A Wizard in a Feud

7

He had to decide, and decide instantly. Should he overawe the outlaws with displays that they would call magic, and take the chance that they would think him a witch? Or use his mental powers in such a way that they wouldn’t know how he had won?

Neither. One man just couldn’t win against twelve, no matter how good a fighter he was. Gar called out, “Whoever thinks to lead this band, let him prove it against me, hand to hand!”

The outlaws stopped, staring in consternation, then turned to one another in furious debate.

Lem grinned. “Think you’re fit to lead us, stranger? Just kill off our chief and call yourself boss? That’s not our way.”

“I wasn’t thinking of taking the title,” Gar said evenly, “or the job. I only want the man to prove he deserves it, that’s all.”

“You just might get your chance.” Lem watched, grinning with anticipation. So did Farrell, and Zeke chuckled.

Gar frowned. What was he missing?

Then a woman stepped forward, handing her rifle to the man beside her and taking off her hat and jacket. “I’m Rowena, stranger, and I’m the chosen chief of this band.”

Gar stared. Admittedly, she was a big woman, both tall and stocky, her body having thickened with age. Gray streaked the long black hair that was tied in a club at the base of her neck. Surely, though, she didn’t really think she stood a chance against a man twenty years younger than she—twenty years younger, a foot and half taller, and half again as heavy!

“We choose our leader by wisdom, not fighting,” Lem explained. “You want to fight her hand to hand, you fight us all.” Gar stared at Rowena, digesting that for a minute. Then he nodded, shrugging out of his pack and taking off his hat. “That’s better odds than fighting twelve rifles. Hand to hand it is, outlaws, twelve to one or not!”

The outlaws stared, taken aback by his boldness.

“You can’t beat a hundred and more, stranger,” Rowena said. “Don’t be a fool.”

Gar grinned, lifting his fists. “This isn’t about wisdom.” Rowena’s face darkened even more. “You’d be wiser to yield your pack and go your way. I’ve no wish to have your blood on my conscience.”

“I told you she was wise,” Lem said, then called to Rowena, “He seems to be a good one, though he’s not willing to pay the toll.”

“Toll, is it?” Gar asked. “All I own? Nothing left to sell or trade?”

Lem shrugged. “You can always start over.”

“It’s worth a fight to keep it.”

“Have it as you will,” Rowena said in disgust. “Take him, people.”

The outlaws shouted and waded in, Rowena foremost. She was the first to swing at Gar, and he took the blow on his shoulder, rolling with the punch, not even trying to block. But he knocked aside the second punch and tripped her.

Farrell caught her and lifted her back onto her feet as Lem yelled and charged in from the right just as a big bearded man bellowed, shoving past Rowena and slamming a haymaker at Gar’s jaw. Gar ducked; the haymaker caught Lem and sent him flying. Then Gar hooked a fist into the bearded man’s belly. He doubled over, and Gar straightened him with an uppercut.

He saw Farrell swinging from the side and shot to his feet, blocking the punch, but Zeke darted in past Farrell, head down, butting Gar in the belly.

Gar fell backward, and boots swung at his head. He caught the first and turned, pulling it with him. The bandit woman yelped and stumbled over him, tripping and falling straight into the kicking boots of her fellows. They shouted in surprise and pulled their feet back as Gar pushed himself up.

A huge weight struck his shoulders and slammed him back to the ground. Boots swung at his head, and Gar decided it was time for telekinesis. He caught the boots with his mind and swung them high. Their startled owners brayed as they fell, but other boots were slamming into his legs, and whoever it was on his back sat up long enough to hammer a punch at the back of his head.

The world blurred, and Gar hung onto consciousness grimly, thinking of that same hammer shooting up from beneath the ape on his back. He heard a startled contralto cry and the weight lessened. He shoved himself up, jolting his rider off, and scrambled to his feet in a small clearing among the circle of boots—the outlaws had given the rider room. Now they pressed in, roaring and eager.

But only eight of them could get close enough to swing at him. They moved in, shoulder to shoulder, forming a circle, so no matter how many were waiting their turn, he only had to worry about the front rank.

