The Sterkarm Handshake (46 page)

26

21st Side: Reiving the 21st

It was quiet and cool in the Tube's control room; the windows were screened with blinds, and the whirring of fans and humming of computers made a soothing background noise. But the people seated at the computers were less relaxed than usual, as their eyes flicked from one display to another. The supervisor stood, staring at the monitors high on the wall, now at one, now at another.

From the Tube, beginning abruptly as the dimensional border was crossed, came an echoing yell. Men, shouting, gesturing wildly, staggering, looking behind, broke from the Tube's mouth. They were wet and filthy, their feet bare, dirty and bleeding. They ran straight down the ramp and across the gravel path separating the control room from the main building. Shoving open a door, they crowded into the Hall.

In the control room, startled technicians rose from their terminals and looked at each other, or looked up at the security monitors, one of which showed a beautiful view of the 16th-side sky.

In a struggling knot, Windsor, Bryce, Andrea and another stumbled from the Tube. All were soaked and muddy and scratched. Windsor's usually well-groomed hair had collapsed about his head in an oily, muddy mess; Andrea's hair had come down from its bun and was flying everywhere.

All of them were shouting and struggling as Bryce and Windsor dragged between them a young man whose hands were fastened behind him. He was kicking, elbowing and trying to get back into the Tube. Windsor cuffed his head with the knuckles of one fist, making a hollow sound that was clearly heard by everyone watching and left no one in any doubt as to how the young man's face had come to be so bruised. Andrea yelled and hit Windsor, who yelled and shoved her.

Bryce yelled too, as he hauled the young man toward the ramp. It sounded as if he shouted “Turn it off!” Then he and Windsor bundled their prisoner down the ramp and out of sight, with Andrea following.

From the Tube an explosion of sound, movement, weight. A dark mass of horse, hooves crashing, drumming, lunged from the opening. People shoved themselves back from their keyboards, jumped to their feet. They glimpsed a rider, leveled lance, helmet on head. The horse vanished down the ramp, thunderous—but others were behind it. One, slewing, crashed into the control room.

Its bulk, the prow of its head, neck and breastbone, the great working muscles of its shoulders, the huge barrel of its ribs and its great, stamping feet, filled the aisles. Carts and computers tilted, beeped, smashed to the floor. Keyboards and mouses dangled at the ends of their cords. The horse, disturbed by the frantic electronic twittering, lashed out with its hind feet. Its hooves struck the doorjamb behind it, splintering wood, shaking the whole room, panicking people into running and setting many more computers bleeping. The rider's lance, driven into the ceiling above him and wrenched out, brought down a shower of plasterboard.

While many fought to get out the door, some went out by the windows.

Elf-Land was eldritch, infinitely more strange than the Sterkarms ever could have expected. Those who blundered into the control room found themselves between walls of an unnaturally straight, pastel glossiness, and heard their horses' hooves boom as if they danced on drums. A shrieking, as of many startled birds, was all around, and boxes rattled and blinked.

Those who rushed down the steep slope were faced with a building, a long, long building, bigger than Toorkild's tower and Gobby's bastle house put together, and built all of large red bricks. It had huge, shining windows through which a troop could have climbed, and curtains of a deep, rich red hung at the windows—enough cloth hanging there to dress a Sterkarm wedding.

In every direction, Elves ran, all of them wearing brightly colored clothes. They ran over wide, smooth green lawns and past—even through—beds of brilliant flowers.

Even Joe was startled by the glaring white of a notice on a wall, giving directions, and the bright scarlet of its lettering. A woman stood, astounded, at the bottom of the ramp, clutching at the handle of a tea cart, her smock a deep, clear blue. Back in the 16th even the brightest of colors were faded, muted, and mostly things were gray, green or brown. For a giddy moment, Joe was simultaneously homesick for the sixteenth and twenty-first centuries.

Bryce and Windsor, at the bottom of the ramp, pulled Per this way and that between them. Andrea added to the scuffle, tugging at Windsor's arms, crying, “You should have let him go!” and staggering back as Windsor shoved her. Per's kicking and elbowing had prevented them reaching the shelter of Dilsmead Hall, and now there was a horse between them and the nearest door. Their best defense was still to hold on to Per as they tried to edge along the path to another door.

