Island in the Sea of Time (57 page)

The last Olmec had managed to get the knot slashed open. She saw his back disappearing into the cell, dropped her
katana
and drew the shorter
wakizashi
as she plunged after him. The light in the corridor was faint, but this was like diving into an ocean of blackness.

She nearly died as her eyes adjusted. The spear whistled past, the shaft giving her a painful thump on the neck. She scarcely noticed; the Olmec was following his flung weapon, a dagger of volcanic glass in his hand. The ugly wind of it passed before her eyes as she jerked her torso back. Then it shattered against the curved steel of the
wakizashi
. The Indian shrieked a war-cry and drove in, reckless of the edge and point in her right hand.

Can’t let him grapple.
Not with his advantages of weight and strength. That was easier to think than do, in this dark confined space. Cut. Cut, and a hiss of pain. A second’s blind flurry, and she drove the point home in meat—into the biceps of his right arm. His shriek was as much agony as rage, but his left hand came up and grasped at her wrist, momentum driving her back against the adobe wall with bruising, winding force. The back of her skull rang off the sun-dried brick, and she barely managed to twist as they fell down on their sides. The eighteen-inch blade of the wakizashi wavered between them as he strove to force her wrist back. The Indian suddenly rolled, gaining the uppermost position.

Can’t hold him
. Luckily she had one more functioning arm than he did. It groped downward, between thighs spraddled as he tried to pin her and gain possession of the knife. All she could see was his teeth snarling, but her hand found what it sought. She grabbed, wrenched, and twisted.

Some pains will reach even a berserker, and the Olmec wasn’t quite that far gone. He reared up in a soundless gape of agony. Behind him something moved, a bright horizontal slash and a wet heavy impact. The body pitched sideways. Swindapa stood there panting, sword out in the follow-through, her eyes anxious in the cork-darkened face; Hendriksson had a flashlight out behind her.

“ ’m all right,” Alston gasped. And there was Martha Cofflin, thank
God.
Coming this far and not finding her . . .

“Good to see you,” the Yankee said, showing teeth and pushing herself upright along the wall.

“Jared sends regards,” Alston said, with the flash of a smile.
We’re going to pull it off, hot damn!

“Lisketter’s in the corner.”

“Oh, shit,” Alston said, as the light speared empty, mindless eyes. There was drool running down her chin. “Pulakis, you carry her. Swindapa, take point; Martha, you go with Pulakis; Hendriksson, Alonski, we’ll take rearguard.
Move
.”

The squat Pennsylvania Slav bent and took Lisketter’s limp form across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, rising again with effortless ease. Alston recovered her
katana,
wiping it down and resheathing it; catching her breath as well.

“Right,” she said after a moment. “Let’s go home.”

They moved out into the corridor, past the still bodies. The floor was wet with blood, enough to make the dirt tacky and slippery under their feet in the dark. None of the Americans had taken more than superficial bruises and cuts, but she had no illusions about that. They’d had surprise on their side. Now was time to get out, just as fast as they could.

Swindapa darted out into the courtyard, and called them on. The raiding party followed, retracing its steps. The fires were bigger now, spreading to more of the north end of the city as tufts of burning thatch drifted with the wind. They were beside the ornamental pool when Lisketter started screaming.

“That’s torn it,” Alston said, sparing the carved stone altar a single disgusted glance. “Run.”

They did, at as fast a jog as was possible. When the Olmecs came across the bodies of their fellows and saw the prisoners—vessels of sacredness to them—gone, their shrieks of rage sounded trumpet-loud. They pelted after the Americans, closing the distance fast. Alston reached the retaining wall, leaped down, and calculated the times.

“Damn,” she said mildly. Aloud: “Swindapa, Pulakis, get Martha and the prisoner back to the boat. We’ll take rear guard.” When the Fiernan hesitated, she put a whipcrack into her voice:
“Now!”

The three of them turned back to watch the pursuers. “All right,” Alston said as the others behind them crashed down through the scrub on the hillside. “Let’s discourage this lot.”

