The Corridors of Time

21

And the years flew past, until again there was a day when rain grew into fog and the warriors from the west came in its cloak, up the Limfjord to Avildaro.

He whom they called Lynx stood in the galley’s bow: a man older than most, grey of hair and beard, but still hardly less hale than the four big sons beside him. All were armed and armoured in shining bronze. They peered at the shoreline, sliding vague in the fading vaporous light, until the father said, “Here is our landing.”

The eagerness of his sixteen years beat through the tone of Hawk, Ann’s child, as he relayed the order. Oars ceased to splash and creak. The stone anchor went overboard. Men stirred down the length of the ship, their battle gear clanked, they sprang from the benches into cold shoulder-deep water. The skinboats of their flint-weaponed allies grounded and were drawn ashore.

“Keep them still,” said Lynx. “We must not be heard.”

The captain nodded, “Belay that noise, you,” he commanded his sailors. Iberians like him, dark hook-nosed round-heads, smaller and more slender than the fair tribesfolk of Britain, they needed every restraint that could be laid on them. Even he, a civilized man who had often been in Egypt and Crete, had had some trouble understanding that this was to be no piratical raid.

“I have gathered enough tin and fur to pay for your voyage ten times over,” the chief named Lynx had told him. “All is yours if you will help. But we fare against a witch who wields lightnings. Though I can do likewise, will your men be too frightened? Moreover, we go not to plunder, but to set my kindred free. Will you and yours be content with my wages?”

The captain swore so, by Her Whom he worshipped as did these powerful barbarians. And he was honest when he did. There was that about the blue eyes confronting him which bespoke a majesty like nothing less than the Minos of the South.

Nonetheless—Well, Lockridge thought, we’ll just have to play her as she lies. Which is a liberation. Tonight I break free of destiny.

Not that the time in England was ever bad. On the contrary. I’ve had a better, happier, more useful life than any I dared dream of.

He made his way aft. Auri stood by the cabin under the poop. Their other children, three girls and a boy too young to fight, waited with her. They’d been lucky in that respect also: a certain dolmen sheltered only one tiny form. Indeed the gods loved her.

Tall, full of figure, the hair that fell past her Cretan gown little less bright than in girlhood, she looked at her man with no more than a glimmer of tears. A quarter century in which she must be his right hand had brought forth greatness. “Farewell, my dearest,” she said.

“Not for long. As soon as we’ve won, you can come home.”

“You gave me my home, beyond the sea. If you should fall—”

“Then return, for their sakes.” He caressed the children, one by one. “Rule Westhaven as we did before. The folk will rejoice.” He forced a smile. “But I shall not be harmed.”

“It will be strange,” she said slowly, “to see our young selves go by. I wish you could be with me then.”

“Will the sight hurt you?”

“No. I will give them our love, that pair, and be glad for what they have ahead of them.”

She alone had come to understand what had happened with time. To the rest of the Tenil Orugaray, that was a disquieting magic which they gave as little thought as possible. True, it had brought them to a good country, and they were grateful; but let Lynx bear the burden of sorcery, he was the king.

Lockridge and Auri kissed each other and he left her.

Wading to land, he found himself surrounded by his men. A few were Avildaro born, infants when they fled. The rest came from half of Britain.

That had been his work. He had not gone back to East Anglia, lest rumours of him cross the water and wait for Storm Darroway. Instead, he led his company into that beautiful land which would later be named Cornwall. There they ploughed and sowed, hunted and fished, loved and sacrificed, in the old carefree manner; but piece by piece, he taught them how much they could gain from the tin mines and from trade, he recruited new members from the restless tribes around, he brought in new ways of life and work, until Westhaven was known from Skara Brae to Memphis as a rich and mighty realm. And meanwhile he made alliance—with the axemakers of Langdale Pike, the settlers along the Thames, even the dour downland farmers, whom he persuaded that manslaughter was not pleasing to the gods. Now today they spoke of erecting a great temple on Salisbury Plain, as the sign and seal of their confederation. And so he could leave them; and a hundred hunters he could pick, from the many who asked to come, for his battle in the east.

“Form ranks,” he ordered. “Forward.”

Northerner and Southerner alike, they fell into the formation he had drilled and moved toward Avildaro.

Walking through the dank greyness, where only footfalls and the wail of curlews broke silence, he felt his throat gone tight and his heart wild. Storm, Storm, he thought, I’m comin’ home to you.

