Conflict (Crossover Series)

by Socha, Walt

  They loaded up and led the horses out of the ranch compound before mounting. Once they were out of earshot, Alta’s excitement bubbled into chatter. Other than answering direct questions from Alta, Kristi remained silent.

  The sun rose, and Red Wash remained shrouded in mist. The sky was cloudless and the neighboring valleys were clear except for geometric shadows that moved at the pace of the morning’s sun.

  It would have been an enjoyable ride in the early air, across open fields and through stands of conifers, but Joe kept glancing back. Where were Larry and Brent? He hadn’t realized how much he was going to miss them.

  In a couple of hours, the sides of Red Wash rose ahead of them like silent sentinels. Further up the valley hung the low mist.

  They crossed the sandy riffles of Red Wash creek and followed a game trail through a small copse of pines. Just before they reached an open meadow at the mouth of the valley, Joe heard then saw a large number of horses. “Hold up, someone came after us.” Joe held out his hand to halt Kristi and Alta.

  Both ignored him, and, with Kristi leading, they broke into a canter. Alta’s left arm was waving.

  Joe froze, trying to comprehend. Then he nudged his horse forward, the young mare still jumpy at his unfamiliar touch.

  About thirty horses were hobbled in the center of the meadow. More than half the horses were carrying loaded panniers.

  On one horse sat a giant…knight? Wearing armor? Shit, it was Larry. He wore his SCA body armor and helmet and had a sheathed sword at his waist. Even his horse, Mojo, wore armor. A gun belt around his waist and a rifle sheath hanging from the back of the saddle ruined the medieval impression.

  Brent sat on Flicker. The smaller man wore a black cowboy hat and a dark vest with bulging pockets. Something black and deadly hung from a shoulder strap—must be his AR15—and a gun holster rode his hip. A second gun belt hung from the saddle’s pommel and a rifle sheath from a small saddlebag.

  Kristi reined in next to Brent who passed her the belt. She strapped it on and turned her horse to face Joe. Alta slowed and then stopped her horse between

  Joe and the others, waiting as everyone moved forward. “What the hell do you all think you’re doing?” Joe asked, trying to sound annoyed, torn between a smile and a frown. One weight lifted. Another descended. “I’m still figuring this is a one way trip.”

  “Like I keep asking…” Larry grinned. “Who’s gonna cover your sorry ass?”

  “No intention of permitting you have all the fun,” Brent added.

  Joe stared at them, not trusting himself to speak. Then he looked at Kristi. His growing smile froze then faded. “I wasn’t sure ‘til now,” she said. “I can’t make much of a difference in this world. Maybe I can in Alta’s.”

  Walk a different path. The man’s strange words came back to him. Joe nodded toward the horses and supplies. “Should I ask?”

  “Blacksmithing supplies, seeds and starts, medicine, clothing, a plow, axes, knives, tents,” Kristi said. “Whatever we could think of that might help Alta or her descendants, including a rather eclectic collection of reference books and my laptop.” A weak smile curved her lips. “My guitar’s in there somewhere.”

  “Laptop?”

  “Brought a solar cell charger.” Her smile strengthened. “Which will also charge Brent’s night vision goggles.”

  “Weapons?”

  “We settled on Smith and Wesson 686 revolvers and Winchester 94 rifles,” Brent said. “And Alta’s Ruger.”

  “What, no flintlock?”

  “I brought it. Larry insisted.” Brent cracked a small grin. “But I also brought the AR15. Just in case the powder gets wet.”

  “Gonna need it as a model once my forge is assembled,” Larry said. “We just gonna talk?” He looked around. “Or we going? I’ll work the horses into a line and bring up the rear.” He shifted his gaze to Joe. “We just need a leader.” Joe paused to look at his friends, blinking to clear his eyes, feeling the weight of new responsibilities settling onto his shoulders. Leader? Him? But this wasn’t the time to argue. The mist was now.

  “Okay then.” He mentally shook himself. “But Brent, best if you’re at the rear to watch our backs with that lead spitter of yours. Larry, I’d like you to stay with Alta.”

