Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  Without waiting for an answer, Missy lifted herself from the saddle and slowly lowered herself to the ground. “I’m really not sure riding is easier than walking,” she complained. “Just different muscles in my legs hurting, is the only benefit I can see.”

  Litsa, already off her horse, smiled at her. “You will get used to it. Another few thousand hours in a saddle and it will come very easily. And I have no more idea than you do where we are. Somewhere in Lorraine, southwest of the Rhine and northeast of Nancy.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Missy, now standing on the ground. “Why didn’t you just say ‘somewhere in Europe’ and save some breath?”

  Litsa’s smile widened to something suspiciously close to a grin. She started to make some quip in response but a rustle in the thick brush not far away drew her attention. Barbeline had been riding in front of Matija for the last stretch. He’d lifted her down after dismounting himself and she was now heading for the brush to attend to pressing personal business.

  Suddenly Matija shouted and raced toward her. “Barbeline—no! Stay away—”

  A wild pig came charging out of the brush. “Boar!” cried Litsa.

  * * *

  Eva, who was still in her saddle, had far more hunting experience than her friend. The charging pig was a sow, not a boar—which was no comfort at all. The sow was almost certainly nursing piglets in that brush, and was now protecting them. Sows in that state of mind were even more ferocious than boars, and while they weren’t as big and didn’t have the pronounced tusks of male pigs, they were still dangerous. Sows bit with their teeth rather than gouging with their tusks the way boars did, and the bite of a sow could inflict terrible damage.

  As this one now demonstrated. Matija raced forward, snatched up Barbeline and flung her aside, and then started to draw his pistol. But as quickly as he’d moved, he hadn’t moved quickly enough. The sow’s great canine teeth clamped onto his lower leg and, with a jerk of her powerful neck and shoulders, brought him down. He cried out in pain. The cavalryman’s boots he was wearing had kept her tusks from penetrating into his flesh, but his knee had suffered some sort of injury—a fracture, dislocation, or perhaps a torn ligament.

  The sow clamped her jaws onto his right thigh, gnawing and tearing. Blood spurted everywhere; not enough for a major artery to have been severed, but those were still terrible wounds. She relinquished his leg and went for his face. Matija’s pistol was knocked aside by her charging shoulder and he had to let go of it in order to seize her by the throat and try to hold her off. He wouldn’t be able to do that for more than a few seconds, though. He was on his back with only the strength of his arms and the sow was digging her hooves in furiously.

  Eva was on the ground with the boar spear in her hand without really thinking about it. She charged forward and sank the blade into the sow’s ribcage. It was not the ideal place to plant a spear but she hadn’t dared aim closer to the animal’s throat or shoulder for fear of striking Matija instead.

  If she’d been lucky, the spearhead would have slid between two ribs and pierced the sow’s heart. But, not to her surprise, it got stuck in the ribcage instead. Now the enraged sow twisted to attack her instead of Matija—and with that poor placement of the spear the beast was likely to shake herself loose.

  At least Matija could now scramble away from the pig and try to retrieve his pistol.

  If he could find it in time. The pistol had sailed into another patch of brush and he was forced to scrabble on his hands and what use he could get out of his uninjured leg. He was bleeding badly from his right leg.

  The sow outweighed Eva by at least thirty pounds and was driving her backward. That wasn’t what worried Eva, though. If she’d had a good placement of the spearhead she could find someplace to brace the butt of the spear—on the ground if nowhere else. But the sow’s furious energy was already working the spear loose from her ribs. The pig would tear herself up badly in the doing, but once she got free—

  Ka-boom!

  The sow was hammered off her feet by a tremendous blow to the right shoulder. The impact tore the spearhead lose at the same time. As the beast scrambled back onto her feet, squealing furiously, Eva brought the spear level and braced herself for the charge.

