by Walt Socha
CONTACT
A CROSSOVER NOVEL
Walt Socha
Wyeast Press
Copyright © 2017 by Walt Socha
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Silvia Frost Designs
Edited by Mary Rosenblum
Contact/Walt Socha - - 1st edition
ISBN 978-1-944753-06-1 (print)
ISBN 978-1-944753-07-8 (ePub)
ISBN 978-1-944753-08-5 (mobi/Kindle)
Created with Vellum
For all the dead people of history. Your struggles and accomplishments shaped the world in which we now live.
Author’s Note
This novel, Contact, is the second in the Crossover Series.
If you haven’t read the first novel, Conflict, you may want to pick up a copy at Amazon, Kobo, or Nook.
The eBook version is free!
Matuso’s Map
Relationships
Matuso…son of Joe and Alita
Fergus…son of Larry and Sesapa
Jessie…son of Kristi (and Nist)
Deidre…former landowner
Anya…former slave to Deidre
Conal…Anya’ son
Marcan and Sheeva’s family:
Keelin…grandmother
Fennore…daughter
Eamon…son
Naim…former slave
Fillen and Treasa’s family:
Garvan…son
Grania…daughter
Maeve…former slave
Teltina’s family:
Rory…son
Agnes…daughter
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 22
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About the Author
More About The Crossover Series
Chapter 1
July 7, 1075
“Weapons, armor, and overnight packs,” Larry said as Stormchaser drifted alongside the old pier.
“Armor and packs?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah. Too damned quiet.” Larry looked at the shit pier. Should be swarming with curious locals.
“Trade items?” Samatu looked up from where he was helping one of the shore party strap on a metal breastplate.
“Just a dozen knives and axe heads for now. And maybe a couple pouches of seeds.” Larry frowned as the ship bumped into the crude catwalk of planks and upright logs. Old Ros had promised to rebuild it when they had made contact last year. Hopefully, he'd done better at collecting the sheep, wool, and bees they wanted. And cats. The breeding pair they’d taken back to Iceland had been a hit and had become quite fat from all the rodents.
He blew out a long breath. It had been a bit over two decades since he and the others had journeyed back to the eleventh century and founded Haven. Now they were expanding, following Potts’s notebooks, trusting his advice that trade was necessary for Haven to develop into a world power. But it wouldn’t be sufficient to just prosper. They had to both monitor emerging nations and influence their development. And, if trade was insufficient to influence them, take them out.
At least these trips got him away from Haven and the life he’d fucked up.
While the shore party assembled their equipment, the remaining six men secured Stormchaser. Larry turned to the men who were not donning armor. “No fretting. You’ll get a chance to stretch your legs after we secure the area and set up guards.”
He looked toward the small farmstead that occupied the location that would become the town of Dingle, Ireland—or Eire as it was know in this century—in his mother’s day. Built of wattle and daub with a timber frame, the large house was surrounded by several outbuildings to the east and green fields to the west. Beyond the farmstead, ancient, twisted trees hugged the slopes that led up into the mountains, the nearest peak maybe three or four miles away and bare in spite of only being a couple thousand feet high.
Maybe four hundred strides away, two men stood on the small rise midway between the water’s edge and Ros’s sprawling complex. Another man stood outside one of the many outbuildings. Larry squinted but didn’t recognize any of them.
He turned to Cassan. “Any thoughts?” Ros’s son had spent the last year in Iceland with Larry, teaching the Havenites and Icelanders the Eire language. He was the only member of the shore party not wearing armor.
“I don’t recognize those men.” The Eire youth’s brow furrowed as his eyes swept his home. “It’s too quiet. And where’s my family?”
“Yeah.” As he adjusted his chest plate, Larry glanced at Torben. “Stay here but be ready to cast off. And keep the sail ready to hoist.” The old Viking nodded but kept silent, his eyes flicking over the terrain.
Larry joined the dozen armed men clambering out of the knarr. The large ocean going cargo ship barely rocked at the change in weight. But the dock creaked, shuddering under the increased load. From within Stormchaser, Samatu held out two long leather sheaths.
“No, best keep the flintlocks here. Guard the ship and that damned clock.” Larry turned once again to gaze at the farmstead. “I’ll be okay with the revolver.” And the last ten remaining cartridges. It would be another decade at least before the industrial base in Haven could machine the presses, dies, or bullet cases. At least they had the ability to produce the much simpler flintlocks.
“Signals?” Samatu asked.
