating the possibility of acquiring the hard iron. His hand slipped to the pouch hanging from his belt. Fingers pressed the cold metal of the arrowheads.

  At the foot of the hill, the men stared upwards. No doubt calculating the odds of a direct attack. Ragnar resisted the desire to shake his head. The agreement with Cormac had been a mistake. All it had accomplished was conflict with these strangers. Strangers who appeared to want to trade. Trade that could make his family wealthy. Trade that could provide his warriors with weapons to defend that wealth.

  If Gunnarr died, they must attack if he was to maintain control. Ragnar’s eyes drifted up the hillside. Hard to climb with arrows flying. And hard to climb quietly at night. Maybe these strangers had the power to heal a gut wound. If so, that would just be more reason to ally with them.

  And a healed Gunnarr would soften the demands of his warriors.

  * * *

  “Larry, I need help,” Jessie said as he trotted to Gunnarr’s side. Blood spurted as one of the two Northmen’s hand momentarily loosed as he shifted to kneel next to the second Northman.

  Larry looked to Ragnar, pointing to himself and then to Gunnarr. Ragnar scowled but nodded.

  Larry limped to Jessie’s side and knelt.

  “The cut goes into the abdominal cavity. A small artery is severed,” Jessie said, hands palpitating the area around the hands pressed over Gunnarr’s wound. “Wide but not deep.”

  “What's in your med bag?” Larry asked.

  “Clean linen bandages, thread, needles, forceps, and small bottles of cannabis and poppy tinctures. Most from Matuso’s kit.” Jessie withdrew a glass bottle. “And one of Potts’s old whiskey bottles refilled with about fifty percent alcohol.”

  Jessie looked toward the summit. “Water,” he shouted, voice cutting through the wail of the distraught woman.

  Pulling a battered and dented stainless steel bowl from his bag, Jessie poured a fourth of the bottle into it. He looked uphill.

  Larry followed Jessie’s gaze to see Deirdre handing Cassan a water bag. He broke from the ranks of people still holding position at the summit and ran downhill.

  “Give him some of the poppy?” Jessie asked as they waited for Cassan. “Not much left.”

  “Let the fucker suffer.” Larry glanced at the sobbing woman and sighed. “Go ahead. Just a little. We may need the rest for ourselves if this whole thing goes deeper into shit.”

  “Hold this,” Jessie said, handing the bowl into Larry's hands as Cassan skidded to a stop behind them. Within a half-dozen breaths, Jessie had taken the water skin from Cassan and diluted the alcohol. “I’m going to pour this over your hands. Then mine. Save most for irrigation.”

  As he poured, Larry rubbed his hands together under the thin stream of liquid. Then Larry poured for Jessie. Nudging the two Northmen’s hands from the wound area, he opened the cut, clamped the cut artery, and flushed the wound. Jessie probed the wound, separating a thin layer of fat and a thicker layer of muscle. Even under the overcast sky, the intestines glistened. “Nicked but not punctured. Our friend here may survive. I’ll tie off the artery then irrigate once more. Then you hold it closed while I prepare temporary sutures.”

  As Larry pressed the two sides of the wound closed with the heels of his hand, Gunnarr groaned and tried to struggle. The two Northmen shifted, one to sit on the injured man’s legs, the other to hold his shoulders. The two talked low in their own language, their tone not of hatred but of curiosity.

  As Jessie worked, several men climbed the hill to crowd around the fallen man. “I need more light,” Jessie said.

  “Ragnar, move these people back,” Larry said as he nodded to the new spectators. After a bark of command, all but the woman and the two men at Gunnarr’s head and feet moved back. Ragnar remained standing behind Larry.

  He continued standing as Jessie sutured the wound, placed an alcohol-soaked linen bandage over it and bound it with linen strips. “These are temporary. Once the danger of infection is over, I will sew him up permanently.”

  Larry sat back on his haunches and twisted recent kinks out of his back. “Nice job.”

  Jessie stood, swaying from exhaustion. “I’d rather just kill him,” he said in English. “I give him two to one odds that he'll live.” He looked down at Birna and nodded. She responded with a small brief smile.

  “Better than Matuso.” Pushing off the ground with his lef
t hand, Larry stood and faced Ragnar. “He may live,” he said in Eire.

  “If he lives, we will talk.” One side of Ragnar’s mouth turned up. “If he dies, we will kill you and take the women.”