  Thankfully, she’d turned down Missy’s offer of up-time women’s clothing. Blue jeans were comfortable, she didn’t doubt, but for the purpose of protecting her legs against a sow’s sharp fangs they’d be about as useful as a nightgown. The leather trousers she was wearing, with a slit skirt on top of them, would be a lot better protection.

  But there was no need. Ka-boom! The sow was knocked down again, blood gushing from her neck. With the tenacity for which wild pigs were notorious, the sow tried again to get back on her feet, but she was now rapidly losing her strength.

  Eva strode forward and drove the spear into the sow’s throat, the blade passing all the way through and pinning the pig to the soil below. The animal’s legs thrashed furiously and briefly, and then she was suddenly quite still.

  Looking over, Eva saw Missy with her shotgun broken open in that up-time design that looked so peculiar to down-timers not familiar with the weapons. Missy was feeding shells into the two open breaches.

  Trying to, at any rate. Her hands were trembling and she dropped the first shell. Hissing curses under her breath, she managed to get the second shell loaded and then snapped the weapon shut. Hurriedly bringing it back to her shoulder—

  “There’s no need, Missy!” said Eva loudly. “The pig’s dead.”

  The young up-time woman stared down the double barrels of the shotgun at the sow lying on the ground.

  “Are you sure?” Missy shook her head. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

  She took a deep breath and slowly lowered the shotgun. Then, remembering Matija, looked toward him.

  Litsa and Barbeline were already tending to him. Or at least Litsa was—the French girl’s contribution was mostly to hold Matija’s hand and insist he wasn’t really hurt all that badly even though the eight-year-old knew perfectly well the statement was preposterous. Any eight-year-old would have known that, much less one as wizened by a harsh life as Barbeline.

  Matija’s leg was soaked in blood—so was one of his hands, although Eva thought that was probably blood from his leg—and his face was pale and drawn. His eyes seemed dull, too.

  Missy turned to Eva and held out the shotgun. “I need to look after him. Do you know how to use a shotgun?”

  “Only in theory.” Eva held up the spear. “I’ll be fine with this. I doubt if there will be any more pigs, anyway.”

  Missy set the shotgun down and hurried over to Matija’s side. She placed a hand on his forehead and then felt for his pulse. “He’s clammy and his pulse is weak and rapid. He’s in shock. We need to get his legs raised.”

  “Just a moment,” said Litsa. She’d torn off a strip of her undergarments and was binding Matija’s wounds with it. A few seconds later, she finished tying the jury-rigged bandage. Meanwhile, Barbeline had found a short log about four inches in diameter and was trying to drag it over.

  “It’s not thick enough, Barbeline,” said Missy. “We need something—” Looking around, she pointed to the pack on Matija’s horse. “That’ll do. Eva, can you—?” She broke off, seeing that Eva was already starting to take the pack off the horse.

  “What else should we do?” asked Litsa. None of them thought it odd that two women born and raised in the seventeenth century were looking for emergency medical guidance to a woman born in a far more sheltered time and place. That wasn’t because Missy had any medical training, because she didn’t. What the American did have, as they’d learned by now, was a semi-encyclopedic knowledge of a multitude of things. Missy herself ascribed that to her library training and a very good memory. Whatever the source, they’d found her to be a fount of information.

  “Turn his head to the side,” Missy said. “In case he throws up, which he might. We don’t want him choking on his own vomit. Other
than that, we need to keep him warm.”

  Litsa grimaced. Winter was past and there were daffodils blooming in the meadow. But they were still far from summer. It was a fairly typical day in early April, as far as temperature went. A bit chilly, but nothing that a healthy person couldn’t withstand with a modicum of clothing. There was no way it could be called “warm,” though.

  Eva dropped the pack next to them. While Missy and Litsa got Matija’s legs raised and pushed the pack under them, Eva brought down her own pack and dug out the blankets she used whenever they stopped for the night. Like any experienced traveler, she was unwilling to use bedding provided by inns, since they were frequently infested with lice and bedbugs.

