Thank God. Margo whirled, looking for the gate.
And found an older, far stronger man charging right at her, wild-eyed. He swung a massive wooden maul at least four feet long straight over his head, ready to crush her skull. Margo screamed and ran. The gate pulsed unevenly ahead of her. Two men crashed into her path, slashing at one another with long swords. Margo dodged past and hurtled toward the gate. Then risked a glance over her shoulder. The madman with the maul was still back there.
He snarled something that sounded like Shaun Dark! Shaun Dark! A heavily armored horsemen nearby jerked around at his shout-and charged him. The rider's shouts made no sense at all. Margo put on a burst of speed. She could just see the Commons as the gate shivered inward and outward again, a quivering hole in the light.
Don't close-oh, God, don't close yet-
Margo dove through to safety. And found herself running down a corridor, straight for a concrete wall. The wild-eyed right behind her, chased by a suddenly panic stricken horse. She heard the animals scream of terror as she turned and flattened against cold concrete.
The soldier charged, wooden maul right over his head, ready to strike. Trapped on either side by milling, confused tourists, Margo saw only one way out. She ran at him. Margo lunged with both hands at the butt of the maul handle. Her double-handed blow connected, jarring her to the elbows. The heavy wooden mallet popped loose and clattered on the concrete. The badly startled soldier crashed full-tilt into the concrete wall. He staggered back, dizzy and confused, just as the armored rider came loose from his terrified horse. The animal bucked and shrilled a trumpeting cry. The rider landed with a heavy clang on the concrete floor.
He rolled and came awkwardly to his feet, surprising hell out of Margo. Good grief, they could move around in that armor ... He took one look at Commons through a slitted visor then broke and ran back through the gate without his horse.
The charger reared again, caught sight of the open gate and shied away. A ten-year-old girl in a Frontier Town long skirt tripped directly in its path. Margo reacted without thinking. She grabbed the charger's trailing reins. Margo dug in and hauled its head around just before it could trample the child. The horse screamed savagely and reared to full height. Margo swore and dodged murderous hooves. Someone else grabbed for the bridle and missed. Margo lunged and grabbed the bridle by the cheek strap-and learned why war horses were so valuable.
The bit was a wicked affair, with long, pointed steel shafts on either side. The horse reared with her, hauling her off the floor. Then it gave a nasty toss of its head. Margo lost her grip on the bridle. She came loose, falling backwards and flailing for balance. The horse eyes gleaming wickedly-raked that damned bit straight down her arm, catching her thigh for good measure on the way down.
She impacted the concrete floor with a muffled cry of pain.
Someone else snatched the trailing reins, forcing it around before it could strike with murderous hooves.
"Head it into the gate!- someone yelled.
"My God, do you know what that horse would be worth to a guide? Let me try to control him!" In a blur, Margo watched a man leap into the saddle. The horse sunfished, screaming savagely. The rider came adrift with a yell. The warhorse ended facing the pulsing gate. Someone much smarter gave the animal a mighty smack on the hind quarters. It bolted straight through and vanished into the melee beyond. The gate shrank rapidly closed within seconds.
A disturbance somewhere behind them caught Margo's attention. She turned her head to look
Oh, shit ...
That wild-eyed soldier hadn't gone back through. Clad in woolen hose, pointed leather shoes, and a quilted leather tunic to which metal plates had been sewn, he was facing down the crowd with that heavy wooden maul of his. Blood snaked downward from his nose and a cut on his brow. An empty quiver for arrows and a bow at least five-and-a-half feet tall lay on the floor.
"Shawn Dark!"
He launched straight toward her. Margo, bleeding and whimpering, rolled awkwardly on the floor. Someone tried to tackle him, but was too late. The soldier brought the maul down in a smashing blow. Margo barely rolled out from under it. An iron band around the end of the hammer sparked on concrete a hair's breadth from her ear. He staggered past, off balance–and ran straight into the arms of station security. Four men put him in a headlock, finally immobilizing him.
