The Corridors of Time

8

Brann of the Rangers sat alone in the Long House. The holy fire had gone out, but radiance from a crystalline globe sheened off the bearskin on his dais. The warriors who led Lockridge to him bent their knees with awe.

“God among us,” said their burly red-haired leader, “we have fetched the wizard as you commanded.”

Brann nodded. “That is well. Wait in a corner.”

The four men touched tomahawk to brow and withdrew beyond the circle of illumination. Their torch sputtered red and yellow, light barely touching the weather-beaten faces. Silence stretched.

“Be seated, if you wish,” Brann said mildly, in English. “We have much to talk about, Malcolm Lockridge.”

How did he know the complete name?

The American remained on his feet, because otherwise he would have had to sit by Brann, and looked at him. So this was the enemy.

The Ranger had removed his cloak, to show a lean, long-muscled body almost seven feet tall, clad in the form-fitting black Lockridge remembered from the corridor. His skin was very white, the hands delicately tapered, the face . . . beautiful, you could say, narrow, straight-nosed, a cold perfection of line. There was no trace of beard; the hair was dense and closely cut, like a sable cap. His eyes were iron grey.

He smiled. “Well, stand, then.” He pointed to a bottle and two glasses, slim lovely shapes beside him. “Will you drink? The wine is Bourgogne 2012. That was a wonderful year.”

“No,” Lockridge said.

Brann shrugged, poured for himself, and sipped. “I do not necessarily mean you harm,” he said.

“You’ve done enough already,” Lockridge spat.

“Regrettable, to be sure. Still, if one has lived with the concept of time as unchangeable, unappeasable—has seen much worse than today, over and over and over, and risked the same for himself—what use in sentimentalism? For that matter, Lockridge, today you killed a man whose wives and children will mourn him.”

“He was fixin’ to kill me, wasn’t he?”

“True. But he was not a bad man. He guided his kin and dependants as well as he was able, treated his friends honourably and did not go out of his way to be horrible to his enemies. You passed through the village on your way here. Be honest. You saw no slaughter, no torture, no mutilation, no arson—did you? On the whole, in centuries to come, this latest wave of immigrants will blend in rather peacefully. The affray here was somewhat exceptional. Far oftener, in northern Europe if not in the South or East, the newcomers will dominate simply because their ways are better suited to the coming age of bronze. They are more mobile, have wider horizons, can better defend themselves; on that account, the aborigines will imitate them. You yourself have been shaped by them, and so has much you hold dear.”

“Words,” Lockridge said. “The fact is, you got ’em to attack us. You killed friends of mine.”

Brann shook his head. “No. The Koriach did.”

“Who?”

“The woman. What did she call herself to you?”

Lockridge hesitated. But he could see no gain in being stubborn about trifles. “Storm Darroway.”

Brann laughed without sound. “That fits. Her pattern was always flamboyant. Very well, if you like, we shall call her Storm.” He set his glass down and leaned forward. The long features grew stern. “She brought this trouble on the villagers, by coming to them. And she knew the risk. Do you seriously believe she cared one atom what might happen, to them or to you? No, no, my friend, you were all only counters in a very large and very old game. She has moulded whole civilisations, and cast them aside when they no longer served her purpose, as calmly as you might discard a broken tool. What are a handful of Stone Age savages to her?”

Lockridge clenched his fists. “Shut up!” he shouted.

A stir and a growl came from the Yuthoaz in the shadows. Brann waved them back, though he kept a hand near the energy pistol at his broad coppery belt. “She does make a rather overwhelming impression, does she not?” he murmured. “No doubt she told you that her Wardens stand for absolute good and we Rangers for absolute evil. You would have no way of disproof. But think, man. When was such a thing ever true?”

“In my own time,” Lockridge retorted. “Like the Nazis.” Brann cocked an eyebrow with such sardonicism that he must add, feebly, “I don’t claim the Allies were saints. But damn it, the choice was clear.”

“Where is your evidence, other than Storm’s word, that the situation in the time war is analogous?” Brann asked.

