Contact (Crossover Series Book 2)

by Walt Socha

  Larry filled another bowl and gestured one of the kids forward. One of the men again stepped forward only to find Matuso in his way. The man retreated.

  Once the kids finished eating, Larry waved the women forward. One pushed in front of the remaining woman carrying a bundle. Larry pointed a finger at her and glared until she also backed up. He fed her after the other women.

  As empty bowls became available, Larry refilled them for the men. One of the girls approached and held out her now empty bowl. “More please?”

  Deirdre stepped closer, hands waving the little girl away.

  “Don’t. If she wants more, she gets more.” Larry slopped more of the stew into the proffered bowl. “Here you go. Any time you want more, just ask me.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a whisper and with a shy smile.

  “What’s your name?” Larry asked.

  “Fennore.” Her smile widened. “Thank you, Honorable Master.” She stepped back a few steps.

  Larry snorted. “Just Larry. And nobody is master of anyone around here.”

  At his side, Deirdre’s eyebrows arched.

  As the others approached for seconds, Larry refilled bowls. As he worked, he noted that Fennore’s eyes never left him, even as she ate. When the women finished, Larry nodded at the men and refilled bowls for them.

  “Do not be afraid. These are my men.” Larry held up his hand and his remaining men stepped out of the building and from the bushes. He introduced his men, noting that the youngest man—the one who had held back from the food—raised his eyebrows at the mention of Cassan’s name. “Now we talk.” He swept his hand around the fire. “Please sit in one large circle.” He turned to Matuso. “Set out two scouts.” Glancing at the rest of his warriors, Larry said, “The rest of you join us.”

  They sat, and Larry urged the women and kids to sit in the same circle. Several of his warriors moved to sit with the kids, whose eyes watched the men’s every move.

  “I am Father Ivar. These people are from farms east of here,” said the youngest man. He appeared to be in his mid twenties and wore a wooden cross on a thick string of twisted wool around his neck. At his feet lay his large bag and staff. “We are fleeing raiders. I believe they are a day’s journey behind us. Maybe two.”

  “So who are these raiders?” Larry looked at the young man. He stared back unblinking. Larry shifted his eyes to one of the other men. Coarse patches decorated his shirt and his baggy pants had the thick weave of wool. He did not meet Larry’s eyes. The remaining man, who wore similar clothes but with a coarse knitted gray cap, did meet Larry’s eyes for several seconds.

  “I have not seen them. I was traveling my path when I joined these people.” Ivar looked at the others. “They say the banners had the symbol of the Ur Neill. A large hand between two large cats.”

  “We have met them,” Larry said. “These Ur Neill, are they from this part of Eire?”

  “No, they are from the north.” Ivar stared at Larry. “Most of the people from this part of the country are of the Ur Sullivan clan. And some Mac Carthy.”

  “My mother was from O’Brian clan,” Larry said.

  Ivar blinked, one eyebrow rising slightly. “Ur Briain? You are far from home.”

  Larry stared at the man for several seconds. A bead of sweat appeared on Ivar’s forehead. “Yes I am. And my mother’s husband is a Sullivan.”

  Ivar’s eyebrows narrowed, his eyes flicking over Larry’s dark face and exposed hands.

  “Why do the Ur Neill raid?” Larry decided that his parentage would be too hard to describe.

  “The high kings fight among themselves.” The older man with a cap broke his silence. “The people suffer.”

  “What do I call you?”

  “I am Marcan.” He nodded to the man sitting next to him. “This is Fillen.”

  “And the others?” Larry stared at Marcan. He squirmed but he rattled off seven names.

  “You are missing two names.” Larry concentrated on his breathing as his annoyance grew.

  “They are slaves,” Fillen said.

  “There are no slaves here.” Larry stared as Marcan and Fillen’s faces morphed from astonishment to anger to a forced neutral, their eyes flicking between the Havenites’ tight faces and their well-maintained weapons.

  Fillen spoke two more names in a low voice.

  “We leave in the morning.” Larry looked directly at the two women sitting together with their bundles lying behind them. “You are free.”

  One of the women put her hand to her mouth. The other just stared.