  At Larry’s nod, Joe turned to Alta. “Can you take the rope of the lead pack horse?”

  The ends of her mouth lifted at this responsibility. “Kristi,” Joe said, “I’ve seen you on the target range.

  You okay behind me? Any trouble, use your judgment.” “You got it, boss,” Kristi said without hesitation.

  Joe flinched at her comment but urged his mare forward as the rest got in line. A glance back showed Larry maneuvering the horses into position. Further behind, Brent waited.

  Joe led them up the canyon along the now trampled game trail, the ragged cliffs on either side witnessing their passing.

  In about a mile, a coolness touched Joe’s skin. A light mist formed, first at ground level, rising higher as they moved up the canyon. Soon all was swallowed. Even sounds were dampened. Only the creak of Kristi’s saddle and tack remained to remind Joe of his companions’ presence. Joe kept moving, peering at trees and branches as they emerged from the thick air.

  “Joe, I’m scared.” Alta’s voice cut through the fog behind him. Turning, he could barely see Kristi, but nothing further back.

  “We are doing well, Alta,” Joe said in a loud voice. “Not much longer now.” He hoped.

  After a few minutes, the temperature rose and the fog in front of him thinned. Within a dozen heartbeats, he emerged from the mist to face a forest of mixed pines with an occasional red oak. Beneath Joe’s horse, a well-used trail was dappled by the sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

  To the rear, the mist shrouded the landscape. In front of him, the mountains were gone. Deciduous trees were budding. Fiddlestick ferns poked through the duff.

  “Oh, my god,” Kristi said, as she rode out into the clear air. “This looks like springtime.”

  “Well, we sure as shit ain’t in Kansas anymore.” Larry’s booming voice echoed as he rode out of the mist and into the surrounding forest.

  “What is a Kansas?” Alta asked.

  Chapter 14. Day 1

  The child glanced up, his shy smile seeking approval. Between his thighs, his hands held the rock and an antler tipped knapping tool as long as his forearm.

  “Yes, use the legs to apply pressure.” Tork’s eyes noted the angle of the antler tool with the large chert flake. This child held promise. He would be an asset to the tribe in a few years. “You will be a great knapper of knives and points.”

  Tork moved the child’s hands into a steeper angle. “More pressure on the platform at this angle.” He smiled as the child gazed at Tork’s hands. Some day, this child would become the teacher.

  Tork stood. The life in his village buzzed around him. This part of the coast was lined with lodges. Soon his people would populate the shoreline as far as the eye could see. Then it would be time to move up Long River and strike overland to Three Rivers.

  Moving figures caught his eyes. Mother walked along the path with her guide. The young one led Mother carefully. Good, she had learned her lesson. A flicker of fire swept through Tork’s breast at the memory of Mother tripping over a rock.

  They approached. The side of the slave’s face was still bruised from his blow.

  “Mother, how are you this morning?” She looked more frail every day. He must get more slaves. And more children.

  “I wake to hear another day.” Her milky eyes peered into the distance. “But there is trouble in the future.”

  His face tightened. “Trouble is my fate, Mother.” Another memory surfaced and burned his blood with rage. His mother and father tied to stakes in Three Rivers village, she crying, he hanging motionless.

  Tork pushed the vision from the past back into the shadows. Anger must not cloud his planning.

  “I will continue my walk.”
Mother lifted her hand.

  The slave girl took the proffered hand and glanced at Tork before returning her attention to the ground in front of Mother.

  They walked away slowly, Mother comforted by the chatter and clatter of the village.

  Tork returned his gaze to the young shaper of rock. His knife was too thick. The edge would lose its effectiveness after only a few uses. But he was learning.

  Tork sat next to the child. “Let me show you how to thin your rock.”

  “Elder Tork?” He looked up at Tork. “Why is that girl a slave and not a child of the village?”

  Tork gazed south along the coast to where Mother’s mound dominated, built one basket of earth at a time. Too soon, she would be part of the Hill of Honor.

  “Think of the animal people. Each has its place in the world.” He paused to gaze at the eyes so full of promise and hope. “Dog is honored for his companionship. Deer for its flesh that sustains us through the winter.”