  Larry stared at the Northman. Was this man crazy? He remembered Ragnar’s expression when his two captains interrupted their first meeting to demand blood. Could his bravado be a shrewd attempt to get past the damn blood feud shit? “When?”

  “In five days. By then, Gunnarr will be recovering.” Ragnar looked down at his injured captain. “Or dead.” After a pause, he turned to look at his men patrolling the base of the hill. “I will return here. If Gunnarr is recovering, I and two others will talk with you and two of your choosing.” Once again Ragnar smiled. “If he is not, you will die.”

  Chapter 39

  August 29

  Below, several Northmen walked along the edge of the forest. Standing fifty strides below the summit of Bald Hill, Larry fumed. The fuckers didn’t even bother to hide, acting as if they were out on a causal walk. In full armor. He turned away from Ragnar’s men. Above, his sentries stood, also in armor.

  Favoring his right leg, Larry limped back up the hill as thoughts flitted through his head. Attack, flee, or hold. Each had an advantage. And each had problems. Many problems. As he reached the first sentry, Larry nodded his greeting. “They’re still patrolling along the tree line.”

  “Do you think the wounded Northman will survive?” the sentry asked.

  “I hope so.” Larry snorted. “So I can kill him at some future time.”

  “All of us want that honor.” The man turned and looked over the exposed rock and heather of the summit. “When are the words for Matuso?”

  “Probably after we eat.” Larry clapped the man on the shoulder and headed toward the small cluster of people gathering around a smoky cook fire.

  As he approached, Orla broke from the crowd.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” she said, lowering her eyes as she stopped in front of him.

  Larry nodded. “Thank you.” She stood there, staring at the ground, teeth nipping the edge of her lower lip. “And thanks for helping Hatimu.”

  Her eyes rose to meet Larry’s. “All was hopeless until he told me Cassan was still alive.” She looked back to the cook fire, where her brother stood watching them. “That gave me the courage to act.” Turning back to Larry, she raised her eyes to his face, “I was told you refused to give me back to Ragnar.” A smile brightened her face, the stress of the recent months temporarily fading. “Thank you.”

  “It is who we are,” Larry said. This young girl had lost almost her entire family. He should be so brave.

  * * *

  After dinner, the crowd drifted to the small knoll near the center of Bald Hill where seven mounds now lay in a row. As Larry followed, Fergus joined him.

  “Teltina asked Jessie about our Buddhist beliefs. I suspect she thinks her gods have deserted her.”

  “Better that she asked him than Ivar.” Larry’s eyes wandered over the hilltop, finding her walking hand-in-hand with her daughter toward the burial area.

  “Should we try to escape?”

  “Not sure we have a direction,” Larry said. “North and west are Northmen. East is the remaining Ur Neill and the abbey. South is a maybe. But the Ur Neill have already attacked from that direction.”

  “Yeah, and we’d be traveling with the women and children.” Fergus slowed to a stop. “And the wounded.”

  “That's probably why Ragnar left only a few sentries.” Larry halted and looked at his son. “He’s not worried about us escaping. At least we have the food you brought from Sanctuary.”

  “And the food scavenged from the Ur Neill camp before the Northmen showed up. Enough for over a week.” Fergus pointed to the north. “Water’s a problem, but they’ve backed away from that small lake.”

  “I thought that was where their camp was located?”

  “No, that’s the larger lake to the south. I mean the small lake to the northeast. Not much more than a pond, it’s only a couple hundred strides long. Several of the women have already dared to walk down and bring back water.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None. The Northmen just watched. I may try to take the horses down later.”

  They resumed walking. “They either want something or they figure they can kill at any time.”

  “Assuming Gunnarr makes it, who do you want with you for the talk with Ragnar?” Fergus asked.

  “I’m thinking of taking Deirdre and Ivar with me.” Larry slowed. “Politically, that's the best mix. A landowner and a cleric. Or, at least, a former landowner. I may need their input on any negotiations. If there are any.”

  “Are you going to be able to talk with this Ragnar?”

  “I must.” Larry wiped his face with his right hand. “I must.”

  Fergus gripped his shoulder. “Jessie’s starting the remembrances for Matuso and Kequit,” Fergus said. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I must,” Larry repeated yet again.