Lockridge swallowed. The night seemed to close in, with murk and damp and remote indifferent forest sounds. He felt his aloneness, and tightened sinews against it till his jaws ached.

“Listen,” Brann said earnestly. “I do not, myself, maintain that we Rangers are models of virtue. This is as ruthless a war as was ever fought, a war between philosophies, whose two sides shape the very past that brought them into being. I ask you, though, to consider. Is the science that sends men beyond the moon, liberates them from toil and famine, saves a child from strangling with diphtheria—is it evil? Is the Constitution in the United States evil? Is it wrong for man to use his reason, the one thing that makes him more than an animal, and to harness the animal within him? Well, if not, where do these things come from? What view of life, what kind of life, must there be to create them?

“Not the Wardens’ way! Do you seriously think this earthward-looking, magic-muttering, instinct-bound, orgiastic faith of the Goddess can ever rise above itself? Would you like to see it return in the future? It has done so, you know, in my age. And then, like the worm that bites its own tail, it has gone back to cozen and terrify men in this twilight past, until they crawl before Her. Oh, they can be happy, in a fashion; the influence is diluted. But wait until you see the horror of the Wardens’ real reign!

“Think—one small archaeological item—the aborigines here bury their dead in communal graves. But the Battle Axe culture gives each his own. Does that suggest anything to you?”

Lockridge had a fleeting odd recollection of his grandfather telling him about the Indian wars. He’d always sympathised with the Indians; and yet, if he could rewrite their history, would he?

He thrust the disturbing thought away, straightened, and said, “I chose Storm Darroway’s side. I’m not about to change.”

“Or did she choose you?” Brann replied softly. “How did you happen to meet?”

Lockridge had not meant to reveal a word. God alone knew what enemy purpose that would serve. But—well—Brann didn’t act like a villain. And if he could be mollified, he might go easier on Storm. And anyhow, what importance did the details of Lockridge’s recruitment have? He explained curtly. Brann asked some questions. Before Lockridge quite knew what had happened, he was seated by the Ranger, a glass in his hand, and had told the entire story.

“Ah, so,” Brann nodded. “A curious affair. Though not untypical. Both sides use natives in their operations. That is one of the practical reasons for all this juggling of cultures and religions. You seem unusually able, however. I would like to have you for my ally.”

“You won’t,” Lockridge said, less violently than he had intended.

Brann gave him a sidewise glance. “No? Perhaps not. But tell me again, how did Storm Darroway finance herself in your era?”

“Robbery,” Lockridge was forced to confess. “She set her energy pistol to stun. Didn’t have any choice. You waged war.”

Brann freed his gun and toyed with it. “You may be interested to know,” he said idly, “that these weapons cannot be set at less than lethal force.”

Lockridge sprang up. The glass fell from his grasp. It did not shatter, but the wine ran across the floor like blood.

“They can, though, disintegrate a corpse,” Brann said.

Lockridge’s fist leaped at the talking mouth. Brann wasn’t there to meet the blow. He had flicked aside, risen, and covered the other man with his pistol. “Easy,” he warned.

“You’re lyin’,” Lockridge gasped. The world rocked around him.

“If and when I can trust you, you will be welcome to test a gun for yourself,” Brann said. “Meanwhile, use your brain. I know somewhat of the twentieth century, not only through this diaglossa but the months I spent hunting my opponent—for I did know she had escaped alive. From your account—easy, I said!—from your account, Lockridge, she had thousands of dollars. How many passersby must she have stunned, to rifle their wallets, before she got that sum together? Would such a wave of robberies, where person after person awakened from a mysterious swoon, not have been the sensation of the year? Would it not? But you read never a word.

“On the other hand, disappearances are quite common, and if the one who vanishes is obscure, the story only makes a back page of the local newspaper. . . . Wait. I did not say she never used her gun to burgle an empty place at night, and set a fire to cover her traces; though it is queer that she did not tell you this was her modus operandi. But I do offer you evidence that she is—perhaps not consciously evil, perhaps merely without mercy. After all, she is a goddess. What are mortals to her, who is immortal?”