Having started using telekinesis, Gar saw no reason to stop. He swung and kicked, grabbed shirts and turned, hurling their owners into their mates, then spun back to block the next punch. More than a few made it through his guard; pain burned in his side and back and flank, but he stayed on his feet and kept chopping, though his arms grew heavy as lead and weary, weary. They would wear him down, he realized with a sinking heart, then bucked his spirits up; they would know they’d been in a fight!

Finally a voice soared high over the tumult: “H-O-O-O-O-L-D!” The clansfolk slowed, then stilled, glaring at Gar with fists raised, but waiting. Gar stopped, too, fists high, chest heaving like a race horse’s at the end of a run.

The outlaws parted and Rowena strode through. “All right, you can keep your pack.” She turned to her people. “He fought well and he fought clean, and what good will it do us to kick him to bits?”

“ ‘Specially since he might kick one or two of us into the long sleep first,” the bearded man grunted.

“Could be, Clem, and I’d hate to lose you,” Rowena returned.

Somebody chuckled in the crowd.

Rowena turned and clapped Gar on the arm. “Good enough, stranger. You’re one of us, if you want to be—and if not, we’ll trade for your goods, if you like anything we’ve got.”

Gar felt the change in the emotions of the people around him, saw grins breaking out through puffy lips, and lowered his fists, though he still remained wary. “You folks keep the furs that you skin off your game, don’t you?”

“That we do, and a’many of them are pretty to behold,” Rowena confirmed, “though I don’t know if it’s worth putting off a new coat for a year, just to have something to trade for your pins and pretties.”

Gar shrugged. “You’ll have to look for yourselves.” He caught up his pack and sat on his heels, unbuckling the flap and letting it fall. Necklaces of synthetic gems gleamed in the sunlight, packets of needles and pins winked, and a breeze wafted the scent of his spice packets to the outlaws. Some exclaimed with delight, others groaned with longing, and Gar felt so sorry for the poor folk who lived so hard an existence that such simple luxuries as these could brighten their lives so much, that he felt a strong impulse to give them away. Only an impulse, and he choked it quickly; without trade goods, he’d have no excuse to wander from clan to clan with impunity. Instead he said, “Let’s take them over by your cottages and you can show me what you have to trade.”

The outlaws agreed with shouts of approval and turned away to their cottages.

Rowena stayed by Gar, grinning. “Seems they’ve taken a liking to you, stranger.”

“Gar,” he said. “Gar Pike.”

Rowena frowned. “Never heard of any Pike clan.”

“We’re from far away,” Gar said, “very far.”

“And so are your goods, belike. Well, they’d better be worth what my people bring you in trade—not gems that turn to slime in the rain, or needles that break on the first stitch.”

“Oh, my goods will last,” Gar assured her, “a very long time.” After all, he had some notion of how well Herkimer’s synthesizing machines had made them.

A voice from the roadside trees called, “Stop right there, stranger!”

Alea stopped, turning toward the sound. “I’m a peddler. Anything to trade?”

“A peddler?” The voice couldn’t hide its eagerness. Brush rustled, and two clansfolk stepped onto the road from either side, their rifles lowering. The woman said, “Not too safe traveling alone, you know.”

Alea shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not too safe traveling in company, either.” At the woman’s frown, she explained, “It depends on your companion.”

“I reckon that makes sense,” the woman said. “Why, you don’t even carry a rifle!”

Alea shrugged. “What good would it do me? As you say, people don’t travel alone. What good is one rifle against two—or five or six?”

“Better than none,” the man said, frowning.

“Worse than none,” Alea countered. “If people see you’re unarmed, they know you mean no harm.” The man and woman exchanged a glance. “She’s got a point,” the man allowed.

“She has,” the woman said, and turned back to Alea. “I’m Hazel Gregor.”

“Alea Larsdatter.” Alea proffered a hand.

Hazel took it. “We have furs and pretty pebbles to trade, and if you don’t want any of those, at least we can give you dinner and a bed for the night. Come on along to the Big House, now, and let’s see what you’ve got to trade with.”

“Thank you.” Alea relaxed a little and followed her back to their homestead, leaving the man on guard.

More sentries stepped out, alert and with rifles at the ready, as Alea and Hazel came up the track toward the house. When they saw Hazel, though, they waved and faded back into the shrubbery.