  “And you are free to go with us,” Larry said before returning his gaze to Ivar. “You and these people may also accompany us.” Larry turned to Marcan and Fillen before glancing to Deirdre, who had retreated to the doorway of her home and now stood watching. “Under our laws.”

  All three frowned.

  * * *

  The captured longship cast a long shadow over the rippling water as Larry stepped onto the shore from the path. “Are we all gonna fit in it?”

  “If the water remains calm.” A tight mouth betrayed Matuso’s worry. “And if we leave the horses. But we’ll need some wind. I don’t want to row if we’re this heavy in the water.”

  “We’ll start loading at first light.” Larry looked out over the bay. “I think that’ll be a low tide. We'll be gone before any Ur Neill raiders show.” Larry turned to look back up the path to Deirdre’s farmstead. “What’s with these people? They’re like savages.”

  “According to Potts’s histories, no strong central government was formed in these lands or on the continent in this age. So it’s all local chiefdoms fighting for dominance.” Matuso turned to Larry. “If Potts’s notebooks are relevant in this part of the island.”

  “Anything useful from Potts’s Buddhist writings?”

  “I think so. If one’s thoughts are just narratives based on perceptions, then the violence on this island certainly will cloud their thoughts.” Matuso shrugged. “And violent thoughts will generate more perceived violence. I’m not sure how to break that circle.”

  “Well,” Larry said, “I don’t always agree with all of Potts’s head talk, but I sure wish he was here to offer advice. At least he had set down some of his knowledge in writing before his death.”

  Rapid footfalls interrupted Matuso’s reply. Cassan emerged from the path.

  “They’re at it again.” Cassan shook his head as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder towards the farmstead.

  * * *

  Anya sat at the fading fire, Hatimu at her side. As Larry approached, she looked up revealing two scratches along the side of her face. A few drops of blood welled at the start of the longest one.

  “Where’s Deirdre?” Larry said.

  “She’s inside.” Hatimu winced as he stood, favoring his injured leg. “I think she’s gathering the last of her belongings.”

  “Anya,” Larry stared at the young woman, “what happened?”

  “Deirdre’s father gave me a comb for my hair.” Anya looked up, eyes wet. “She tried to take it from me.”

  “You are a thief.” Deirdre stepped through the doorway of the farmhouse. “You should be beaten.”

  “A comb.” Larry turned in place, looking at the farmstead, the dilapidated outbuildings, and the field with fresh graves. Near the sheep pen, the refugees were laying out sleeping skins and blankets. Several of the Havenites were herding the former occupants of that shed down toward the longship. “You’re fighting about a damned comb?”

  A scream cut through the air. Hand withdrawing his sword, Larry turned toward the group of refugees. One of the men, Fillen, held one of the women by the throat, pummeling her in the face with his free hand.

  “Stop,” Larry bellowed. With deliberate steps and with the sword still in his hands, Larry moved toward the standing trio. On the ground, the refugees scrambled out of his way.

  “What is happening?” Larry’s voice shook with rage as he looked at Fillen. The ma
n dropped his hand from the woman’s throat as he turned and faced Larry.

  “My wife disobeyed me.” Fillen pushed out his chest, the quiver in his voice betraying his emotion. “Since you stole my slave, she must arrange my bed.”

  “Your fucking bed?” Larry brought up the tip of his sword to the man’s neck.

  “Please,” Ivar said as he pushed himself between Fillen and the woman. “I can settle this. I will talk to his wife.”

  “Talk to who?” Larry turned to face Ivar. The sword tip remained at Fillen’s neck.

  Ivar returned Larry’s gaze for several breaths. “And to the man.”

  Larry stared at Ivar for several more breaths. “What is the procedure for divorce in this hellhole?”

  “Any divorce must be approved by the bishop and the man’s Jarl,” Ivar said after a wide-eyed pause.

  Larry lowered his sword and looked around the farmstead. From the thick brush along the path to the bay, a figure emerged.

  “Matuso.” Larry waved his sword at the figure.

  Turning back to Ivar, Larry said, “Who’s the Jarl for these people?”