More horses thundered down the ramp, swinging around on the path, stamping over the lawns. Toorkild was standing in his stirrups, bellowing to call his men's attention back from plate-glass windows and dragons in the sky.

Bryce quickly saw that the Sterkarms weren't keeping their distance as they had on their own ground. The horses came pacing forward, coming between them and the buildings. The lances were coming down, ready to stab. Here, in Elf-Land, they were uneasy, less willing to hold off or bargain.

Pulling Per's head back by the hair, Bryce twisted him to his knees and dragged him backward through the gravel. It was time, Bryce thought, to give the Sterkarms something to think about, while he and Windsor and Andrea ran for it. It was time to finish with Per.

Toorkild saw Per on his knees in the gravel, his hands tied behind him, yelling. He saw the man standing above and behind him raise both hands, to strike a blow down on Per's bare head.

In wrenching at his horse's reins to keep clear of the horse beside him, Toorkild glanced aside. When he jerked his head back, the blow had landed. He saw Per's head roll back of its own weight, and his whole body slacken as it sank and fell in a heap.

Toorkild's sight turned white. A blizzard cold closed about him. Kicking his feet from his stirrups, he dropped from his horse, still blind. His own breathing roared in his ears. All his thought was: Killed! Killed! Killed!

“R-u-u-n!”
Bryce yelled and, turning to run, collided with Andrea, who shouted, “What have you done? What have you done?” He shook her and tried to take her with him. “Run!” He could see Windsor sprinting away—but there were people standing on the lawns and the path, staring. He yelled at them, “Get inside! Under cover! Run!”

Andrea, pulling away from Bryce toward Per, broke free of his hold. He looked over his shoulder at her and then ran for shelter himself. She'd made her decision, and good luck to her! Now he had to save himself.

Looking back again, he saw Andrea stooping over Per; saw horses milling in place and lances stabbing the air; saw one horse lunging forward, coming at him. He felt the ground shake under his feet.

Sweet Milk leveled his lance, with his weight and his horse's weight behind it. Bryce was struck, skewered, smashed to the gravel.

Sweet Milk let go of the lance, swung his horse right over Bryce and jumped down. Keeping his reins looped over his arm, he drew his long knife, dropped on Bryce's back, and cut the throat of the worthless carrion dirt who'd killed Per May.

He got to his feet with blood on his hands and shook blood from his knife, bringing shrieks from the Elves pressing into a doorway nearby. Sweet Milk looked at them, and then turned toward Toorkild, and saw him gathering up his son's body.

Sweet Milk wiped his eyes and nose with a bloody hand and led his horse back toward his friends. There was nothing he could do to ease Toorkild's pain, but he could, at least, give him the head of his son's killer.

Windsor ran hard, without looking around, making for the far end of the long building. He ran straight past the door where others were crowding, trying to get inside. Idiots! Let them jostle together there until the Sterkarms picked them off. He'd run on and find another door.

His mind was on his Mercedes, waiting for him in the parking lot. The quickest way to reach it would have been to run in the other direction, but the Sterkarms were blocking the way, so he was going to have to run all the way around Dilsmead Hall to reach his car.

He rounded the corner of the building, and there was another door. A young man and woman—brighter than most—were just disappearing inside. Windsor followed them. It made more sense to take a shortcut through the building, where horses couldn't follow, than to try running around it in the open.

The young couple were running down the corridor and were almost out of sight as Windsor entered. Instead of running after them, he took long enough to slam the bar down and lock it. That was one door the Sterkarms couldn't enter by.

He couldn't be sure that the Sterkarms hadn't gotten into the building one way or another, and from somewhere came the sound of smashing glass. It must have come from some room nearby, but the sound was muffled by the walls and he couldn't be sure from where. A narrow staircase—what had once been a hidden, servants' stair—opened to his right, and he ducked into it.

The staircase brought him into an upper-floor corridor that ran the length of the house. He was able to look down from the windows and see the cluster of horsemen below. He heard more glass smash, and saw Sterkarms dragging curtains down.