“Are they always on guard?” Alea asked.

“No, we take turns,” Hazel said. “We change the guard every four hours.”

“All your lives?”

“Of course,” Hazel said, surprised. “We wouldn’t want the Mahons to catch us napping.”

Alea thought of spending her life that way and hid a shudder. The Big House shouldered up above the trees, and Alea wondered why they called it “big.” It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet long, with two stories and an attic. Then they came past the trees and Alea saw the dozen single-story dwellings clustered around it in a circle, and understood. None could have been wider than twenty feet.

“The married folk live in the small houses?”

Hazel nodded. “Grandma and Grandpa live in the Big House with the bachelor folk and widowed ones. Keeps everybody more in line, and the old folks don’t get lonely.”

Alea wondered how impatient the young folk became, wondered also if any married simply to gain homes of their own. They came into the grassy circle between the houses to find two cows grazing amid sheep and goats. Boys and girls of ten and twelve stood watch over them, looking bored, with the help of a few dogs. Older men and women were doing chores—planing boards, polishing rifles, churning butter, casting bullets, and so on. They looked up with interest at the stranger. Then they saw the pack on her back, dropped their tools, and hurried forward. They converged on the double door of the big house. “She a peddler?” asked a sixtyish man.

“That I am,” Alea replied. “What have you to trade?”

“Some carvings,” the old man said.

A woman near him said, “Carvings indeed! They’re the sweetest statues you’ll ever see. Me, I’ve some pretty pebbles I’ve been saving for a necklace. You go on in, missy, and I’ll run and find them.”

“I’ll be eager to see them,” Alea said politely, then went through the door.

They came into the keeping room—a central chamber about thirty feet long and twenty wide, furnished with plain wooden chairs and tables, lovingly finished with a glow that betokened many hours of rubbing with oil and wax. They had an economy of design, sweeping planes and flowing curves that took Alea’s breath away. A few chairs were cushioned, and the armchair by the fire was padded and upholstered, for in it sat an old man with white beard and hair, wrinkled face, and keen bright eyes that inspected Alea thoroughly at a glance and delivered a verdict on her suitability to be in Grandpa’s house. Apparently the verdict was positive, because the old man said, “Welcome, stranger.”

Hazel led Alea over to him. “Grandpa, this is Alea. She’s a peddler.”

“And a brave one, if she takes to the roads by herself with no rifle,” Grandpa said.

Hazel turned to Alea. “This is Grandpa Esau Gregor.”

“Welcome in my home,” the old man said. “What kind of pretties have you brought us, child?”

“Oh, ribbons and pins and needles,” Alea said. “Some nutmeg, too, and cinnamon and pepper. Then there’s jewelry from some clans I’ve traded with, and pretty pots and cups.”

“Don’t know as how another clan can do any better than my own children,” Grandpa opined, “but it’s nice to have a reminder that there are other folks out there besides the Mahons.” He grimaced at the name. “Let’s see your stock.”

Alea gladly shrugged out of her pack and lowered it to the hearth as the clansfolk gathered around. She was just opening the buckles when she heard the groan.

The outlaws crowded close to admire and touch. One young man hung back, though. He was tall and lean, looking to be made of whipcord—whipcord and straw, for his hair was so pale as to be nearly white. But his jacket was made of leather, fringed and decorated with colored quills, and he held a half-fletched arrow in one hand and a small knife in the other, as though he had come running in the middle of a task.

“Take a look!” Gar called to him. “Do I have anything you’d want to trade for?”

“Yeah, Kerlew,” one of the women said, her tone mocking, “you’d best sniff the spices, since all you’re fit for is cooking.” Kerlew flushed.

“Be fair, Elise,” Rowena said, but she smiled. “He’s a dab hand with a needle, too, and the peddler’s got plenty of those.” Gar frowned. “Who elected him chief cook and bottlewasher?”

“Why, what else can he do?” Elise jibed. “He’s a coward!”

“Too scared even to go hunting for anything bigger ‘n a squirrel,” another outlaw agreed, “though he doesn’t mind skinning the beasts and tanning their hides, so we know it’s not being squeamish about death.”