Twenty-five years had not blurred her in his mind. Grown lean and wolf-grey, with the troubles and joys of a generation between him and her, he still remembered black tresses, green eyes, amber skin, a mouth that had once dwelt on his. Step by reluctant step, he had come to know his weird. The North must be saved from her. The human race must be. Without Brann, she could drive her Wardens to victory. And neither Warden nor Ranger must prevail. They had to wear each other down, until what was good in both stood forth above the wreck of what was evil and the world of John and Mary could take shape.

Yet he was not really Lynx, the wise and invincible. He was only Malcolm Lockridge, who had loved Storm Darroway. The fight was hard to hold fast to Auri, and to the fact that he was going against the Koriach.

Hawk slipped back from his scouting. “I saw few about in the village, Father,” he said. “None looked like Yuthoaz, as near as I can tell from what you’ve related of them. The chariot people’s watchfires are dim in this mist, and most lie bundled up from the cold.”

“Good.” Lockridge was glad of action. “We’ll divide the bands now, each to its own part of the meadows.” Their commanders came to him and he gave close instructions. One after the next, the groups vanished into the dusk, until he was left with a score. He numbered their bullhide shields and sharp edges of flint, raised his arm and told them: “Ours is the hardest task. We go to meet the witch herself. I swear again that my magic is as strong as hers. But let any leave who fear to witness our strife.”

“Long have you led us, and ever we found you right,” rumbled a hillman. “I stand by my oath.” A fierce whisper of agreement ran around the circle.

“Then follow.”

They found a path toward the sacred grove. When combat got going, Storm and her attendants at the Long House should come this way.

Shouts lifted through cloudiness.

Lockridge stopped by the dripping trees. Noise grew and grew on his right: horns and horses neighed, men whooped and screeched, bows twanged, wheels groaned, axes began to thunder.

“Will she never come?” muttered his son Arrow.

Lockridge felt strained near breaking. He had no guarantee of success. One energy gun could scatter a host, and the thing that weighed in his hand was matched against two.

Feet thudded from Avildaro. A dozen Yuthoaz burst into view out of the fog. Their weapons were aloft and their faces furious. At their head ran Hu.

I’m not goin’ to kill you this time, Lockridge thought with a shiver.

The Warden jarred to a halt. His pistol lifted.

The same weapon flared in Lockridge’s grasp, upon itself. Red, green, yellow, deathly blue, fire sleeted. The Yuthoaz flung themselves on the Britons, who scattered back in supernatural dread.

“Koriach!” Hu shouted above the crashing energies. “They are Rangers!”

He did not know Lockridge in the man who confronted him. And within this hour, he would lie dead before the Long House. Lockridge stood frozen with the terror of it. Hu stepped closer. A Yutho howled and swung his tomahawk. The hillman who had spoken of oaths fell before him.

That broke Lockridge’s paralysis. “Westhaven men!” he yelled. “Strike for your kindred!”

Arrow bounded forth. His bronze sword flashed in the fires, drove home and came back bloody. Hawk took a blow on his helmet, which belled like his own laughter as he struck. Their brothers, Herdsman and Sun Beloved, rallied to them; and so did the rest. They outnumbered the Battle Axe men. Short and unmerciful was that fight.

Lockridge drew blade on Hu. The Warden saw his troop go down, lifted off the ground, and was lost in the mists. Above the war in the fields, he could be heard shrieking for Storm.

So she took another route. She’s out yonder, Lockridge thought. “This way!”

He came onto the meadows. A chariot careened by, aimed for a line of his men. Trained by him, they stood fast until the wheels were almost upon them, then parted, and smote the chieftain from the sides. Masterless, the horses ran into twilight and were lost. The Britons charged those Yuthoaz who followed on foot. To Lockridge it was all a shadow play. He hunted for Storm.

Over the stricken field he went with his band. From time to time he saw a piece of the battle. A Yutho dashed out the brains of a Westhaven warrior, and was cut to pieces by an Iberian. Two men rolled in the mud like dogs, seeking each other’s throats. A boy named Thuno sprawled in blood, eyes turned empty to the hidden sky. Lockridge hurried past. His scabbard slapped his leg. Helmet and corselet grew heavy upon him.

After some part of eternity, he heard cries. A group of his people loped by, lips set against panic. He hailed their leader. “We met her, at the edge of town,” the tribesman gasped. “Her flames slew three before we could get away.”

They had not bolted, though. They were following his instructions to retreat and seek another opponent. Lockridge sped the way they had come.

