The Sterkarm Handshake (33 page)

Andrea went back to the chair by the fire and did laugh, but the tears she wiped away weren't tears of laughter. Poor Per! He was so used to getting his own way, by charm if not by force, that he was bewildered when he failed. Poor Per! Poor Wat! Poor Ingram! They were all going to be killed.

She bent over her knees. Her chest, her throat, her head, all ached. How, she wondered, has Isobel lived with this all these years?

Wat was singing.

“Oh, as I came down by Bedesdale,

All down, down among scrubs,

Prettiest lad that e'er I saw

Lay sleeping with his dogs.”

Per, wrapped in his sheepskin cloak, struggled to sit up against the weight of Cuddy's head, which rested on his chest. Swart lay close against his other side.

Cuddy, rousing, let him sit up but licked his face with a tongue that felt scalding in contrast to the chill damp of the morning. He pushed her away, because where she licked, the heat soon turned cold.

Ingram, breaking fast on bread and beer, took up his brother's song:

“All buttons on his sleeves

Were of gold, gold so good:

And good gazehounds he slept among,

Their mouths were red with—”

Per got to his feet, the hounds rising with him. He spat at his cousins and made the horn sign with his fingers, to avert bad luck. The song, “Yanny o' Bedesdale,” told how Yanny, resting from the hunt, was betrayed to the king's officers and murdered. Wrapping his cloak around him, Per stalked off into the trees, the hounds following. All the people he loved best seemed to be conspiring to curse him.

Ingram and Wat jeered him as he went. They had thought to enjoy this time, camping in the little wood above the place where the Elf-House had been burned down. But Per hadn't been good company.

He'd gone to say good-bye to his Elf-May but had come running down from the tower so plainly out of temper that they'd laughed. He hadn't thanked them for catching, bridling and saddling Fowl for him, or for fetching his bow, quiver and other gear from his bower, but had mounted and ridden off in an angry silence.

They'd followed on their horses, and Cuddy and Swart had followed too, loping along on either side of Fowl. Wat told Per to send the hounds back. They weren't hunting and didn't need hounds. They might prove a nuisance.

Per hadn't been in a mood to respond to orders from a cousin only a few months older than himself, and ignored him. Wat tried to send the hounds back himself, but though they might sit or come to heel at his order, they would only put their tails between their legs when told, “Home!” They wouldn't have gone back readily even at Per's order, and Per refused to speak, either to his cousins or his hounds.

On the hillside above the Elf-Gate, in a hollow where the soil was deeper, grew a small, thick wood of birch and hazel. That was where they were to lie in wait. They crossed Bedes Water at the ford and rode up the valley and over the hillsides, passing close by the burned place, where the wreckage of the Elf-Gate still lay in the grass. Long sections of the chain-link fence had already been pulled down, and some had even been carried off.

On reaching the wood, they untacked the horses, rubbed them down and turned them loose. Ingram and Wat set about making camp, weaving together living and cut branches to make a frame to support a cloak, to shelter them from the worst of the breeze and drizzle. They wouldn't be making a fire.

Per had taken himself off, with his hounds, to the other end of the wood. Wat felt bad about the way they'd teased him, and it was up to him, as the eldest of the three, to take the lead and make amends. So, at dusk, he'd searched through the trees until he found Per, and told him that they were sad for what they'd said. Per had sulked for a moment longer, but then gave it up and said that he was sad for the way he'd behaved. They'd gone back together, hand in hand, to join Ingram.

But just as they were all friends again, it had unfortunately struck Wat as a good idea to tell the story of Vaylan and his Swan-May. He'd meant it as a sort of rough comfort for Per: See what ill luck Elf-Mays always brought to the mortals who loved them? A man was better off without them. But before he was very far into the story, Per's face had made him realize that telling it had been a bad idea. He would have broken the tale off short, but that would have made his tactlessness even more glaring. Besides, Ingram was enjoying it.

As the murders and cruelties of the story mounted, Per had pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, wrapped himself in it, and lain down to sleep between Cuddy and Swart. Wat had gone on with the story for a little while, but then had said, “Ah, it be a stupid tale, I'm no telling more.” So he and Ingram had also lain down to sleep in a bad temper.

So it had gone, for the three days they'd been camped in the wood. Wat had several times set Ingram to talk to Per, either to tease him by insulting his hounds or his riding, or to ask his advice about making bowstrings, training a pup or anything else that might serve. Per, not being plagued with younger brothers himself, would come out of his bad mood to tussle with Ingram, or lecture him, and then would play five-stones or talk, as cheerful as usual. But then, as if his very cheerfulness reminded him of his grievances, he'd suddenly turn moody again, and go off by himself to another part of the wood, or lie down with his head on Cuddy's side and pretend to sleep.