  “Ros is the Jarl for this region.” Ivar snapped his head toward Cassan who stood with several of the Havenite warriors. Cassan’s face tightened at the name of his father.

  “Since his son is under my protection, I guess that makes me the acting Jarl.” Larry scanned the growing crowd of refugees and warriors as he waited for Matuso. “And as Matuso is the most educated of us on Potts’s teachings on Buddhism, I appoint him Bishop.” Larry turned to Matuso. “Please approve the divorce of this couple.”

  Ivar opened his mouth, but closed it as Larry glared at him.

  Matuso’s eyebrow rose. He looked at Fillen, then at the still crying woman, the bruises on her face starting to swell. “What is your name?”

  “Treasa,” she said in a small voice.

  “I approve.” Matuso nodded to Larry.

  “I divorce you,” Larry said to the woman. He turned his head to look at Fillen. “Get out. If I ever see you again, I’ll cut off your face.”

  The man took in a sharp breath and looked around. The refugees did not meet his gaze. The Havenites did and several smiled, one caressing the axe in his belt. Fillen stooped to gather up the blankets and pouches.

  Bringing up his sword, Larry tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, those belong to your ex-wife.” He tapped harder, the dinged but well honed edge of the sword fraying the coarse woolen fabric. “I suggest you start running.”

  Fillen’s wife stepped toward her husband. Deirdre appeared at her side and wrapped one arm around the woman’s shoulder, blocking her movement. A small boy stepped in front of Treasa and stood with folded arms. His exposed hands trembled. As Fillen stumbled away into the twilight, Deirdre turned to look at Larry, her eyes narrowed, her face still flushed with anger. “She will stay with us. Under your protection.” Her face softened as Treasa collapsed into her.

  A few feet away, Ivar stood, eyes flicking between Larry and Deirdre.

  Chapter 6

  July 11

  “Should we make two trips?”

  Closing his eyes and tightening his jaw, Larry took in a deep breath through flared nostrils. Questions and complaints had been continuous since he’d woken everyone an hour or so before dawn. And he had no answers or solutions. Just guesses. The only thing he was sure about was that they had to move. And hope they could find safety on the peninsula to the south.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna have a second chance to get out of here,” Larry said loudly enough for all to hear. “And we have no idea how long it will take to find a landing spot on the southern peninsula. Or even to find that valley.” He looked south across the bay. That valley was not visible from sea level. Hopefully it was uninhabited. Damn well better be. He shifted a clay pot filled with grain and wedged it between two sheepskins. “And right now we’re lucky enough to have a light wind from the west.” He stood and stretched. “Get them damned pigs on board.” He never used to have to stretch so frequently. And his knees seem to have developed a permanent ache. Maybe it was the humidity?

  He looked over the ship in the dim pre-dawn light. No more than thirty-six feet long and eight wide, it was full of bags and bundles to the height of the plank seats. And a half dozen sheep shitting in fear. Deirdre had protested stripping the farmstead of supplies but quieted when Larry had offered to leave her and her belongings behind. All the refugees—including Deirdre, Anya and her son—were already on board, sitting cross-legged on their bundles of meager supplies or hunched down on the rowing planks. Worry etched their faces. But none had voiced any thoughts of remaining behind to face the raiders. Stepping over and around two and four-footed passengers, his men tightened lines and checked knots.

  “Let’s do this.” Larry climbed between two of the refugee women, frowning as they shied away from him, and made his way to the rear of the boat. At the bow, a trussed pig was shoved over the gunwale and into the ship, its squeals adding to the crying of kids and the bleats of wooly four-footed refugees. Two more pigs made the trip and the last of his men clambered aboard. Two of the men leaned into long poles and, with a grind of rock that vibrated the entire ship, the prow slipped free of the shore. The Seabird settled deeper in the water.

  “Get a couple of oars in the water.” Leaning against the starboard gunwale, Larry unlashed the rudder and gave it a couple of swings. “A little muscle on the starboard oars to get the bow around.” As they turned away from the shore, the sun broke over the hills, spreading light over the distant flat tidal area that joined the two peninsulas. “Raise the sail.” A flutter of panic twinged his stomach. “Slowly.” Heel over too much and the overloaded boat would founder. Any doubt he'd had about leaving the horses faded.