First he heard her voice: “You and you and you. Find the clan’s chiefs. Have them come to me. I shall abide here, and when we have conferred and brought some order into our ranks, we shall destroy these sea bandits.” Her voice was husky and lovely.

He advanced into the clouds. They seemed to part, and she was there.

Several Yuthoaz were at her side. Horses stamped before the one chariot, where Withucar stood with halberd ready. But Storm was alone, ahead of them. She had thrown no more than a tunic across her huntress body, and the moon crescent on her brows. The hair gleamed wet in what light remained, the countenance was vivid with life. He fired on her.

She was too quick. Her shield went up. Rage upon rage, the energies spent each other in flame.

“Ranger,” she called across the roaring fearsome beauty of rainbows, “come and be slain.” Because he wore his diaglossas, for the first time in many years, Lockridge understood. He moved nearer.

Her Valkyrie face broke in horror. “Malcolm!” she screamed. His sons egged on their men. Sword, spear, and tomahawk flew free.

From the edge of an eye, Lockridge saw Withucar swing his long axe down upon Hawk. The boy dodged, sprang up onto the chariot, and stabbed. Withucar’s half-grown driver cast himself between the blade and his lord. As he crumpled, the chief drew a stone knife. Hawk could not pull his weapon out in time. He threw arms around the redbeard. They tumbled off and fought by the wheels.

Elsewhere, the Westhaven men closed. They met brave, skilled foes who stood fast, shield to shield, blow for blow. Battle shocked the darkening air.

“Oh, Malcolm,” Storm sobbed, “what has time done to you?”

He could only be remorseless, advance on her with gun in one hand and the other one free that should have held a sword. At any moment she could flit off like Hu. But her men were being driven back by greater numbers. She retreated with them. Lockridge could not get to her, in the ruck that boiled around. When a space opened briefly between them, he and she made defence, and flames crowned her. Otherwise the grunting, panting, bestial struggle held them apart.

In among the huts they moved. The Long House appeared, black above roofs.

Abruptly, Arrow and Sun Beloved crashed through the Yutho line. Their feet spurned the men they had killed. Whirling about, they cut from behind. Their folk poured through the gap. The fight broke into knots, back and forth between those humble walls.

Lockridge saw Storm before him. He leaped. So bright grew the radiance that they were both momentarily blinded. His hand chopped in a many-coloured darkness. She cried in pain. He felt her gun spin loose. Before she could take off, he had dropped his own weapon and seized her.

They went to earth. She fought with hands, nails, knees, teeth, till blood runneled down his skin. But he pinned her beneath his weight and metal. The dazzle cleared from his eyes. He looked into hers. She lifted her head and kissed him. “No,” he choked.

“Malcolm,” she said, her breath quick upon him, “I can make you young again, immortal, with me.” He voiced an oath. “I’m Auri’s man.”

“Are you?” She lay suddenly calm in his grasp. “Then draw your sword.”

“You know I can’t do that.” He got up, removed her belt, helped her to her feet and kept her arms pinned behind her back. She smiled and leaned close.

The fight had ended around them. When they saw their Goddess taken, such of the Yuthoaz as still could threw down their axes and fled. Wounded men ululated on the earth.

“We have the witch,” Lockridge said. It sounded in his ears like a stranger talking. “Now only her warriors remain.”

His sons approached, glaives ready. He felt ashamed of being no happier than he was to see Hawk with them. He let Storm go. Bruised, smeared, and captive, she looked imperially at them all and said, “Is this the destiny you want?” But she spoke in English.

Lockridge couldn’t meet that gaze, he dropped his own and sighed, “It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Do you imagine for a minute you can escape revenge?”

“Yes. When they don’t hear from you, of course your spies will come to learn what happened. They won’t find you. They’ll hear about a raid where you evidently perished: not Ranger work, as far as they can tell from the confused native accounts, just an attack by an ambitious chalcolithic chief who’d heard Jutland was in trouble and saw his chance and was so lucky that stray arrows got you and Hu before you could drive him off. More than ever, your successors will think this is a bad period to meddle with. They’ve got plenty to do elsewhere and elsewhen; they’ll leave us alone.”

Storm stood quiet a while. “You read shrewdly, Malcolm,” she said at last. “What a hero you could be for us.”

“I’m not interested,” he said without force.

She straightened her garment until it clung. “But what will you do with me?” she murmured.

“I don’t know,” he said in his trouble. “As long as you’re alive, you’re a mortal danger. But I . . . I can’t hurt you. I’m so thankful you came through this business that—” He blinked hard. “Maybe we can hide you someplace,” he said roughly. “In honour.”