“The usual three, but if you hear four then get the hell outta here.” Larry patted the whistle hanging from his neck as he turned to the other men. “Form up. Cassan with me. Matuso, keep an eye on the rear.” Still staring at the farmstead, Larry walked to the front of his men. Where were the dogs? They’d been barking and growling like crazy during their last visit. Had to kick a couple to prevent his ankles from getting chewed.
“Bows strung?” Matuso asked.
“No. Better not look too aggressive.” Larry looked over his men. “But I still want a show of strength.” He paused, turning back toward the buildings. This was supposed to be a trading visit. They’d been welcome when they made contact last year. Ros had been cautious but understandably so with armed men that arrived out of nowhere on boats. But he’d fed them and, when he'd been presented with the gifts of steel, he'd been more than friendly.
Yet the two men between the pier and the main building just stood there. “Just make sure your swords are loose in their scabbards. And keep your bowstrings handy.”
With his men behind
him, Larry started up the rocky dirt track that weaved through open—but unoccupied—fields for a quarter mile to the haphazard collection of buildings that made up the farmstead. He could see what appeared to be onions, carrots, and possibly some stunted version of wheat. One of the more distant fields hinted at the potatoes and beans he had given Ros.
The two men standing halfway up the track nodded as Larry approached but, before he got within talking distance, they turned and walked to the bare area in front of the largest of the wattle and daub structures.
Larry hesitated then stopped, his men crowding up behind him. Except for the lack of people and dogs, all still appeared as normal. The track, not much more than a trail, meandered through the farmstead and up along a shallow valley beyond. Fields to the left of the central compound were also devoid of people. A shiver ran down his back.
“I’m thinking this ain’t…” he started to say before a scream ripped the unnatural quiet. A young woman burst from the main house followed by a man.
“Orla,” a voice choked from Larry’s side. He turned as Cassan’s hand grasped his forearm. “My sister. Trouble.”
As Cassan let loose of Larry’s arm and took a step toward the farmstead, Larry grabbed the youth’s shoulder. “Hold.”
At the farmstead, the man tackled the woman.
“Fuck this. Let’s go.” Larry said over his shoulder. “String those bows.” He broke into a run, hand still on Cassan. “Stay behind me.” Cassan tried to pull away but Larry tightened his grip.
As they charged up the path, a dozen men appeared from around the main building. Flashing short swords, the rough-clothed warriors wore dull plate metal armor over coarse jerkins and leather helmets and carried torso-length shields of a colorless metal. Another half dozen men with bows erupted from one of the outbuildings.
“Halt. Riders to the right along the shoreline.”
Larry stopped and turned to see Matuso pointing to a large group of mounted men breaking from the dark trees that backed the small trail that hugged the shoreline. “Where the fuck did they come from?”
“More men.” Matuso pointed toward one of the outbuildings.
“Back…” Larry started to say but a quick glance showed that the riders had them cut off from the ship. “Into a retreat wedge.” He lifted his whistle and blew four times. Then again. His head snapped back and forth as he surveyed options. Nowhere to go but the trees beyond the still empty fields. “Cassan, lead us the fuck out of here.” Larry pointed north, and then shoved the youngster. “You can’t help your family by getting killed.”
The riders continued toward the pier and the Stormchaser. Maybe twenty.
As the men jogged toward the safety of the thick trees, Larry slowed and drew his revolver.
Planting his feet, he exhaled, and fired three times at the first group of attacking men. Two men dropped, and their companions scurried back behind the main building.
“Shields up,” someone shouted.
The advancing men from the two outbuildings had parted to allow bowmen to fire through them. Pulling Cassan close, Larry flipped his shield over his head and knelt behind it.
Through a flurry of arrows, Larry saw that they seemed to be directed by two individuals on horseback.
“Keep retreating to the trees and higher ground.” Larry’s mouth tightened into a thin line as he lifted his revolver. Two shots. One rider fell. Another shot and the second one fell. The advancing line of men halted. Another hail of arrows arced into the sky.
A cry of pain sounded behind Larry as a quick look to the pier showed Stormchaser being poled away from the pier, her partially raised sail fluttering in the light wind. A wind to the south and safety. More attackers on foot joined the riders on shore. Several shot arrows toward the fleeing vessel.
“Cassan, go.” Larry stood and pushed the youth behind him toward the north, away from the attackers.
Larry knelt behind his shield, loading his last four cartridges. “Form a retreating wedge and follow Cassan,” he said over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cartridges. “There’s too many of them. Get them bows strung.”
Larry fired again. One bowman fell. Another cry of pain came from behind Larry as the third wave of arrows hit the Havenites.
As Larry followed his men, Matuso slowed to join him at the rear.