Kerlew reddened more. “There’s a deal of difference between killing a deer and taking its coat, Enoch!”

“Oh, sure,” Enoch said. “Not much danger of being gored by an antler, when you’re skinning one that’s already dead.”

“He knows how to hide good, though, don’t he?” another man jibed.

“And how to duck,” Elise agreed.

“How well does he fight if you’re attacked?” Gar asked quietly.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the clearing. Then Rowena said, “The clans haven’t come against us yet, peddler, but that’s what got you cast out in the first place, isn’t it, Kerlew? Refusing to go out to fight the Gainty clan.”

“I fought well enough when they ambushed us!” Kerlew retorted.

“Oh, aye, when it was kill or be killed,” Enoch sneered. “Sure, you fought like a cornered rat.”

“So,” Gar said, still quietly, “you have no problem with defending yourself and your clan—only with visiting death and misery on your neighbors.”

“So I said,” Kerlew said hotly, “and for that they cast me out! Why would I turn against people now that I’m outcast?”

“Why, for a living, boy,” Lem said impatiently.

“I can find enough nuts and berries for that,” Kerlew retorted, “aye, and kill to eat, if I have to.”

“You just don’t like the feel of it when they die, do you?” Gar asked.

Kerlew reddened again. “There’s enough dying already. Why add to it?”

Gar wondered if the boy was a latent telepath.

“Not much point in keeping one like that around, is there?” Rowena asked Gar. “But we won’t cast him out. Outlawing once is bad enough, but outlawing from outlaws?”

“Any who need shelter with us should have it,” Elise agreed. “That’s very charitable of you,” Gar said slowly.

Kerlew turned crimson and started a retort.

“But he will fight if the clans come against you,” Gar said, “You’ve heard him say so—and if they do, you’ll need every rifle you can muster.”

The outlaws fell silent, staring at him in surprise, and Rowena turned thoughtful.

“There’s this, too,” Gar said. “You never know which ‘weakling’ will turn out to have the Second Sight—or even a gift for magic, if it comes to that.”

Kerlew stared at him, amazed, and some of the outlaws muttered to one another, caught between superstition and mockery. Rowena demanded, “You really think there’s magic?”

Gar remembered meeting the fairies. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Never seen any, myself,” Farrell scoffed, but his look was uncertain.

“Well, if it’s real, show us some,” Lem said to Kerlew. “Go on, boy—tell us what’s happening at, say, the Gregors’ homestead.”

The outlaws recovered from their superstitious awe with laughs and jeers. “Yeah, you tell us, Kerlew boy!”

“Aye! If you’ve got magic, tell us what’s happening there!”

“Or make a squirrel fall out of that tree smack dab into the cooking pot!”

“Hey, I can do that.” Farrell lifted his rifle and sighted at the tree limb, then lowered it, shaking his head. “Don’t need no magic. No, I like him telling us what’s happening at the Gregors’ house.”

The clansfolk cast a few surreptitious glances at Farrell, and Gar realized the man was himself a Gregor and eager for news of home, though he would never admit it.

“Yeah, see twenty miles for us, Kerlew!” a young woman jibed. “What’re they doing at the Gregor house?”

“And none of this saying they’re sitting down to dinner, mind you—anyone could guess that, at sunset!”

Kerlew grew redder and redder at the mockery and finally burst out, “All right, blast you! just shut up and let me look!” He closed his eyes and sat, rigid as a pole, hands clasping his knees.

The catcalls cut off as though a valve had closed and the outlaws stared at him, taken aback. Then superstitious dread began to show in a face here and there.

Gar braced himself, readying a vision to implant in the boy’s mind. He knew he’d been riding a bluff and would have to make good on it.

Alea looked up at the groan, eyes wide. “Who’s in pain?”

“Oh, that’s Linda,” one of the men said, his face resigned. “The baby’s fine, but we might lose her.”

“Lose her?” Alea leaped up. “Why? What happened?”

“She lost a lot of blood,” Hazel said, frowning. “We managed to stop it, but likely too late.” She shook her head sadly. “She’s wasting away, but what can anyone do?”