The Elf-May was a handsome lass, Wat thought, but she wasn't worth it.

Now, in the early chill of the fourth morning, Per came back out of the trees and accepted a square of cold porridge from Wat. Cuddy and Swart sat on either side of him and raised big paws to nudge him, asking for a share. Their breakfast eaten, the cousins settled at the edge of the wood for another long day of watching cattle grazing in the valley and hawks hovering over the hills. Per lay on his belly, his chin resting on his arms in front of him, not speaking.

He looked down on his valley, on its fast, rocky river and the many streams that threw themselves down its hillsides. His valley, that the Elves were coming to turn from pasture to broken holes, quarries and mines. What could he do but fight them? But every Elf he hurt or killed his Elf-May would hold against him.

Lovers divided by family and feud made good stories, but in life it was nothing but misery.

Wat dropped down beside him in the grass, and Cuddy reared up to lick him. “Come, Elven,” Wat said, yawning. “Come and meddle with us.”

16

21st Side: Land Rovers and Kalashnikovs

Two Land Rovers were parked on the gravel at the bottom of the ramp leading up into the Time Tube. Men dressed in camouflage sat inside the vehicles, or leaned against their sides. In their arms, or slung from their shoulders on webbing straps, were AK-47s—Kalashnikovs.

Bryce, also in camouflage, a rifle on his shoulder, stood at a distance, smoking a cigarette. He was listening to the men behind him.

“This is going to be an effing good riot!”

“Walk in the country.”

One man—his name was Bates—said, “I'm going to take effing scalps!” He raised his voice, so everyone could hear him. “Scalps I'm going to take! Effing scalps! For souvenirs—effing scalps!” Again and again, the braggart guffawed. “This is going to be an effing good laugh, this! Paid for an' all! A right effing holiday, this!”

His companions laughed, and the more they laughed, the more he brayed.

“What are the girls like?” someone asked.

“They stink.”

“What, smelly-bellies?”

More laughter.

Bryce's opinion of them wasn't lowered. It couldn't have been lowered. He thought they were dog's meat. Technology was on their side, and was going to allow them to make dog's meat of the Sterkarms—but it wasn't what they deserved.

They weren't the professionals Bryce had wanted. They were security guards dressed in fatigues and armed with assault rifles. The time limits and budget Windsor had imposed had made anything else impossible.

At the briefing beginning each shift, this “special duty” had been announced, together with a warning that it was dangerous and a reminder of the gagging clause in their contract. Double time for anyone who volunteered.

There'd been plenty of interest. These men earned peanuts. They were going to show interest in anything that doubled their pay, even if only to the amount that Windsor would spend on postcards.

It was Bryce's gloomy opinion that the best men—the ones he would have chosen—were the ones who, when they heard what was demanded of them for the doubled pay, shook their heads and said they wanted no part of it. Some of them had been ex-soldiers.

Their reasons had differed. Some had been quick to point out that the time left for planning and training was bloody short. Others had groaned when they'd heard they'd most likely be armed with cheap Kalashnikovs. And then there'd been those who said they didn't like taking automatic rifles against “them poor sods.”

Those were the men with the kind of caution and forethought Bryce liked. The men who, as Cromwell had said of his unbeaten troops, made “some conscience of what they did.” They were, almost to a man, the ones who'd walked away.

Three good men, all ex-soldiers, had signed up. They needed the money, they said. What the hell! The three of them weren't enough.

The rest—they were what Bryce had dreaded. Football hooligan types, full of piss and wind and hate. The type who thought a good night out was getting drunk and beating somebody up: a black or a queer, but anybody would do. Some quiet bloke walking down the road— “Get the snotty bugger!” Kick his head in.

Even worse were the fantasizers. The ones who liked to dress up in World War Two and Vietnam uniforms and play war games on weekends, who daydreamed of shooting hordes of gooks and wading through blood, and having chests full of medals, but who couldn't stomach the discipline of the real army. The type who signed up as mercenaries, ready to tear the enemies' living hearts out with their bare hands, but came home two days later in tears because—fancy!—real bullets and real grenades hurt and killed people.

