Island in the Sea of Time

by S. M. Stirling

  “Good to see you again, blood-brother,” Isketerol said, shaking wet from his own cloak; by the look of him, he hadn’t been here long. “We should talk, later.”

  “That we should, later.”

  The rahax’s hall was thronged with warriors and guests tonight, heavy with the smells of woodsmoke and cooking and beer and damp dog from the hounds that lay growling amid the feasters’ feet. Daurthunnicar came down from the carved seat along the southern wall to greet him and lead him to the stool of honor at his right hand. Over to the left were half a dozen visitors; they wore their long fur-trimmed woolen jackets and went without the leggings Iraiina wore this time of year, and their hair was in twin braids rather than the single ponytail of Daurthunnicar’s folk.

  Easterners, an embassy from one of the Kentish tribes. Looking rather sullen, but polite enough. Or scared.

  A huge platter of smoking roast pork was borne in before the rahax. He directed the server to carry a portion of the loin to Walker. The American smiled at her; she was Daurthunnicar’s daughter, a statuesque blond young woman with gold on her wrists and in her braids. The rahax was really doing him honor. That was the champion’s portion of the carcass, too.

  As he reached for the meat, someone shouted. Walker looked up sharply.

  “No! No!”

  It was an Iraiina, one of Daurthunnicar’s own followers, with a holding not far from the high chiefs. A big man, but not one ounce of it fat; his shoulders were a solid knot of muscle. Face and arms were seamed with scars, although the man couldn’t be more than thirty, and he had a formidable collection of gold arm rings, a tore, and a checked plaid tunic that clashed horribly with both. He stamped and roared:

  “No! Why should this outlander get the hero’s meat? Let him eat husks with swineherds!”

  The whole hall was thrown into confusion. Men stood, yelled into each other’s faces, shook fists as pro-and anti-Walker factions coalesced. Some of the women were screaming too with excitement, and the easterner guests weren’t bothering to hide their smiles. Daurthunnicar surged erect, frowning like a thundercloud, and waved his sword-everyone else had to hang his weapons on the wall-until the uproar died off to a low babble. He yelled at the big Iraiina:

  “You shame your rahax by insulting his guest! The man he has made wehaxpothis, a chief among our tribe. You shame the brave warriors who have sworn to follow him.”

  Ohotolarix certainly seemed to feel so; he was half off the bench, fingering his eating knife and glaring blue-eyed murder. Walker reached out and put a hand on his arm, gently urging him back to his’ seat.

  “No, this is good,” he murmured. “Wait-remember what I told you. Anger is like fire, a fine servant but a poor master. The fool will fall on his own words.”

  Daurthunnicar was shouting: “He has brought victory and much booty to the camps of the Iraiina, new things to make us strong. Your forefathers are ashamed, Tautanorrix son of Llaunnicarz!”

  “No!” the strongman declared. “He is nothing but a wizard. He offends against old custom and law, his slant-eyed wife is a witch, and the gods and Mirutha will shun us for harboring them, stealing our luck. Send him away, lord, or better still, cut his throat in the grove and make a bonfire of his goods and followers, to appease the Mighty Ones.”

  More uproar, with Daurthunnicar shouting louder than anyone. Walker stayed relaxed, leaning back with his horn of beer. Totally clueless, he thought. These people didn’t have the least conception of government, or even of war, really. They fought like tigers individually or in small groups, but their sole idea of a war was a series of big raids, until one side or the other got sick of it and moved out or paid tribute. And this near-riot was their concept of how to settle policy questions.

  He waited until the shouting had passed its peak, then rose to his feet. “Hear me, lord,” he called, not raising his voice much but pitching it to carry through the swell as if it were storm-roar at sea.

  “Hear me. This fool and son of slaves-”

  Tautanorrix roared again, wordless, his face turning purple.

  “-has offered you offense by breaking the peace of your hall, like a mannerless swineherd. As your handfast man, let me punish him.”

  Near-silence fell through the firelit dimness of the big turf-walled hall.