Some of the Olmecs running toward them were carrying torches. All of them were backlit as the wood-and-thatch buildings burned out of control. She drew the Colt and leaned forward, her chest against the logs of the retaining wall and both elbows on the clay of the roadway. She wasn’t an expert with the pistol, but this was as straightforward as any shooting range—silhouetted men running straight toward you. Beside her Alonski aimed his crossbow and Hendriksson reached over her shoulder for an arrow.

Crack.
She slitted her eyes against the muzzle flash of the magnum. One of the men with torches down.
Crack . . . crack . . . crack
. . . Let the pistol drop back naturally after each shot.
Crack . . . crack
. Open the cylinder, work the ejector to spill the spent brass, slip in two speedloaders each holding three rounds. Snap it shut and get back into firing position. Spears whistled overhead in the dark, but the Indians were shooting blind. One of them landed uncomfortably close; well, they had the muzzle flashes to aim at. She shifted a few feet along the wall, firing steadily. The crossbowman and the archer shot, shot again, steady as metronomes.
Damn fine work, both of them.
Closer . . . then the enemy were tumbling backward.

“Go, both of you, go!”

They went, sliding down the trampled path on their backsides. Alston followed. Behind her she could hear voices, shouting, whatever the Olmecs used as officers rallying their troops. They certainly didn’t lack guts; the past few days had shown
that
for certain. More war whoops through the darkness behind her. Branches and thorns clawed at her face, at her limbs, at her feet. Torches broke the darkness, cast wavering red gleams of light through leaves and vines.
Mistake
, she thought, turning to shoot. An atlatl dart thudded into a trunk near her. She crashed downward another dozen feet, shot again, retreated. They were down on the flat below the hillslope, mud catching at her boots; she turned and emptied the revolver, never knowing if she struck anyone. Back toward the edge of the water a little moonlight came in, reflected off the river. The pistol clicked empty.

Her hands swept the sword out. Starlight glimmered on its clean arc. She filled her lungs, gave a
kia,
and rushed forward. The Olmecs hadn’t been expecting that;
tateki no kurai,
the way of fighting multiple opponents. The first took her point right in the face. She jerked it free and slashed another across the chest and upper arms.
Damn, but I’m glad Master Hishiba made us practice outdoors and in the dark.

“Diiiiissaaa!”
Alston shrieked.

She retreated a step, another, dodged a rake, beat a spearhead aside, and slashed the hand that held it on the backstroke. The Indians had never met anything like the continuous whirling menace of the
katana;
however brave they were, it threw them off their balance for a few crucial seconds. There was no way she could tell what her comrades were doing. Behind her something went pop and brilliant light washed across her shoulders, throwing her shadow stark before her.
Flare pistol.
The leading Olmec stopped, staring goggle-eyed at her face.
Never seen a black before
, she thought. Her hands took advantage of the moment and slashed the sword in a horizontal cut. The falling body tripped the man behind as he stumbled squint-eyed in the sudden light. The
katana
came down in the pear-splitter. She lost a crucial second as she tugged it free from his skull.

Something stung in her leg. The damp ground hit her as she fell and she was looking wide-eyed at a spear driven into her leg six inches above the knee. An Indian loomed over her, raising another spear in both hands. Then something silvery slashed across him and he staggered back. Swindapa came leaping after her sword-strike, darkness save for starlight on her
katana
and wisps of hair leaking out from under the wool cap, screaming something sawedged in her native language. The Indian came back at her, snarling and drawing back his spear to thrust.

Above and behind him a great winged shape slid down out of the night like the god of all owls, its wings black against the bellowing inferno that topped the plateau. Red dots fell from it, to blossom into fire amid the scrub of the slope, and then it was by only a few feet over their heads and banking out over the river. Swindapa caught the spearman as his head whipped around in shock, a gash across neck and chest that sent him back gurgling and thrashing; the sword in her hands swung in red arcs that drove the Olmecs beyond arm’s reach for an instant. Other hands grabbed at Alston, and she bit her tongue in the effort needed not to scream; the shock was wearing off, and the pain of the wound flooded into her.