Another disturbance in the crowd caught the periphery of her attention, then Kit bent over her. He was utterly, ashen.
"Margo! Margo, you're hurt..."
She waved an unsteady hand toward the soldier. "He... came through the gate..."
Kit was examining her arm, her thigh. "Not deep, thank God," he said with a heartfelt grin that actually wobbled.
He really cares ....
Margo hadn't realized how much. Kit tore his own shirt for compresses and tied them down. The soldier, still struggling against restraint, snarled something at him. Kit glanced up, looking astonished, then spoke gently in some language Margo had never heard The man glowered, then slowly stopped struggling. Another few words from Kit and fear began to shine in his eyes. He whispered something to which Kit replied. Whatever Kit said, it terrified the soldier.
"Let him go," Kit said quietly.
The men who'd grabbed him looked uncertain, then released him. The soldier stood uncertainly in the midst of the crowd, looking suddenly terrified and utterly alone.
"He'll need to see Buddy for orientation," Kit said. "Has anyone called him yet?"
Someone near the edge of the crowd said, "He's on his way down."
"Anybody tell Bull what happened?"
One of the Pest Control officers, standing sheepishly by with an empty net, said, "Al's already gone for him. Kit, that grandkid of yours saved a little girl's life before you got here. She acted real quick, caught a French charger by the bridle before any of us were in position to act. It raked her with its spiked bit, but she saved the kid's life. Would've tramped her for sure."
Kit glanced sharply at her, then said, "Can you stand on that leg?"
Margo tried. A nauseating wave of pain swept through her. Kit simply picked her up and strode hastily through the crowd, which gave way with astonishing rapidity.
Margo bit her lips, not wanting Kit to know how badly she hurt. "What did that soldier say, when you talked to him?"
He glanced down just long enough to meet her gaze. "He was at the siege of Orleans. In medieval France. He was fighting for his life. When you appeared out of nowhere, he thought Jeanne d'Arc had opened the gates of hell. Now he thinks you've sent him through into hell.
" Jeanne d'Arc, that's what he called me."
Kit tightened his lips. "Yes. He thought you were Joan of Arc. Said something about you thrashing another archer?"
"He tried to stab me. I disarmed him, that's all ... ."
She didn't want to talk. Margo's stomach was so uneasy it was all she could do to swallow down the nausea that accompanied every throb in her arm and leg.
Kit just nodded "Well, the English army lost the battle at Orleans, rather badly. This fellow's a Welsh archer, a longbowman. Like the English, he thought Joan was a witch. The Burgundians caught her a couple of years after Orleans and turned her over to the English. They burned her."
Margo shut her eyes. "I ... I fell through the gate when it opened. I didn't have any equipment, I don't know when it was..." She started to cry.
"Hang in there, Margo. I'm taking you to Rachel Eisenstein. They're not serious cuts, I promise."
"Good," she whispered
Kit tightened his arms around her and shoved open the infirmary door with the point of his shoulder.
"Rachel! Emergency!"
The station doctor appeared at a run. "What happened?"
"Medieval warhorse raked Margo with a spiked bit. Slashes to arm and thigh. Unexpected gate into a fifteenth-century battle."
They eased her onto an examining table and Rachel Eisenstein stripped off Margo's ruined clothes. "It isn't as b
ad as it feels," Rachel told her gently, swabbing out the long slices. She gave Margo a local anesthetic and cleaned the wounds, then stitched them up. She finished off with bandages.
"Your medical records indicate no allergies to penicillin," Rachel said, consulting a computer screen. "That's correct?"
"Yes," Margo said in a small voice. "That's right. I'm not."
The doctor injected antibiotics and anti-tetanus and gave her a prescription for oral capsules as well. "When you're wounded with a down-time weapon that's been only God knows where and in God knows what, we take no chances."
Margo felt sick again, clear through.
"Not to worry," Rachel said with a smile. "We'll take good care of you. Put her to bed, Kit, and feed her when she feels like eating."