  Tork scanned the village. “Our tribe lives to honor our ancestors and to avenge the past. And other tribes live to serve our purposes.”

  The boy nodded and returned his attention to his shiny rock.

  “Now, by adjusting the direction of pressure, a longer flake can be taken. One that reduces the thickness of the knife.”

  Tork demonstrated. Working rock was a lot like shaping slaves and warriors. His face cracked a smile.

  ><><

  Around Joe, the hum of insects competed with the rustling of leaves. Above, the sun occasionally sliced through the breaks in the giant trees, warming his skin against the caress of a cool breeze. This was real; he was back in the gentle forested hills of Alta’s world, somehow just a few minutes and a few miles from the Montana mountains.

  Above the rich odor of humus, he caught a faint whiff of smoke, acrid but familiar, hinting of a village or camp close by, maybe even Alta’s village. Joe glanced back, but she was hidden behind four to five foot diameter tree trunks as the trail curved. Kristi appeared in a gap in the trees, eyes darting at every break in the underbrush.

  Glints of metal farther back in the thick old growth betrayed Larry’s presence.

  A sudden wind gust interrupted his thoughts with a sharper sting of smoke, now tinged with burning flesh and hair, giving scent to his nightmare images of a village under attack. His hopes for reunion crumbled into panic as he waited several pounding heartbeats until Kristi then Larry came into view. “Kristi, cover Alta.” Her face pinched in a puzzled frown as she unholstered her revolver. “Larry, with me.” Joe caught Larry’s eye then nudged his mare into a trot.

  The path twisted and forked and Joe stayed to the most traveled route as the odor of smoke thickened. He rode low along paths meant for walking, ducking branches, face whipped by twigs and leaves, physical reminders that this wasn’t a dream.

  His mare, Snark, slowed as they approached a small stream. Flat rocks on the bottom—shale?—provided the shod horses unsecure footing. A few yards past the water, they broke out of the trees into an open meadow, several hundred yards in diameter, which covered the slope of a low hill. Huts formed a cluster in the middle, some in flames. Joe’s gut went hollow at the sight of dozens of bodies on the ground, their contorted shapes making his nightmare real.

  Joe halted next to the first body lying about halfway between the trees and the huts. It was an older man, head partly caved in, blood still wet and steaming, his only apparent weapon a digging stick. Memories flashed of the warrior who had been chasing Alta with his swinging club, the chert studs bloody from use.

  Larry stopped next to him. “What the fuck?”

  Joe glanced at his friend. “My dreams were real.” Shit, he’d been delusional about taking Alta home.

  Joe urged Snark closer to the center of the clearing, hearing Larry’s horse a few yards behind him. Other than the curling tendrils of smoke, nothing moved. Most of the bodies were adults or older adolescents. Several dogs littered the ground, heads smashed. Two infants lay broken like abandoned toys.

  “I don’t see any younger kids.” Joe looked around, his horse prancing at the smell of blood. A nightmare image of warriors herding children flashed through his mind. “Circle right, look for a line of recent footprints. I’ll go left.”

  Larry moved off. Joe urged his mare left, examining the ground, trying to see a pattern in the mass of disorganized prints, some weeks old, others fresh. He hadn’t moved far before he caught sight of prints of a shod horse. Damn, could those belong to Rosebud?

  “Here,” Larry shouted, breaking Joe’s confusion. Joe cut over and scrutinized the ground around Larry, immediately picking out the fresh mixture of prints, small and light, large and heavy, all heading northeast. Joe stood in his stirrups, eyes tracing the trail as it moved down the slight slope and up the neighboring open hillside. It skirted a low square mound that was about forty yards on a side then disappeared into forest beyond the second meadow. He glanced at Larry. Rage flashed in the man’s eyes.

  Joe studied the tracks. At least a dozen adults, certainly warriors given the carnage, and as many children. The tracks looked to be only minutes old. He and Larry could easily catch up. But then what? Attack a war party?

  He looked around the destroyed village. Those children would be traumatized and terrified. And they were now orphaned.

  “What’ll we do?” Now confusion vied with anger on Larry’s face.

