Island in the Sea of Time (63 page)

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 weight 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 wallmounted 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 maul 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
kia,
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.

He looked down, panting, naked torso slick with sweat and the dead man’s blood.
First time
, he realized. First time he’d been able to keep on with the hand-to-hand until the other fucker was
dead
. He turned, feet dancing, fists flung over his head in an instinctive gesture of triumph. The Iraiina were roaring out his name, Durthunnicar among them.

His daughter Ekhnonpa stood watching the victor with shining eyes, her hands clenched at her breasts, chest heaving. Walker met her eyes and grinned.

Man, this is great
, he thought, as his followers pushed forward with blankets to wipe him down and a horn of beer for his thirst.
It doesn’t get any better than this.

 

“Thank you,” the Catholic priest said, accepting a cup of sassafras tea. “You understand, Chief Cofflin, that the division of the Visible Church of Christ has long been a scandal.”

Father Gomez looked tanned and fit; he’d been shoveling salt along with the prisoners he was supposed to rehabilitate . . .
had
rehabilitated, Cofflin reminded himself. He trusted the little priest’s judgment.

So did his colleagues, evidently. The Town Building office held the pastors of the Episcopal and Baptist churches as well, the Congregationalists, the Methodists . . . even the Unitarians. Only the Quakers and Jews were missing, and neither were very common on Nantucket, particularly the former—ironic, since the island had once been a stronghold of the Friends. Cofflin looked out the square-paned window for a second, as wet snow clung to it and more fell down onto the quiet dockside. The hulking shape of the big motor ferry sat there, dim and dark in the winter’s afternoon, looking chewed on where half the superstructure had been disassembled.
Symbolic,
Cofflin thought. Old things broken up for material to make the new. He stirred uneasily. This sort of thing made him embarrassed.