Water, then inflated rubber flexing under her back, firelight red all around them. The flat twanging snap of crossbows; the whaleboats were out on the water where they’d been waiting all night, just beyond spear range. Swindapa tumbled over her, bringing an involuntary grunt of agony as the haft of the spear was jarred, and paddles dug frantically at the water. Indians waded into the river after them, fell as the Americans in the longboats pumped crossbow bolts into them. Darts fell around the rubber boat, struck into the body of it, and it hissed as air began to escape.

The last flicker of consciousness left her as she was dragged again, into the whaleboat. Her mind clamped down on her right hand, bringing the sword with her, and then there was darkness.

 

“She won’t live long,” someone was saying in a hushed voice.

Marian Alston knew where she was without opening her eyes—in the flag cabin aboard
Eagle.
Her thoughts seemed clear enough, but distant and slow. She forced her eyelids up.

“Surely not that bad,” she said quietly.

The ship’s doctor was there, and most of her officers; also the Arnsteins, and Swindapa sitting beside her bunk. Hendriksson had her arm in a sling and a bandage around her head.

The voices fell silent, then all broke out at once for a moment. The doctor overrode them: “Not you, ma’am. Pamela Lisketter. Javelin under the short ribs as you were leaving. Alonski was wounded badly too, but he ought to pull through. You lost a lot of blood, though—one of the big veins got nicked. Be thankful you’ve got a fairly common type.”

Swindapa smiled at her and held out her left arm; there was a patch of gauze taped over the inside fold of her elbow.

Alston nodded slowly; that seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. “Ms. . . . Cofflin?”

The doctor smiled. “Fine, ma’am, and the baby.”

“Mr. . . . Hiller?”

“We’re under way, ma’am. Heading north-northeast. I don’t like the look of the barometer. We’re in for a blow, and I wanted sea room.”

“Very well,” she sighed, closing her eyes again.

 

Martha Cofflin clung to the line as the quarterdeck canted under her feet. No nausea, thank God, but the sky looked dirty, clouds brassy and black at the same time. The wind was increasing as well, a shrill piping sound in the rigging. David Lisketter went by between two sailors, his hands—hand and stump, rather—bound before him.

“Hello, Mr. Lisketter,” she said flatly, and just loud enough to be heard above the gathering scream of the wind. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

His eyes stared at her like those of an ox in the slaughter chute, and she almost left it at that.
No. It’s necessary. This musn’t happen again, and Jared might be too forgiving
. Her hand rested on her stomach; it would have been so easy to lose it. . . .

“Have you ever had mumps?” she asked.

Slow thought stirred. “Mumps?” he said. “I’m . . . I think so. Most people do, don’t they?”

“Most people aren’t asymptomatic carriers,” she said. “A few are. I noticed several of the Indians showing the symptoms, though. So one of your party must have been; but you were here long enough for the eight-day minimum incubation period to run . . . and of course, eating undercooked meat is a wonderful way to catch something. Congratulations, Mr. Lisketter.”

“Con . . . gratulations?” he whispered.

“On your revenge.”

“People don’t die of . . .” He stopped, appalled.

“Oh, the fatalities will be heavy,” she said. “But it’s the long-term effects I was thinking of. You do know that adult-onset mumps often causes male sterility, don’t you? I expect that in a population that hasn’t been previously exposed, that will be nearly universal. Congratulations, Mr. Lisketter. You’ve avenged your sister and your friends quite thoroughly. You’ve single-handedly wiped out the first Mesoamerican civilization, and all the ones which followed from it. Genocide.”

Martha turned and headed for the companionway down to the cabins. She had the captain’s, with Alston recuperating in the flag suite. There was a shout behind her, and a scream. The splash did not carry over the noise of the birthing storm. Some people were simply too dangerous to have around her friends and family.

 

“J
ared,” Martha said, stooping to kiss his forehead where he sat in the wheelchair.

“Martha,” he replied.

Thank You,
he added in silence to God; he wasn’t much of a praying man, ordinarily, but this was a special occasion. Jared cleared his throat and looked up the gangplank at the
Eagle
and her crew. It was a cool, bright day, and the flags were flying at her masts in a wind that smelled of salt and fish.