Lockridge heaved air into his lungs. An uncontrollable trembling ran through him, his skin was cold and his mouth dry. Somehow he was able to speak: “You got the drop on me. But I’m goin’. I don’t have to listen to any more.”

“No,” Brann agreed. “I think best you be shown the truth gradually. You are a loyal sort of man. Which makes me think you will prove valuable, once you have decided where your true loyalty lies.”

Lockridge turned on his heel with a snarl and strode for the door. The Yuthoaz hurried to surround him.

Brann’s voice came in pursuit: “For your information, you will change sides. How do you think I learned of the Warden corridor in America, and of Storm’s flight to this milieu? How do you even think I know your name? You came to my own time and place, Lockridge, and warned me!”

“You lie!” he screamed, and fled the house.

Hard hands dragged him to a stop. He stood cursing for a long while.

When finally a measure of calm returned, he looked around as if in search of a foundation for his universe. Avildaro lay empty and still. Those women and children who had not escaped to the wilderness with the old, whom the invaders had contemptuously let go, were herded at the campfires which twinkled in the meadows. Thence came a sad lowing of seized cattle; more distantly, frogs croaked. The huts were shaggy-topped blots of blackness. Before them shimmered the water, behind them rustled the grove under a sky splendid with stars. The air was cool and moist.

“Not easy, talking with a god, aye?” said the red-haired leader with some compassion.

Lockridge snorted and began to walk toward the cabin where Storm was. The Yutho stopped him. “Hold, wizard. The god has told us you can’t see her again, or you might cook trouble.” In his tumult, Lockridge had not heard that. “He told us also that he’s taken away your power to work spells,” the warrior added. “So why not be a man like any other? We have to keep you guarded, but we mean you no ill.”

Storm! Lockridge cried within himself. But there was no choice save to leave her alone in the dark. The torch, held by a young man with an oddly pleasant freckled countenance, threw its restless dim light on tomahawks held at the ready.

He surrendered and fell in step with his captors. The chief walked beside him. “My name is Withucar, Hronach’s son,” he said affably. With a god for boss, he felt no terror of the wizard. “My sign is the wolf. Who are you, and whence came you?”

Lockridge looked into the candid, eager blue eyes and could not hate him. “Call me Malcolm,” he answered dully. “I’m from America, a long way off across the sea.”

Withucar grimaced. “A wet way, and not mine.”

Yet, Lockridge remembered, the Danes—all Europeans—would eventually sail the seas of the whole world. So some spirit of Crete and the Tenil Orugaray was to endure. Brann had spoken truly, as far as he went: the Battle Axe people were not fiends but plain immigrants. More warlike, of course, than the folk older in this land; more individualistic, in spite of being governed by a chariot-driving aristocracy; holding a simpler religion, whose gods ruled the cosmos as a father among their worshippers ruled his family; but men of courage, honour, and a certain rough kindliness. It was not their fault that black-clad creatures had come through time and used them.

As if reading his mind, Withucar continued, “Understand, I have naught ill to say of the sea and woods tribes. They are brave, and—” he sketched a sign in the air, “I pay due respect to the gods they follow. We’d not have moved against you today, had not our god commanded us. But he told us this place was sheltering a witch who was his enemy. And, now we’re here, we’ll take our reward. For myself, I’d as lief have traded. Maybe, in time, gotten a wife from them. That’s profitable, if she comes of a big house. They inherit in the female line, you see, which means I’d have raked in her mother’s goods. However, as things are, I suppose we’ll extend our grazing range hither, now that we have the land. But we’re not so many that we can be forever at war with the other villages hereabouts, so if we can’t make terms, we may just take our booty and go home.” He shrugged. “The chiefs will hold council about that.”