  Chapter 40

  August 30

  “How much alcohol remains?” Ignoring his queasy stomach, Fergus focused his eyes on Gunnarr’s wound as Jessie’s wet fingers probed the raw flesh. The pale fatty tissue and red muscles glistened in the sun.

  Gunnarr twitched as Jessie, sweat glistening on his haggard face, inspected the edges of the cut. “Looks good,” he said. “No sign of infection. A bottle and a half left. I’ll probably finish the partial on this.” He sat back on his haunches. “After another irrigation, I’ll restitch and then re-cover the wound with salt-saturated bandages.”

  At his side, Anya knelt, holding a stainless steel bowl covered with a thick cloth in one hand and a clay pot in the other.

  As he rinsed, Gunnarr’s eyes opened then widened as he focused. His mouth moved. “Who you?” he said in broken Eire.

  “Brothers of the man you killed,” Fergus said.

  Gunnarr leaned forward, pain spasming across his face as he strained to inspect his belly, and then he fell back, unconscious.

  “Animal,” Jessie said. He tied the wound together with a new set of sutures and rinsed with the remaining liquid in the glass bottle. Switching the empty bottle for the pot, he splashed salt water over the cloth. “This is a saturated salt solution.”

  “My stomach is not liking this,” Fergus said in English.

  “If you’re going to faint, please don’t do it in front of the women.” The edges of Jessie’s mouth turned up. “Myself, I’ll save my vomiting for later,” he added in Eire, getting a raised eyebrow from Anya.

  Fergus looked up as a shadow moved across Gunnarr’s legs. Gunnarr’s wife, Birna, stood there, eyes locked on Jessie’s fingers.

  “Gunnarr live?” she asked in broken Eire.

  Anya looked up, face hard. Fergus followed her eyes. Tears tracked down the Northwoman’s face, which was red with anguish. He looked back at Anya in time to see her face soften.

  “We hope,” Anya said in a whisper.

  * * *

  “Well?” Larry stood over Jessie as he and Anya gathered up their medical supplies.

  “No sign of infection,” Jessie said, looking down at Gunnarr. Birna kneeled at his side, dribbling warm broth into his mouth by squeezing a scrap of cloth. At her side, Fergus sat holding a small wooden bowl of broth, into which she dipped the fabric. “Maybe he will live. If the wound is still clean in a couple of days, I will finish sewing it up.” Jessie capped the bottle of alcohol and slipped it into his medical bag.

  “I am still confused about the small animals Jessie described.” Anya looked up at Larry. “Jessie called them ‘microbes.’ He has showed me with his glass the not so small animals that live in the soil. My mind hurts when I try to imagine even smaller ones that the strong beer kills.”

  “Think of a village,” Larry said. “It is made up of many individual people. And sometimes, they are attacked by outside people. Our skin is the wall around that
village. If the wall is breached, the outsiders can enter.”

  Anya paused, then nodded.

  “Any plans?” Jessie stood, reaching a hand down to assist Anya up.

  Larry turned, eyes sweeping the summit. “We can sit around fretting. Or we can resume weapons training.”

  “And the children?”

  “Maybe I’ll make goals for a Hurling field.”

  Chapter 41

  September 1

  Nodding to Birna, Jessie knelt by Gunnarr's side and unwrapped the cloth covering the man’s abdomen.

  Gunnarr said something guttural as Jessie lifted the bandage.

  “He talk.” Birna touched Gunnarr’s shoulder. “Why help?”

  Jessie hesitated, eyes shifting between Gunnarr and his wife. “My chief wants to be friends. Not enemies.” Actually, he suspected Larry would like to gut them all. But more people breathed when you employed diplomacy than when you used a sword. Or an axe.

  Birna and Gunnarr conversed while Jessie prodded the still swollen skin around the wound. Only an occasional gasp betrayed Gunnarr’s pain. Jessie had to give the man credit for fortitude. He covered the wound with fresh, salt-soaked linen and rewrapped Gunnarr’s torso.

  “Why travel here?” Birna asked.

  “To trade.” Jessie wondered what the people from the North would think about their plans to change the course of history.

  Birna and Gunnarr again conversed.

  “How?” Birna pointed to Gunnarr’s belly. “No die?”

  “Knowledge from far lands.”

  Birna only stared in response.

  * * *

  Larry limped to a stop as the lower hillside came into view. “Expected,” he said, turning to Fergus. “They would want to be in place for tomorrow. The fifth day.”