Margo felt like a complete fool when they settled her in a wheelchair. Kit wheeled her back out onto the Commons.
"What happened, exactly?" Kit asked quietly.
Margo told him.
"You were lucky," he told her when she'd finished "Medieval war horses were trained to kill foot soldiers. If the charger hadn't been so spooked by the gate, he'd have crushed you. I'll question the Welshman more closely to see if we can pinpoint more or less when you emerged through that gate."
Don't I even rate a well-done for saving that kid? she wondered miserably.
Evidently not, as Kit didn't say another word on the subject. He took her back to his quarters and tucked her in, the only concession being that he put her in his own bed and carried his pillow and blanket to the couch.
"Hungry?" he asked, settling down beside her.
She turned away. "No."
He hesitated, then touched her shoulder. "You did okay, kid. But you have so much to learn ... ."
"I know," Margo said bitterly. "Everyone keeps telling me."
Kit dropped his hand. "I'll check on you again later. Call me if you need anything."
Margo didn't want anything more from Kit. She was tired and sick and her injuries throbbed and the best he could manage to say to her was "You did okay."
She muffled her face in the pillow and drowned out all sound of a misery she could hardly bear.
Kit sat in the darkness, nursing a shot glass of bourbon. So close ... dear God, she'd come so close, and didn't even realize it. His hand was still a little unsteady as he drained the glass and poured again. A knock at the door interrupted an endless stream of graphic images his mind insisted on presenting had the confrontation gone even a little differently.
Kit climbed wearily to his feet and found the door.
"Yeah?"
"It's Bull."
Kit unlocked it. "Come on in."
"Drinking in the dark?" Bull asked with a frown.
"Margo's asleep. I didn't want to disturb her." He flicked on a table lamp.
"I won't stay long then. I've spoken with our newest down timer. He's suspicious and unhappy and protested rather violently when I confiscated his weapons, but I didn't order confinement. He seemed genuinely apologetic that he'd attacked the wrong person. Ordinarily, you know, I'd order strict confinement for a fight with lethal weapons, but under the circumstances ...
"Yeah," Kit said heavily.
"I'll confine him if You'd p refer."
Kit glanced up. "No. No, don't do that He was shaken and scared. Battle does strange things to a man's mind, as it is, never mind falling through a gate into La-La Land. What's his name, anyway?"
"Kynan Rhys Gower."
"Poor bastard."
"Yeah. It's rough on the down timers. Buddy's already had a long session with him. He says it's the usual reaction: he's confused, scared, convinced he's in hell. I wish. to God the government would come up with some sane policy regarding them, but chances are it'd be worse for 'em than leaving 'em here."
Kit snorted. "When the government gets involved, things always get worse."
Bull smiled wryly. "Ain't it the truth? How's Margo?"
"Rachel set fifteen stitches in her arm, nearly fifty in her leg."
Bull winced. "That serious?"
"No, the slashes were shallow, thank God, just long. She should be fine, so long as massive infection doesn't set in. Rachel's put her on antibiotics."
"Good. I hear she saved a little girl's life."
Kit managed a wan smile. "Yes. She's a hero. She was damn near a dead hero."
"If you're going to let her scout, Kit, you'd better get used to the idea."
Kit stared at the wall. "Yeah. I know. Doesn't make it any easier."
"Nope. Never does. Get some sleep, Kit. And put away the booze."
Kit grimaced. "Sure, boss." Then he glanced up. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Bull smiled, squat and square and for the moment, human instead of demi-legend. Human enough to show how much he cared, anyway, which meant a great deal to Kit in that moment. Bull Morgan thumped Kit on the arm. "See you around, Kit. Tell Margo I asked about her."
Kit nodded and let him out, then locked the door and put away the bourbon. But it was a long time before sleep came. He steeled himself to make the decision and finally settled on Rome as the best place for Margo's next down-time testing ground. Stubborn, brash, untrained ...
And once again, Kit would not be able to go with her.