Running along the corridor, he turned the corner at the end. From the windows there he could look down into the parking lot. His Mercedes was on the side farthest from the building, but even so, it was only a matter of a few yards.

Below him, a party of Sterkarms, on foot, appeared around the corner of the building, armed with pikes and axes. He heard glass smash below him as some of them broke a window. Another ran to the nearest car and wrenched off its side mirrors. The distance between the building and his Mercedes suddenly seemed far greater, the space he would have to cross more dangerously open.

He watched the party of Sterkarms move along the side of the house and turn the corner that would bring them to its front entrance. Once they were out of sight, he ran down the nearest staircase to the ground floor. Near the foot of the staircase, he knew, there was a side door leading out to the parking lot.

At the bottom of the stairs, he peered into the corridor—and drew back sharply. The door was standing open, and something lay on the floor nearby.

He hid on the staircase, his heart thumping, wondering whether to go back up the stairs. But if Sterkarms were roaming about the house, he might meet them anywhere. If he could get to the door and run for it …

He looked out into the corridor again. The thing lying on the floor was a man in a green uniform. He was lying facedown, clutching at his belly, and blood was pooling on the floor underneath him. Dead, Windsor thought. But he wore a belt and holster.

Windsor went over to him and, trying to keep his shoes and hands out of the blood, took the man by the hips and rolled him over. His gun was still in its holster. Windsor was reaching for it when the man cried out and raised his head.

“I'm—going for help.” Windsor took the gun from the holster, and made for the door. On its threshold, he hesitated, afraid to leave the building's shelter, but knowing that the building was no longer safe.

He looked at the gun. It was much heavier than he'd expected, much more awkward to handle—and was sticky in his hands, from the blood. The guard on the floor lifted his head and tried to say something.

“Ssh!” Windsor said. Leaning toward the man, he showed him the gun. “Is it loaded?” But the guard had collapsed again and was silent. Windsor didn't know how to open the gun. It had always seemed deeply uncool to play with guns, and he'd never taken any interest. But he'd seen plenty of actors use them, and if actors could use them, how hard could it be?

There was a lever on the side of the gun, which was hard to push aside and didn't open the gun when he'd managed it. Was it the safety catch? It wasn't labeled. Well then, he'd just taken the safety catch off, hadn't he? Unless he'd put it on. He lifted the gun up and peered at it, but there was nothing to indicate “on” or “off”—and he was wasting time.

Be positive. Just the sight of the gun ought to be frightening. And if he was bold and made decisively for his Mercedes, he'd probably stroll it without seeing any Sterkarms at all. But as he braced himself to step out of the door, he heard a voice calling outside, away to his left.
“Vi maun venda tilbacka!”

Windsor shrank back into the corner behind the door. In front of him, in both hands, he held the gun.

Toorkild seized Andrea by her shoulder and a handful of her hair and dragged her away from Per, sending her sprawling on the gravel. Then Toorkild dropped to the ground himself, heaved Per into his lap and hugged him to his chest.

To him Per felt as chicken-boned and fragile, as desperately in need of protection, as when he'd been a day old and had lain between Toorkild and Isobel so they could count his breaths through the night; or when he'd been two, and sick, and had done all his shivering, crying and puking in their arms because they'd feared that in the moment one of them wasn't holding him, he would die. Toorkild tried to fold himself around Per so that nothing could get at him, not even the wind.

Andrea, sitting bruised and dazed in the gravel, watched Joe use the edge of his axe to saw through the cord around Per's wrists. Toorkild gathered the freed arms into his hug. Sterkarms were crowding around Per, on foot and horseback, looking down on him. Ecky slipped the blade of his small, sharp knife under the cord tied around Per's head and snicked it through.

Per came alive in Toorkild's clasp and pushed against his father's chest with his hands and elbows. Toorkild, his heart and throat too swollen for speech, crushed him in a grateful bear hug and pressed his lips to Per's hair and brow. He slackened his hold, but only to change his grip and renew the suffocating hug. Thanksthanksthanks! No having to tell Isobel her son was dead. Thanksthanks!