“Help her body to make more blood, that’s what!” Alea turned toward the groan and started walking. “Take me to her!” The crowd parted in surprise but didn’t look hopeful. Hazel hurried after her. “She’s in her room, that third door, but you can’t make blood, Alea.”

“No, but her body can.”

Hazel skipped ahead and opened the door, holding up a hand to caution Alea. She poked her head in, then back out and beckoned. With soft steps, they went into the room.

There was a fire on the hearth, but the woman who lay in the bed shivered nonetheless. Alea was shocked at the paleness of her face. A young man sat beside her, holding her hand; he looked up as Alea came in and she was shocked again by the suffering written there. His eyes were hollow and darkened, his skin pale and waxy. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, and he probably hadn’t. She could imagine him dozing off in the night and waking at Linda’s slightest groan.

Alea touched the hand he was holding; Linda’s skin felt like ice. She felt for the pulse and could barely find it.

Before Gar could implant a vision, Kerlew spoke, voice sounding as though it drifted wind-borne from a thousand miles away.

“There’s a woman there, a stranger, and she’s sitting in a bedroom holding a younger woman’s hand. Poor soul, she’s pale as milk, and there’s a young fellow sitting by with his head in his hands.”

The outlaws stared.

Kerlew’s eyes flew open in alarm. “Did I say that?”

“You did,” Gar said before anyone else could speak. He turned to Farrell. “Who would the young woman be?”

Farrell had to lick his lips before he could answer. “Might be Linda Balfour. She was betrothed to Martin before I … left, and we was supposed to meet his bodyguards halfway to take her on home. That was when we saw the Mahon boys swimming, and I spoke against an ambush ‘cause it weren’t what we’d been sent to do.” He shook his head angrily, as though to banish the memory. “If they married, she’d likely have been heavy with child last spring, and light by now.”

The outlaws stared at Kerlew with awe and dread.

The lad trembled. “I never! Never done that before, never seen!” He rounded on Farrell. “And wouldn’ta done it now, if it hadn’t been for your yammering!”

“Oh, yes you have,” said another, “for there’s more ‘n once you’ve wakened all the bachelor’s house with your shouting to warn folks of ambush.”

“Those was dreams!”

“Second-sight dreams,” a third young man said, eyeing Kerlew with respect but no friendliness.

“Yes,” Gar said, “it seems that I spoke more truly than I knew, though perhaps you saw clearly now because the young woman’s heart was calling out for any who could help her.” But Gar knew it wasn’t the sick woman who had been broadcasting anxiety—it was Alea, for she was the young woman sitting by the bedside. “What color hair did the young man have?” Farrell asked. “What? … Why, yellow.” Kerlew jammed his jaw shut, looking alarmed at his own words.

“Martin’s hair is yellow,” Farrell said heavily. Rowena nodded. “Most folks have red or brown.”

“But—but I ain’t no seer!” Kerlew protested. “I ain’t no Druid!”

“Perhaps not, but you seem to have the talent for it.” Gar turned to Rowena. “I’d treat him well, if I were you. If he practices, he might be able to learn how to eavesdrop on all the clans about here, and be able to tell you if anyone starts agitating to band together and move against you.”

“Either that, or send him to the Druids,” Lem said. “No-o-o-o!” Kerlew clutched his scalp. “No, I don’t want it! Get it out of my head!”

“There’s few who do want it,” Gar said gently, “for it’s as much a torment as a blessing—but it can help your friends greatly.”

Kerlew stilled, then bowed his head, though he kept his fingers in his hair. “I wouldn’t use it to harm any travelers—nor any clan!”

“So long as you use it to help us.” Rowena laid a hand on his knee. “You’ve always said you weren’t a coward, Kerlew, just sick of killing. Well, now’s your chance to prove it.”

The lad raised his head from his hands, frowning. “Prove it how?”

“By learning to control this gift, and use it for the good of the band,” Gar told him.

“He just can’t stand the sight of blood,” someone said. Kerlew turned toward the voice, face hardening. “It ain’t the blood, Jeeter, and it ain’t the pain and the writhing, and the wounded screaming for someone to take pity on them and kill them. No, it’s the wife left to grieve and live on the clan’s charity the rest of her days, and the children crying for their daddy and never understanding why he’ll never come home again.” His eyes began to burn. “It’s the girls in pigtails who can’t understand why their daddy would go to the Afterworld instead of coming home to them, and the barefoot boys who can’t understand how the gods can be good if they let their mommies die.” His eyes blazed, his voice deepened and boomed as he said, “It ain’t the killing and the dying that anger me so much as the birthing and the living that has to go on in the shadow it casts over them all!”