  “We can cover him with these,” she said. “But one of us needs to go look for help.”

  “Litsa, you go,” said Missy. “You’re a better rider than I am.”

  “Eva’s better than me.”

  “Yes, I know. But she’s also better with a spear and right now I want that spear around in case another boar shows up.”

  Litsa chuckled and looked over at the dead pig. “That was a sow.”

  “Looked like a boar to me. Actually, it looked like something risen from the Pit of Damnation. That was scary.”

  “You handled it well,” Eva reassured her.

  Missy held up her hand. It was visibly trembling. “Let me see your hand, Eva.”

  Eva held up hers. It was not trembling.

  “Steady as a rock. Right. You stay. Litsa goes.”

  * * *

  After Litsa left, Eva saw that Barbeline had been dragging up more logs—or branches, rather. These were much lighter than the log she’d tried to use to raise Matija’s legs.

  She started to ask what the girl was doing, but then realized the answer. Barbeline had survived on her own for weeks living in a hut she’d made out of branches and whatever else she’d been able to find.

  No fool, she, eight years old or not. Eva glanced at the sky and saw that they were now in mid-afternoon. Unless Litsa had extraordinarily good fortune, she wouldn’t find a village whose inhabitants were willing to help in time to be back before sunset. They were going to have to spend the night out here, and it was bound to get quite cold. Not below freezing, no, but cold enough to pose a potentially mortal threat to Matija.

  So. A hut—and a fire.

  She hefted her boar spear and gauged the surrounding woods. She didn’t think it was likely that there was another pig out there, and even if there were, the chances were low that it would be dangerous. Feral swine normally avoided people. The risk came from sows nursing piglets and from boars trapped during a hunt and striking out at whoever came near.

  Bears were always a possibility, of course. But they normally didn’t attack either, unless surprised or provoked.

  “Barbeline, don’t go far into the woods. Not more than a few feet.”

  The French girl shook her head. “Won’t be many good branches that close to the meadow, Maman.”

  “No, but there’ll be plenty of small ones for a fire. I’ll get the bigger branches. You find what we need to get a good fire started—and we’ll need enough wood to keep it going all night.”

  Missy rose to her feet. “I’ll help. There’s really not much I can do for Matija now. We’ve stopped the bleeding and he’s mostly unconscious anyway. The key thing is we have to keep him warm.”

  * * *

  By sundown, they had a jury-rigged hut—more like a lean-to shed propped up against the thickest oak they could find that was on the edge of the meadow. And they had a fire going as well. Matija was too nauseated to want to eat, but the rest of them dined on the dried meat, cheese and bread they had in their packs.

  They’d be crowded, all four of them packed into the small shed made of branches. But that was all to the good. In truth, Matija would get more warmth from the bodies surrounding him than he would from the fire, since they had to keep it a certain distance away lest it burn down the shed.

  “And now we wait,” Eva said. “And hope Litsa’s found someone.”

  “I love adventure stories,” said Missy. “Which I define as tales told about someone else freezing their butts off in a shed made out of branches in the middle of a forest full of bloodthirsty wild pigs.”

  Somewhere in the distance, there was a peculiar coughing noise.

  “Don’t forget bears,” said Eva.

  “And there are trolls, too,” added Barbeline. Seeing the look on the faces of the two older women, she shook her head. “Well, there are.”

  But she didn’t seem especially bothered by the thought. And why should she? By the time she was eight years old, she’d survived being orphaned and struck down by bubonic plague. Trolls, pfah.

  Chapter 13

  When Eva woke up, she immediately sensed the absence of Barbeline’s little form. For all the French girl’s fortitude, at night her child’s nature came forward and she pressed herself tightly against Eva, almost clinging. It could be a bit annoying, but Eva never chided her for it.

  She sat up abruptly. Missy was awake, having taken the last watch for the night. She was sitting at the entrance of the shed with the shotgun propped against her shoulder. The fire was still burning but it was low.