They were such a bunch of losers they deserved their kalashnikovs. Bryce had warned Windsor that, when you had to supply guns fast, cheap and without red tape, what you got were the worst Kalashnikovs. They might have been made in Korea or China or Vietnam or Hungary or Nigeria. You never knew what crap they'd been made from, or whether anybody had ever bothered to check if they worked or were safe. Barrels machined from old steering-wheel columns. Stocks shoddily manufactured from plastic, or carved out of whatever cruddy old wood happened to be lying around.

The barrels split and peeled back, the magazines jammed, the stocks broke, the safety catches couldn't be released or couldn't be put on.

But never mind, they were only going up against peasants armed with sticks. The first time they let off a round, the Sterkarms were going to fall down and worship them as gods. Yeah, right.

He supposed it might happen. The effect of Land Rovers and automatic-rifle fire on people who'd never seen or heard them would be demoralizing. Despite all his foreboding, if he had to put money on this little outing, he'd back the 21st. But he'd be willing to bet more money if he'd been able to go in better prepared, better equipped and with better men.

God help the Sterkarms if this shit shower got turned loose on them! No discipline, no esprit de corps, no restraint.

He'd spoken to Windsor about the quality of the men. He'd spoken of looting, rape, maybe the massacre that Windsor himself had feared. “I don't want any of
our
men killed,” Windsor had said. “I don't want my backside in a sling because some widows and orphans are dragging FUP through the courts for years, claiming compensation and sniveling to the media. But as for the Sterkarms—they chose to play hardball.”

The amazing thing, Bryce thought, was that Windsor was quite open about saying this.

Bates was braying again. “I'm going to have me a piece, I am. What? Got to, aint'cha? Ain't leaving without having a piece; don't care what anybody says.”

“Could be your great-great-grandmother,” somebody said.

“I'm up for that!”

Bryce rubbed his hand over his face. He hadn't had much sleep over the past four days. If Windsor was insisting on ridiculously short preparation, then he had to give up sleep to cram in what he could. He'd been studying maps and collating information on the tower. Plastic explosive would soon bring the walls down. He had only to get one man to the wall while the others distracted the Sterkarms—and he had his three ex-soldiers to help him.

The staff leisure facilities at Dilsmead Hall included a shooting range, and he'd taken his men there and given them some instruction in using their rifles. A farce, but then, if the best your opponents had were short-range pistols that fired one ball at a time, the Kalashnikov was a formidable weapon. When it worked. And they'd been able to find and discard one rifle that had its safety catch permanently jammed on. That was one less thing to go wrong in the field.

The laughter of the men behind him changed its note, became sniggering, stifled. Bryce looked up and saw Windsor coming toward them around the corner of the main building. Windsor was dressed in camouflage too, with polished boots and a beret. Bryce had issued the other men their fatigues. He hadn't issued any to Windsor. He hadn't wanted Windsor to come and hadn't done anything to encourage him. He didn't think that Windsor had ever been in the army. The man had gone somewhere and bought the uniform.

“All set?” Windsor called out, and struck his own leg with a swagger stick. He had a swagger stick! He'd gone and bought a
swagger stick
!

“All set, sir,” Bryce said. He struggled with himself, but then saluted.

“Perhaps I should say a few words—to the men,” Windsor said.

Oh God! Bryce thought. He kept his face blank and looked away into the distance. “If you think it's necessary. But I've briefed them.”

Windsor wasn't a fool. He saw what lay behind Bryce's strained politeness. “Oh well, perhaps not.” He was only trying to do the right thing. “Let's not waste any more time.” Giving his leg another thwack with the swagger stick, he went across to the entrance of the lab. Bryce followed.

As Windsor passed, the men whistled quietly and made cooing noises. Bryce glared, and the noise subsided but started again behind them.

Seeing Windsor, the lab supervisor came forward. She looked exhausted and ill. The technicians had been working around the clock too, to wire up the new Tube and make it operational.

“We can't put too much strain on the system,” she said.

“Does it work or doesn't it?” Windsor demanded.

“It works,” the supervisor snapped back. Weariness made her less easy to intimidate. “But we had to skimp on some of the fail-safe systems. We'll send you through, and then we'll shut down.”

“We'll be stranded?” Windsor said.

“Obviously we'll come on-line again at intervals—every six hours for the first day, Mr. Bryce suggested.”

Windsor looked at Bryce, who nodded.

“And then every four hours, and then at decreasing intervals—repairs are ongoing. Performance should be improving all the time.”

“Is it safe?” Windsor asked.

“For the time it takes to send you through, as safe as it ever was. You won't end up with a fly's head!” Windsor looked at her, and her smile turned apologetic. “Perfectly safe for short spans.”