The outlaws were silent a minute, staring at Kerlew as though they’d never seen him before. Then Rowena cleared her throat and said, “Yes. I’ll allow as how the boy has some magic.”

And Kerlew stood stunned, unable to believe that voice and those words had come out of his own mouth.

The sick woman opened her eyes, uncomprehending. “Who are you?” the young man croaked.

“A stranger,” Alea said, “and a friend.” She turned to Hazel. “You’re right—it’s blood loss. I think she’s picked up a fever, too.”

“Childbed fever,” Hazel sighed. “Happens too often, I fear.”

“Too often indeed, but you have fruit juice, don’t you? And liver.”

“Well, we’ve apples,” Hazel said in surprise, “and cider, of course. We can get liver soon enough, if you think she needs it.”

“Cow’s liver is best, though that of pigs or chickens will do,” Alea told her. “Tell someone to start boiling it for broth, and we’ll spoon it into her. In the meantime, let’s try that cider.”

“Hard or soft?”

“Soft, definitely soft! Hurry, Hazel—we may not have much time.” She turned to the young man. “Get you to bed. You can’t do anything for her, and we’ll waken you if she gets worse.”

“I won’t leave her,” the young man said stubbornly. “She could pass any minute.”

“Not yet,” Alea said, “not if she can still groan.” Then she relented and said, “You can make up your pallet right here, so you can be beside her if she needs you, but you’re no help to her exhausted.”

The young man tried to hold her gaze, but his own strayed back to Linda. “You talk sense, I guess. Well, I’ll go get blankets.” He rose stiffly, then held out a hand. “Thank you. I’m Martin.”

“And I’m Alea.” She took his hand. “Go get your blankets.”

By dinnertime, Linda had absorbed half a gallon of cider and been able to sip two bowlfuls of salted broth, and Martin was so soundly asleep he didn’t waken at the sound of feet moving to and from the bed. Alea sat by Linda in his place, mind reaching into the young mother’s body, to stimulate blood production, but feeling very helpless nonetheless.

Hazel came in. “Time to come to dinner, Alea.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No, you’ll go now,” Hazel insisted. “I’ll wait. Tell me what signs to watch for.”

Alea shrugged. “There isn’t much—only if she begins to get some color back, and we probably won’t see that until tomorrow. Keep a cold cloth on her forehead, though. If her breath gets much more shallow or her pulse fades, call me right away.”

“I will,” Hazel promised. “Get you to supper, now, and then sleep, for I imagine you’ll be up with her the whole night if we let you.”

“I’ll want to take the midnight watch, at least.” Alea rose unwillingly.

“We’ll see to it she’s tended, and call you if there’s any change for the worse.” Hazel shooed her toward the door. “It’s good of you to care so for someone who isn’t one of your own.”

Alea stopped and turned back, looking her in the eye. “We’re all each other’s own, Hazel—every woman in the world.” Hazel gave her a long silent look, then nodded. “We’ll see what you have to say about the men if she gets better. Eat now, for you’ll need your nourishment as much as she does.”

Alea woke on her pallet by the hearth and saw a girl of about twelve kneeling nearby, feeding small sticks to a shrunken fire. She glanced at Alea, saw her open eyes, and smiled shyly. “Morning, Miss Alea.”

“Good morning,” Alea said, and was about to ask the girl’s name when a knock sounded at the door. They both turned to stare at it. The girl said, “Only strangers knock.”

Three clansfolk hurried to the door with rifles ready but not leveled. An older man pulled it open, stared in surprise. “Versey!” He turned to call to the people inside, “It’s Versey the Druid!” Then he turned back, pushing the door wide and bowing the visitor into the house. “Be welcome, Reverend!”

Alea stared and held her breath, waiting for a tall, whitehaired man with a long beard and a snowy robe, with a golden sickle at his belt and mistletoe in his hair.