A dreamy part of Lockridge, four thousand years removed, analysed the word for “chief.” It meant simply “patriarch,” man of considerable property, head of his sons, retainers, and the ambitious young men who had sworn him service. In that capacity, he also officiated at the sacrifices; but there was nothing like a priesthood, or like the tradition which fixed a man of the Tenil Orugaray in his status before he was born. For that matter, religion was not so binding on the Yuthoaz—fewer taboos, less ritual, less horror of the unknown, a clean faith in sun, wind, rain, fire. The darker elements of Nordic paganism would enter later from the old earth cults.

He shoved that thought aside and concentrated almost frantically on the language. No such thing as an Indo-European tongue existed: only a set of concepts, reflected in grammar and vocabulary, that influenced aboriginal speech as Norman French was to influence English. (Daughter = dohitar = milker of cows, which was man’s work in Avildaro.) Less than half the words Withucar used went back to the Black Sea steppes. He himself had probably been born in Poland, Germany, or—

“Here we are,” the Yutho said. “I’m sorry we must bind you for the night. That’s no way to treat a man. But the god ordered us. And wouldn’t you rather sleep in the open than in one of those filthy huts?”

Lockridge scarcely heard. He stopped in his tracks with an oath.

The campfire burned high, blotting out the Great Bear in smoke, dancing with flames that picked forth Withucar’s chariot and his hobbled horses where they grazed. Another half dozen men lounged around it, weapons close to hand but eyes sleepy and sated. One—a boy of perhaps seventeen, square-shouldered in his leather, a downy cheek puckered by an old battle scar—held a thong. The other end was tied around Auri’s wrist.

“By all the Maruts!” Withucar exclaimed. “What’s this?”

The girl had lain huddled in hopelessness. When she saw Lockridge, she sprang up with a cry. Her hair was matted, grime on her face was streaked by wept-out tears, a bruise on her thigh stood red and purpling.

The boy grinned. “We heard someone slink about not long ago. I was the one who found and caught her. Pretty, aye?”

“Lynx!” Auri wailed in her own speech. She stumbled toward him. The young warrior jerked her leash. She fell onto her knees.

“Lynx, I escaped to the forest, but I had to come back and see if you—” She could talk no more.

Lockridge stood gripped in nightmare.

“Well, well,” Withucar smiled. “The gods must like you, Thuno.”

“I waited until you came back, chieftain,” the boy said, a little smugly. “May I take her away now?”

Withucar nodded. Thuno rose, grabbed a handful of Auri’s hair, and forced her to her feet. “Come along, you,” he said. His lips, half parted, glistened.

She screamed and tried to pull free. He cuffed her so her head rocked. “Lynx!” she sobbed: a grisly, grinding noise, despair that clawed for words. “I must not!”

The paralysis broke from Lockridge. He knew what she meant. Until the ban on her was lifted, it was death and more than death for her to lie with a man. Never mind about superstition; how would his own sister have felt? “No!” he yelled.

“Ha?” Withucar said.

“I know her.” His appeal tumbled from Lockridge. He shook the chief by the shoulders. “She’s holy, not to be touched—there’s the worst of curses for anyone who does.”

The men about the fire, who had watched in amusement, sprang erect and bristled. Withucar looked dismayed. But Thuno, aroused as he was, snapped, “He lies!”

I’ll swear by anything you like,” Lockridge said.

“What are a wizard’s oaths worth?” Thuno sneered. “If he means she’s a maiden, well, what harm’s that ever done us! And she can’t be anything else. They don’t have sacred women here, except for one old crone who’s whelped many a time while young.”

Withucar’s gaze flickered back and forth. He tugged his beard and said in unease, “Right . . . right . . . but still, best you be safe.”

“I am a free man,” Thuno said harshly. “On my head be whatever happens.” He laughed. “I know the first thing that’ll happen. Come!”

“You’re the chief,” Lockridge raved to Withucar. “Stop him!”

The Yutho sighed. “I cannot. As he said, he is a free man.” He regarded the American shrewdly. “I’ve seen those who came under the terror of the gods. You haven’t that look. Maybe you want her for yourself?”

Auri raked fingernails at Thuno’s grinning face. He got her by the arm and twisted. She stumbled before him.

And her father and her brother lay out for ravens to eat—Lockridge exploded into motion.