The silver lining in all this darkness, Kit grumbled to himself as he sought a more comfortable position on the couch, was that Malcolm Moore wouldn't have to worry about rent and meals for months to come. If he'd thought it practical, Kit would have asked Malcolm to consider scouting again, just to be sure Margo had an experienced partner.
Yeah, right. She'd take to that idea with all the enthusiasm of a wet cat.
He sighed and wondered how she'd receive the news that another down-time trip was scheduled? She'd probably see it as her just reward for playing hero. Kit was rapidly discovering that being a grandfather wasn't half the fun it was cracked up to be. When, if ever, did he get to stop being the "mean one" in Margo's life? Every time things seemed to be straightening out between them, something always seemed to happen to muck it up again.
He blinked a few times, remembering how life with Sarah had gone much the same way-and how that had ended.
He lay quietly in the darkness listening to Margo's steady, even breaths in the next room and tried to keep fear at bay by planning out the next phase of her training.
He wasn't terribly successful at either.
Chapter Thirteen
KYNAN RHYS GOWER was trapped in hell.
Everyone here who could actually talk to him said otherwise, of course, but Kynan knew it was hell nonetheless, even if it didn't resemble anything the priests had ever described. The closest thing to a priest here, a man called "Buddy," had told him he could never escape-not to his home or even back to the accursed battle against the witch woman fighting on the side of the upstart French.
It hurt him, gnawed at him, that he was cut off forever from everything and everyone he knew and loved. A king whose laws forbade it, Kynan might have understood. But he could not understand why, if this infernal land's diabolical passageways that opened out of thin air could be made to open with the regularity of the rising and setting sun, why could the wizard or demon or hell-spawned sprite who controlled them not reopen the one passageway that would lead him home? Yet Buddy had told Kynan he would never again see the dark hills of Wales or the laughter in his son's eyes ....
At least a hundred times every day, as he struggled to understand devilish things beyond his comprehension, Kynan was tempted to do violence to something. But they'd taken away his weapons. Without them, he was less than a man. Less, even, than the commonest Welsh farm girl, who at least carried a small knife for chores.
Kynan swallowed his pain, his confusion, swallowed the demeaning status in which he found himself-a virtual slave in Satan's dominions-and worked hard to earn the scant coins he needed to pay for his tiny sleeping room and the meals of rice and strange vegetables which kept him alive. He missed meat desperately but was un
able to afford it on what he earned
Several times a day, his hatred of the strange, demon birds which lived here-birds with teeth in their bills -deepened as he watched them eat colorful fish he was forbidden to take for his own meals. If he hadn't been terrified of incurring the king's wrath for killing one of the protected birds, he'd have killed and eaten one of them.
So he carried baggage for rich people whose behavior he could scarcely comprehend and whose Language he could comprehend not at all, found a second job sweeping floors in the bewildering place in which he was trapped, and quietly hugged his misery and terror and bitterness to himself. Every time he saw the grinning jackanapes who'd first told him what had happened to him, who had laughed at him while four strong men held him down...
Every time he saw the man called Kit Carson, Kynan wished to do more than violence. He wished to do murder.
But he'd watched that man practice mock fighting in the huge, lighted hall called "gym." He was a cunning, strong warrior as well as a knave. If Kynan wished to purge the stain of disgrace from his honor, it would have to come through sudden, unexpected attack. Kynan once would have sneered at any man who planned such a treacherous approach to an affair of honor, would have rightly called him blackguard. But Kynan was no longer in a land which made sense. He was in hell.
In hell, a man could be forgiven much.
So he pushed his hated broom down the hated floor, sweeping up the hated trash while trying to avoid running into hated, arrogant "tourists" and gradually filled his wheeled trash bin with little bits of refuse. Later he would have to open station trash bins along the "Commons" and empty them as we carrying the "plastic" sacks inside down to the "incinerator" and "recycling center." Even the alien, English words that somehow weren't really English made his head ache. Kynan had never spoken much English commander had translated battlefield commands – but the so-called English spoken here ...
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