  The refugees crouched low as the sail flapped and the men fought the unfamiliar rigging. The ship had only a few pulleys and those were used to raise the single sail. All other lines slipped around thick wooden dowels. The men would manually adjust these hemp ropes and secure them on a short piece of plank notched to allow for quick release. He’d eventually need to carve more pulleys and blocks. If he lived long enough.

  Larry pulled back on the rudder, easing the longship into a broad reach. He clenched his jaw as the Seabird heeled to port, the tips of the larger waves wetting the gunwale. “Less sail. Everyone to starboard,” he said sharply.

  The Havenites shifted position. After several breaths, they grabbed the refugees and pulled them to starboard. Larry resisted the impulse to swear. “Watch west. Ain’t a good time for visitors.” He glanced up the coastline. No sails. But even if the Northmen were out there, their ship would be hard to spot against the rising sun.

  Seabird lumbered in the light breeze. A half hour later, an opening broke the eastern part of the bay. Shading his eyes against the rising morning sun, Larry leaned into the rudder to turn the ship and run with the wind.

  “There’s a river, and it's roughly in the right direction. Hope it’s deep enough,” Larry said to everyone and no one. “Next time we do something this stupid, remind me to have a knotted rope with a rock tied at the end.”

  “At least the tide is coming in,” Hatimu leaned over the prow, his injured leg stretched out alongside the gunwale. “I can see about two strides in depth.”

  “Lower the sail another couple hand-widths.” Larry watched as two of the men adjusted the lines to the only pulleys. Two more reefed in the heavy leather sails. The kids looked bewildered and scared as the men worked around them.

  One boy stared at Larry, eyes wide and unblinking, his open mouth revealing missing front teeth. He thought he was the son of the man he’d sent away. “Can you help me?” Larry pointed to the child. He rose, looking to his mother for permission. She glanced at Larry before nodding. The boy clambered over sacks and barrels to stand beside Larry.

  “Help me push on this rudder.” Larry shifted position to allow the boy access to the long pole. Larry leaned into the
rudder, the boy following his example. Seabird turned another few points east, sluggish with the heavy load. The water lightened on either side of the ship as the bottom slowly rose.

  “What’s your name boy?” Larry asked.

  “Garvan,” the boy said.

  “Well, Garvan, let’s find ourselves a home.” Larry smiled as he directed his attention back to the shoreline.

  As they entered the brackish water, Larry sent Garvan back to his mother. “Thanks for your help.” The boy beamed as he sat next to his mother, who smiled through her darkening bruises.

  Behind them, Fennore stared at Larry, her jaw tight.

  “Drop sails,” Larry said. Birds exploded from the reeds as Seabird glided into the sluggish river. Larry heaved back and forth on the long rudder, helping the four rowers maintain headway. Within minutes, the wide river turned left, away from their target valley.

  “There’s a small tributary to starboard,” Hatimu called from the bow.

  “Depth?”

  “Shallow.” Hatimu leaned forward, wincing as he moved his leg. “But deep enough. It appears to head into the mountains.”

  Larry forced himself to take deep breaths as he adjusted the rudder. This had better be a good idea. The shore closed in as the ship moved out of the deeper channel. Several of the Haven warriors strung bows.

  The shoreline stayed wild. Only a few animal trails broke the otherwise solid wall of vegetation. Furtive movements in the water hinted at finned food. An occasional bird broke from the brush in alarm. As his constantly roving eyes passed over the passengers, he noted that Fennore’s eyes never left him. After about a mile, Larry jerked as a small shudder passed through the vessel. He ignored the worried faces of the refugees. “Depth?”

  “About a stride. With a few rocks.” Hatimu hung over the bow. “To port.”

  Larry pulled on the rudder as another tremor shook the Seabird. “Okay, half the uninjured men overboard. With weapons. Pace us. The further we float upstream, the less distance we’re gonna carry all this stuff.” To wherever the hell they were going.