  “And since he might fear my sword is enchanted, let us fight here and now with only the weapons the gods give to every man,” he went on, holding up his clenched fists. That provoked a surprised rumble. “To the death, of course.”

  Laughter at that, fists and the pommels of knives pounding trestle boards until the pottery tableware rattled. That bitch Alston wasn’t completely wrong, he thought. This is a lot like a biker gang. Guts and toughness were everything. He’d put his stock up considerably by challenging Man Mountain here, and he’d have lost everything if he’d backed down.

  Daurthunnicar’s fork-bearded face swung back and forth between them, little blue eyes narrowed. On the one hand, Tautanorrix was a valued supporter. On the other, Walker had made the chief rich-and unlike virtually every other subchief of the tribe, he’d consistently deferred to his patron, thrown his weight behind him in council, and given him shrewd advice on how to increase his own power, make himself a real king. The idea was strange to the Iraiina chieftain, but he’d taken to it like a Russian to vodka. And Walker had a strong following of his own among the younger Iraiina warriors.

  The rumbling voice of the high chief went on:

  “You are both warriors of note, forward in shedding blood and manslaying, generous in feeding the Crow Goddess. Indeed, it might be said that you’re among the best of us. If you fought, the tribe would lose whoever died.” A long pause. “But words have been passed which cannot be brought back. Hear the word of the rahax! Let these men fight. Let the Wise Man see that no enchantments are used, only strength and skill and luck.”

  More rousing cheers from the warriors and warrior guests and their women, and cat-yowls of excitement as the betting began. Daurthunnicar was a shrewd leader in his way; he knew when to rule by taking this pack of wolves in the direction it wanted to go. Tautanorrix bellowed with glee.

  The rahax held up his sword again. “The tribe must be one, here in our new lands. So I, your rahax, will pay the blood and honor price to the kindred of the man who falls. Let both of you swear, in the name of your kindred, that they will take the price and not seek blood for blood; that is honorable, because this is no killing by stealth, but an honest challenge.”

  Walker nodded. “Hear the wisdom of our rahax!” he said. Sotto voce in English, to Cuddy: “If I lose, kill the bastard.”

  Tautanorrix sneered: “I will break him between my hands and give his body to the Blood Hag. Yet the word of our rahax is wise.”

  Daurthunnicar went on: “And the victor shall be acknowledged by all men as the champion of the rahax, first among the warriors of the Iraiina folk, with an honor price of a hundred horses and two hundred cattle. In acknowledgment of this, he who is victor here shall take as his wife my daughter Ekhnonpa.”

  That brought full silence. The rahax had no living sons, although he was well provided with nephews. That made the marriage all the more significant, since whoever wed the chiefs daughter would be a member of the chieftain’s kin by tribal law, and eligible himself to become rahax.

  Oho! Walker thought. Well, maybe I will stay.

  He vaulted over the trestle table into the open space between the firepits. Isketerol was leaning back with a raised eyebrow; Walker slipped him a wink as he stripped off coat and shirt and T-shirt. Tautanorrix blinked surprise but did the same, save for the gold bands on his arms and neck. His chest was shaggy with the same yellow hair that swung in a braid down his back and cascaded from his chin; the skin was almost blue-white where it hadn’t been exposed to the sun. Blue-and-crimson rings of tattoo circled his biceps under the gold armlets.

  The American looked at him critically; about two-forty on the scales, he judged, and built like a Swedish weig
ht lifter. So, he’s fifty pounds heavier, stronger, and probably fast too, Walker estimated, taking slow deep breaths. He put right fist to left palm and bowed slightly, then brought both fists up.

  Normally he thought of fair fights as something for suckers, but this time there had to be a real battle, something the audience could understand.

  Tautanorrix bellowed and leaped, arms wide to grip and crush.

  The attackers came at her steadily, unintimidated, moving the shields just enough to block. Alston took a deep breath and launched herself forward in a shoulder strike, pinning the other short sword back as she did. Her armored shoulder punched into the shield before her with a metallic crack. The man behind the shield staggered backward, away from his companion. She followed up, slamming at him until the shield boomed and he was wavering back on his heels. Then she had to wheel herself as his companion came up, boring in and stabbing.