Windsor didn't look convinced, and Bryce hoped that he might decide to stay behind. But he whacked his leg with his swagger stick. “Let's go.”

The wreckage of the old Tube had been cleared away and lay on the lawn at a distance. The new Tube was completed but unpainted. The floodlights, on tall scaffolds, erected to allow the laborers to work through the night, hadn't been taken down yet, and ripped bags of cement, heaps of gravel, shovels and wheelbarrows littered the area. The place looked like a construction site.

One Land Rover was already drawn up on the platform at the top of the ramp. The men sitting in it were silent, looking into the Tube.

Except for the roadway, its inner surfaces weren't finished. They could see the steel frames holding the circuitry.

Bryce and Windsor climbed into the Land Rover. Two others drove into line behind them. The lights at the entrance of the Tube changed from red to green. The Tube began to hum, to roar, to scream—and was then silent.

At Bryce's nod, the driver started the engine and drove forward into the Tube. Windsor felt a creeping sensation along his neck as they entered it. Despite the assurances of safety, he could not throw off a suspicion that, this time, there would be no way back.

But the men cheered, and though even with the echo of the Tube, it sounded thin and forced, it raised Windsor's spirits. “Phasers on kill!” one of them shouted, and there was laughter. They were in good humor, then. Morale high. And they had automatic rifles.

The second Land Rover drove into the Tube, and another thin cheer went up. By the time the third Land Rover entered, the first was bumping down from the Tube onto the burned black earth of the sixteenth-century hillside. Windsor's confidence rose again as he looked about at the emptiness. Nothing but bare hills, and air, and sheep. Except for the top of the tower, there wasn't a building in sight. Not one that could be called a building rather than a heap of turf and mud slowly sliding back into the landscape.

And here were three machined, sharp-angled, powerful vehicles from the 21st, and twenty-four men, and twenty-two assault rifles. Time's up, lads! he thought. We're coming to get you. Per Sterkarm shall draw my chariot. I shall exhibit him in a cage.

There was every chance that the boy would be shot dead. Well, that would teach him to fart in church.

Per was lying at full length on his belly, leaning on one elbow, with Cuddy and Swart stretched out on either side of him, when the Elf-Gate opened. The great round stone pipe, supported on a cradle of silvery iron girders, appeared from nowhere, silently, blotting out the greens and russets of the hillside.

Swart moved, gathering his long legs under him and giving a yap of surprise. To both hounds, Per said,
“Hold. Stilla.”
Stay. Quiet.

Out of the pipe, out of thin air, came an Elf-Cart, moving slowly down the ramp to the grass. Ingram shifted slightly with excitement. The Elf-Cart was a muddy color, not as shiny and resplendent as the one Elf-Windsor had come in, but it was still awesome. It growled and throbbed. Its back was loaded with Elves, all holding—

“Pistols,” Per said softly. He had seen them being used on the far-see in Elf-Land. He was tense with excitement, and a shiver of fear ran through him. Just as Andrea had said, the Elves had come back, fearsomely armed—and the Elves meant to smash their world like an egg, lap up all the goodness and leave them nothing but the dried, shattered bits of shell.

Ingram shifted again, and gasped, as a second Elf-Cart came down the ramp, bringing more Elves and more pistols. And then a third. They watched the Elves jumping out onto the ground, and they picked out the leader easily, by the way he moved, and the places he chose to stand. Elf-Windsor was recognizable too, by his build and movements. Per's bow and arrows lay beside him—if only Cuddy would get off them. He could hit Windsor from this distance. And would, given half a chance.

When the Elf-Captain looked up toward their wood, they knew what it meant …

The sheer silence of the 16th silenced the 21st men's cheering and catcalls. They raised their eyes to thick gray sky above them and looked round at the wide rise and fall of hill and valley in the sparkling air. Far below was the gray-and-white running of Bedes Water, and the black cattle that grazed its banks. A damp, chill breeze touched their faces; a mist of rain hung in the air. Around the burned area some sections of chain-link fence lay flat on the ground, thrown down. Other sections were missing, carried away.

They looked back at the Tube and, as they looked, it vanished. The green slope of the hill, and a little stand of birch, filled in the space where it had been.

As soon as Bryce saw the little patch of woodland, he knew it was the most likely place for an ambush. He scanned the Land Rovers. “You, you, you.” The men he chose were the three ex-soldiers, the only ones with anything like the experience to check out the wood. “Get up there at the double. Safety
on.
No shooting unless you have to. Anybody you find, bring 'em back here.”