She smiled. “Will you come see me?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“You will. We can talk then.” She brushed aside the sword of Herdsman, Auri’s son, came to Lockridge and kissed him again. “Farewell, Lynx.”

“Take her off!” he rapped. “Bind her. Be careful, though. She must not be harmed.”

“Where shall she be kept, Father?” Arrow asked him.

Lockridge prowled a little beyond, into the square before the Long House. Hu’s body looked shrunken at his feet.

“In there,” he decided. “Her own place. Post a guard outside. Lay out the dead and do what you can for the wounded.”

He watched her until she had been led through the doorway.

War pealed in his ears like the pulse within him. On an instant, he could no longer be still. He ran through the village and shouted.

“Avildaro men! Sea People! We have come to set you free! The witch is fallen. They fight for you out in the meadows. Will you lie there and strike no blow for yourselves? Come out, whoever is a man!”

And they came: household by household, hunters, fishers, riders of the sea, they gathered beweaponed around the newcome deliverer. He called his sons to join. They went fifty strong through the holy grove and fell upon the Battle Axe ranks.

And broke them.

When the last chariot lay splintered and the last Yutho was chased out onto the heaths, Lockridge ordered all captives brought before him. Mostly those were women and children, who stumbled through the desolation of their hopes. But Withucar lived. Hands lashed behind his back, he knew Lockridge and defied him.

A dying fire had been fuelled until it lit the wet dark as wildly as the Tenil Orugaray were dancing. Lockridge saw the misery that faced him and spoke with much gentleness:

“You will not be hurt further. Tomorrow you may go. This is our place, not yours. But a man from us will depart with you, to talk of peace. The land is broad; we know of ranges unpeopled for your use. At midwinter, the tribal chiefs will hold council here, when we will seek ways to meet our common needs. Withucar, I hope you will be among them.”

The Yutho dropped to his knees. “Lord,” he said, “I know not what strangeness has touched you this night. But for your ruth, we are still sworn comrades, you and I. If you will have me.”

Lockridge raised him. “Take off his bonds. He is our friend.”

Looking across his people, he, Lynx, knew his work not ended. Westhaven was strongly founded. In the next twenty or thirty years—however much time was granted him—he must build the same kind of league in Denmark.

If only Storm—

A man dashed to him and fell on his face. “We did not know! We did not know! We heard the noise too late!”

Night closed on Lockridge like a fist. He cried for torch-bearers and ran the whole way to the Long House.

By the unmerciful light of the globes, she lay. Her beauty was gone; one is not strangled to death without blackening skin, tongue swollen between teeth, eyes half bulged from the skull. Yet something lingered, in sheening hair and carven face, in body that had fought to the last and in bound hands which once touched him.

Brann’s corpse was across her.

I forgot him, Lockridge thought. I couldn’t stand to remember. So he came through the veil, with death on his heels, and saw her, his torturer, helpless.

Storm, oh, my Storm!

The Sea People grew hushed when their lord wept.

He had them bring wood. He himself laid her to rest, with her lieutenant and her great enemy at her feet, and put the torch to the Long House. High and loud sprang the flames, to make another day out of darkness. We will build a sanctuary here, he thought, to the worship of Her Who one day will be called Mary.

But for him there was only one place to go. He returned alone to the ship.

Auri’s arms enfolded him. Toward sunrise he found peace.

God, or fate, or whatever you wanted to name it, be thanked for work.

The Bronze Age, the new age was coming. What he had seen in his own unborn yesterdays gave him to believe it would be a time rich, peaceful, and happy: perhaps more happy than aught men would know until that distant future he had glimpsed. For the relics that afterward remained did not show burning, slaughter, or enslavement. Rather, the golden Sun Chariot of Trundholm and the lur horns, whose curves recalled Her serpents, spoke for the Northern races become one. Then widely would they fare; the streets of Knossos would know Danish feet and men depart from England for Araby. Some might even touch America, where the Indians were to tell of a wise kindly god and of a goddess named Flower Feather. But most would return. For where else was life so good as in the first land the world ever saw which was both strong and free?

In the end it would go down, before the cruel age of iron. Yet a thousand fortunate years were no small achievement; and the spirit they brought to birth would endure. Through every century to come, the forgotten truth that men had once known generations of gladness must abide and subtly work. Those who built the ultimate tomorrow might well come back to the realm that Lynx founded, and learn.

“Auri,” Lockridge whispered, “be with me. Help me.”

“Always,” she said.