  “Where’s Barbeline?”

  Missy pointed to the woods to the west. “Over there. Going to the bathroom, as they say.” The American frowned. “Although now that I think about it, she’s been gone quite a while. I haven’t heard anything, though.”

  The girl was probably all right, then. If she’d been attacked by an animal, there’d have been plenty of noise. Still, Eva was a bit worried, so she rose to her feet and went out into the meadow, heading in the direction Missy had pointed out.

  She hadn’t taken more than ten steps, though, when Barbeline’s voice came from her right, more than a quarter of the way around the meadow from where she was supposed to have been. “I’m over here, Maman!”

  The little girl emerged from the woods. She had a piglet in each hand. Dead piglets, from the way they were hanging limply.

  “These will make a good breakfast,” Barbeline announced cheerfully. “Two for each of us. There are six more still back there.”

  She trotted past Eva, dropped the piglets next to the fire and headed back in the direction from which she’d come.

  Since there was obviously no danger, Eva let her go and returned to the shed.

  Missy was staring at the piglets. “Did they starve to death already?”

  The up-timer had that odd streak of naiveté. Eva shook her head. “No, Barbeline probably strangled them.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’d have died anyway, without their mother. They’re too young to survive on their own.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…”

  About a minute later Barbeline dropped off two more carcasses and headed back to where she’d found the piglets.

  “We’d better stoke up the fire,” Eva said. “And hand me the knife out of my pack, would you? I’ll dress them.”

  Breakfast was ready before long. As they dined on very tender pork—Barbeline with gusto, Eva with appetite, Matija weakly and Missy as if she were eating dead giant spiders—Barbeline swallowed another bite and said happily: “They’re much tastier than rats. And cats, when you can get them.”

  The American looked at the girl as if she’d suddenly become a giant spider herself. Eva had a hard time to keep from laughing.

  True, Barbeline could be a little unsettling. But since Eva seemed destined to become her adoptive mother, formally or otherwise, she figured if nothing else she’d have a very resourceful daughter to look after her when she was in her dotage.

  The girl was hard-working, too. No sooner had she finished her pork breakfast than she went over to the carcass of the dead sow and tried to drag it back to the shed. Given that the pig weighed at least three times as much as Barbeline did, she was making slow progress until Eva and Missy came to help her. But it was quite apparent that
the French girl would have gotten that pig to the fire even if it had taken her all day. And Eva had no doubt at all that she would have figured out how to dress the carcass even without a knife.

  Given that Eva had a knife she always kept very sharp, that task wouldn’t be particularly difficult.

  “Do we really need to do this?” asked Missy, looking at the dead pig distastefully. Eva suspected that she’d had little experience either hunting or butchering. Meat that had been dressed and prepared for the kitchen looked a lot different from meat still on the proverbial hoof—and still encased in hide and fur.

  “Yes,” said Eva. “We have no way of knowing how long it will take Litsa to find help. And even if she finds it quickly”—Eva glanced at the forest surrounding the meadow—“this is a poor rural area. Poorer still, after the armies went through it, and the plague. Having a dressed pig to offer to the local peasants will gain us a considerable amount of good will.”

  Missy nodded. “Makes sense. Okay, I’ve never done this. What do you want me to do?”

  Eva wielded the knife, with Missy and Barbeline helping with the rest. She worked carefully and slowly, since she didn’t want to get stains on any of their clothing. It was difficult to dress a large animal without getting bloody, but she’d had quite a bit of experience and managed the task.

  “Maman’s good at everything,” Barbeline pronounced. That simple statement brought a flush of pride and pleasure to Eva she wouldn’t have expected. But all she did in response was nod sagely. Mothers didn’t boast. That was a father’s prerogative.

  Not that this girl’s adoptive father ever had, in Eva’s acquaintance with him. From his reputation, you would have thought Captain Lefferts to be a vainglorious sort of fellow. But he didn’t seem that way at all to her.