  “Stop,” she called.

  The trainees did, leaning on the shields and panting, the double-weight wooden training swords dangling from their hands. Elsewhere in the high school gymnasium the noise continued unabated, the whack of wood on the pells, or on the metal of armor. Most of the trainees were wearing wire face protectors as well; they’d had quite a few accidents involving broken noses or lost teeth, and Alston had been utterly intolerant of any toning-down of the regimen. Others were doing unarmed combat, or climbing up ropes and over barricades in armor. There was a heavy smell of whale-oil lanterns and sweat, and a cold damp tang to the air; snow lay a foot deep outside, and the huge empty spaces had been designed for central heating, not wood stoves.

  She controlled her own breathing, keeping it slow and deep as she felt the sweat soaking her padding turn chill, and watched the purple faces of the two youngsters. Siblings, Kenneth and Kathryn Hollard, about two years between them; they had the Yankee look, light brown hair and blue eyes, long bony faces.

  “You two have been really practicin’,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am,” they chorused, with grins of enthusiasm.

  “Why do you want to volunteer for the expedition?” she said.

  They looked at each other. “Ah���” the young man said. “It needs to be done.”

  Good answer, she decided. More thoughtful than most his age. They weren’t talking about the other reasons, of course: boredom, longing to travel, even the desire for adventure. Her mouth quirked slightly at the corner.

  “Mr. Hollard, Ms. Hollard, remember that adventure is someone else in deep trouble a long way away. I can tell you that having a spear through your leg is no��� fun��� at��� all. Sterowsky!”

  The sailor barking at a group ramming spears into a wall-mounted target came loping over. He’d recovered reasonably well from the blow of the obsidian rake across his face, but the scar was still purple along its edges and his beard was growing in white along the line. It pulled up his mouth into a continual half-sneer.

  “Want to show me off again, ma’am?” he said.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “De nada, ma’am.”

  The two young islanders had turned a little pale.

  “Not everybody can come, and there’s militia work to be done here, too. We’ll need qualified instructors. Listen, you two-people are going to get killed, people are going to get cut up, crippled for life.”

  “Ma’am��� I’d rather go with the expedition.” They spoke in almost-unison, like a bad mixing job on a record.

  Alston nodded. “You understand that you’ll be under military discipline?” she said.

  “Yes ma’am. Our dad was in the Marines.”

  “All right then; you can both sign up and move into barracks.” She wanted the teams that would be fighting together to live tight for as long as possible first. You did better with people who knew each other than with strangers. Her eyes went to the girl. “After you report to the clinic and get the IUD fitted.”

  Kathryn Hollard blushed; her brother grinned at her with an elder sibling’s lack of compassion. “Ah, ma’am, I’m, uh-” she began.

  “No exceptions. Virginity isn’t a reliable contraceptive.” As opposed to mister-ectomy, but that was a minority taste.

  She could see them deciding whether or not to smile. Good kids, most of the islanders were, not many attitude problems-but not very deferential either. They settled on shy grins; she nodded in reply.

  “Meanwhile, back to work. Mark ‘em down, ‘dapa.”

  Swindapa made a note on her clipboard; she’d more or less fallen into the role of aide-de-camp and general factotum. Alston sighed and went over to the side of the big room for a dipper of water.

  “Oh, ‘lo, Jared,” she said, looking up.

  “Still trying to discourage volunteers?” he said, nodding greetings to Swindapa.

  “Just making sure they know what they’re getting into,” she replied, drinking deep. Ahhhh. One of the best things about exercise is the way it makes water taste. She shook her head. “Seems to be a lot of enthusiasm.”

  He chuckled! “Farmers and fishermen used to be the best recruiting grounds,” he said. “Now we know why. Even soldiering is easier.”

  “How’s Leaton coming with the reapers?” she said. That would remove a crucial time constraint on the expedition, if they didn’t absolutely have to get those hands back by harvest.

  “Looks like they’ll really work this time. Nobody is going to miss those sickles. Once was enough.”