  They had to act. “We follow. They took some of the kids.”

  After a few heartbeats, the big man nodded, face hardening. “Brent?” he said in a croaking voice.

  “Best he stays with Alta and Kristi.”

  Joe turned at a shout. Kristi emerged into the village’s clearing, pistol in hand, wide eyes visible even from this distance. He pointed to the huts, hating himself for leaving her and Alta the task of checking for survivors. His gut sickened at the possibility that this might be Alta’s village. That she was now alone in the world.

  Turning his back on Kristi, Joe nudged his horse into a canter. Minutes after passing the low mound, they reined in at the sight of the small body of a young girl lying on the trail. Fresh blood coated her head, and dried blood flaked on her leg.

  “Bloody hell.” Joe stared at the body. “Old wound. Couldn’t keep up. So they killed her.” He pushed away the nausea and looked at Larry. The big man was wide eyed, breathing fast, and muttering to himself.

  Joe dismounted and knelt by the small body, laid gentle fingers at her throat. Nothing. Jaw clenched, he rose to his feet as anger slowly replaced fear.

  “Let’s go.” Joe mounted and nudged Snark between the small broken body and the hyperventilating Larry. “Right now we got to find the rest of the kids.” He watched the muscles spasm across Larry’s face; he was close to losing it. “We’ll come back for her.”

  After about a mile of forested trail, they crested a small hill. At the top, four charred and smoldering poles dominated a small clearing. To the east, the land dropped off toward a wide river that snaked through rolling hills. To the south, the trail continued downward through a more open landscape broken by large, isolated trees toward another large meadow.

  Movement at the edge of the meadow caught his eye. Squinting, he could make out about a dozen men herding about that same number of children. All the men appeared to be carrying clubs or atlatls and darts. They were dressed like the warriors in his first crossover; occasional flashes of white suggested that they were white clay warriors.

  Joe stopped and Larry reined in besides him.

  “Our horses aren’t used to gunshots.” Joe gazed down at the men and children. “We’ll have to attack on foot. They have atlatls—spear throwers—and clubs.”

  At the sound of scraping metal, Joe faced Larry. He had his sword out, not his rifle. Mojo’s armor clattered as she pranced. A half-assed idea formed.

  “Think you can control Mojo and get around them?

  Try to get between the kids and those warriors?” Larry just nodded, his
face tightening.

  “I’ll dismount when we reach them,” Joe said. “I’ll cover you with the rifle as you herd the kids away. Maybe you’ll frighten the warriors off.”

  In answer, Larry launched his horse into a run. Joe followed.

  Within seconds, they broke out of the trees and into the meadow. One warrior looked back and barked a warning. He and another started the children running. The others spread out facing Joe and Larry.

  Larry changed direction as the warriors formed a shaky line. Joe caught a glimpse of wide eyes as Larry drove through them, his arm swinging. One warrior dropped, the rest scattered. The horse must look like a monster to them. Larry kept going in the direction of the children and the two warriors herding them.

  Joe dismounted and slapped Snark away. He raised the rifle and fired at the men reforming a line between Larry and him. Several flung six-foot long darts; the shaft of one smacked Joe’s leg as it buried itself in the ground behind him.

  He kept firing, shifting his aim to the dart throwers.

  Another down. And another.

  The men slowed their advance, and several started backing away. One, his entire face outlined in white, nudged one of the two-slash warriors who was hesitating with his club. The man straightened and the line advanced.

  Joe aimed at the outlined skull. Fired. The man dropped. The line stalled.

  Click. The rifle was empty.

  Joe dropped the rifle, pulled out his revolver. Fired.

  Reality narrowed to painted faces. Aim. Fire. Aim.

  The line broke, and the warriors ran toward the thick forest.

  He caught a flash of horse and armor as Larry rode through them again. One warrior’s cry was cut short as the sword slashed down.

  A warrior jumped on Larry’s horse. Larry’s axe knocked him off.

  Two of the remaining men stopped and faced Larry. Joe aimed and fired. Missed. Larry cut down one. The other ran, disappearing into the forest.