“Where to?” Matuso asked, looking from the attacking warriors to the Havenites. “Fire at will.” Long, steel tipped arrows flew in a shallow arc. Screams rent the air from the attackers.
“Away,” Larry glanced at the bay where too few hands were raising Stormchaser’s sails. “Anywhere. Follow Cassan.”
Larry fired again and one of the enemy bowmen dropped. The attackers stepped back, several dragging bodies, into safety behind the outbuildings.
With Cassan in the lead, the Havenites fled north, skirting the tilled fields and breaking through fences. Larry maintained his position at the rear, hoarding his last two cartridges.
At the pier, the mounted warriors turned from the disappearing Stormchaser and kicked their mounts toward the Havenites.
“Keep moving.” Slowing, Larry waited until the lead horsemen were 40 strides away. He turned, exhaled, and fired twice. Two of the mounted men fell, and the remaining horsemen jerked their frightened mounts to a halt.
In minutes, with the attackers indecisive, the Havenites fled into the tree-covered hills behind the farmstead.
Through a break in the gnarled oaks, Larry watched the attackers spreading out in cautious pursuit. Beyond the fleeing Stormchaser, a ship appeared at the mouth of the bay.
Chapter 2
July 8
Larry paused to look back at his companions. Twelve men—including young Cassan—stretched out in a line behind him. Two wounded. And one less than when they’d left Stormchaser. He rubbed his face with one hand. They’d had to abandon Bonetu’s body.
Maybe he should tighten up the ranks and keep going. But if they were as tired as he was, a break would be better. They’d been fleeing for several hours and although the two wounded men were not critically injured, Hatimu’s leg wound was causing him a lot of pain.
He stood just below one of many rock-strewn summits that spread along an east-west mountain chain along this part of Ros’s peninsula. This southern-most peak overlooked the southern side of the peninsula and its bay that stretched from what looked like low marshes in the east to the open ocean in the west. A light breeze cooled the sweat on his face.
He shifted his gaze back in the direction of Ros’s farmstead. The shore should have been covered with curious kids and barking dogs, and he should have realized what their absence meant. The old jarl, Ros, was either in with the attackers or dead. Most likely dead. Larry shifted his gaze to Cassan, who sat on a protruding rock a few paces away, staring at nothing. The kid had held up well, given the uncertain state of his family. Especially his sister. An almost physical pain stabbed Larry at the thought of having left her with those men.
Larry hadn’t recognized the herald sported by a few of the invaders. Two lions facing each other, separated by an empty hand. At least it wasn’t the symbol of his mother’s clan, the Sullivans, with its robin riding a lizard. Or the three lions of the O’Brians, his foster father’s clan.
As he dug his water skin out of his pack, he wondered if he should design a herald for the Havenites. He drank, watching his men sit, leaning against convenient boulders or outcroppings, all looking outwards. Nearby, Matuso redressed Hatimu’s leg.
After Matuso seemed satisfied with his bandaging, he joined Larry. He made a few marks on a piece of paper before before pulling out his own water skin for a drink.
“What’s your plan?”
“I’m thinking they’ll come after us.” Larry pulled out a piece of dried fruit. Apple? Chewed. “The revolver broke their assault, probably scared the shit outta ‘em. I think I took out two of their sergeants. Or whatevers.” Luckily only half of the attackers had been on horseback. And Larry’s men ha
d responded as trained and, in spite of their loss, had retreated in good order.
“That won’t happen again. Used up the last of the ammunition.” He patted his holstered pistol. “Just forge metal now.”
He shifted in place, scanning their surroundings. They had climbed into what passed for mountains on the peninsula. Maybe a couple thousand feet high. The tips of the peaks were maybe a bit more. To the southwest, Ros’s farmstead disappeared into a localized mist rising from the marshes at the upper end of the bay.
He wasn’t lost. How could one be lost on an island? But he didn’t have a clue about a destination. He had maps, but they were back on Stormchaser. Another pang cut through his consciousness as he yet again wondered if Torben, Samatu, and the others had gotten away. He had heard gunshots as Stormchaser headed out of the harbor and straight toward the damn longship that had appeared out of nowhere. It looked like a Viking design.
“We need to find shelter, then we'll figure out where to go.” He knew only a little of the area. His mother had been raised in the small town of Dingle that would occupy the area of Ros’s homestead a thousand years or so in the future. In his previous life, he’d always hoped to visit it sometime. Just not in the eleventh century. “I only know the terrain on this peninsula. The main part of the island? All I know is that it’s a bit of a bowl, shallow in the middle with low mountains mostly ringing it. A major river flows from the interior to exit to the sea somewhere in the west. Maybe even not too far from where we’re at now.”