  She nodded. “We should take a couple of reapers along.” she said thoughtfully. “They’d be a big productivity boost over there.”

  Cofflin snorted. “Everyone’s getting their oar in this thing. It’s the clergy, next-they’ve scheduled a meeting with me for next week.”

  Alston sighed: “Almost as many as want something brought back from Britain. Still, there’s-”

  Her face took on the flat, blank calm of intense concentration. Suddenly she smiled and snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”

  “That’s what?” he said.

  “Old military saying. Amateurs talk tactics, dilettantes talk strategy, professionals talk logistics.”

  He frowned. “I’ve heard that, but just how does it apply-”

  ” ‘Scuse me, Jared.” She hefted her bokken and headed back toward one of the practice groups, quickening her stride. Someone had just tried something that Jackie Chan would have had trouble pulling off on his best day.

  There was a clattering thump, and a trainee landed half off a mat. She lay gasping while her opponent leaned on his spear and panted.

  “Don’t tell me,” Alston said. “You watched a lot of martial-arts movies, right?”

  “No ma’am,” the young woman said. “It was TV-Xena, Warrior Princess.”

  Alston closed her eyes for an instant. Lord, give me strength, she thought. “Well, let me show you why lifting your leg above your head is a bad idea. Especially when you don’t have a scriptwriter on your side.”

  Tautanorrix swung a fist the size of a ham. Walker slashed the edge of his palm into the Iraiina’s wrist. His heel flashed into the back of the bigger man’s knee, and the warrior landed face forward in the dirty rushes. His face was thoughtful as he rose, shaking a numb arm.

  That’s the last thing we need, Walker knew.

  “Looking for your mother down there?” he asked. “Or for your mare’s heart?”

  That brought another bellowing charge. He met it with a front stamping kick that flashed between Tautanorrix’s outstretched arms and thudded into the big man’s chest; the flat of it, not the deadly heel. The Iraiina stopped as if he’d run into a brick wall. Walker felt as if he’d kicked one, as the impact jarred into the small of his back.

  Christ, but this fucker’s built. Tautanorrix’s hands came up to protect his torso; his face was a splotched pattern of purple and white. This time Walker’s foot went out like a frog’s tongue darting for a fly, aimed low. The heel slammed into the top of the Iraiina’s kneecap with a sound like a m
aul striking wood.

  Tautanorrix tried to grab for the foot and nearly fell. The warrior’s quick downward glance showed the kneecap twisted offside, like a lumpy growth under the skin on the side of his leg. He bent down and twisted it back into place with a pop. Talk about your high pain tolerance, Walker thought. He circled, and Tautanorrix pivoted on his good leg to follow.

  “I thought you were supposed to hit me, swineherd,” the American said through a grin.

  This time Tautanorrix ignored him, utterly intent. Well, overconfidence could last only so long��� The granite fist flashed out toward his taunting grin. This time both his hands met it, slapping it aside and then locking around the bigger man’s wrist. He pivoted on his rear foot, leaning far over and pulling Tautanorrix with him. His left foot slashed upward into the Iraiina’s armpit. Tautanorrix came up on his toes, mouth gaping in a hoarse grunt. Walker released him and flipped away with a fancy handstand and twirl that ended with him back in fighting stance. Tautanorrix stood swaying, his right arm dangling useless and dislocated.

  “Time, big fellah,” Walker panted and came back in, fluid and fast. “Time to die.”

  The left hand struck at him. He blocked, grabbed the thick wrist, and locked the other man’s arm tight with a twist, pivoting. His own right forearm slammed into the locked elbow, and it broke with a sound like green branches snapping. Walker screamed out the Ida, launching a flurry of fist-strikes, face, belly, throat, slashing with the tips of bladed fingers at the other man’s forehead and eyes. Tautanorrix lurched and stumbled, swaying like a cut-through tree, his ruined features sheening with blood. Walker grabbed him by the belt of his kilt and the base of his braid, bending him over and smashing his own knee into the Iraiina’s face over and over again. Bone splintered.