A Sterkarm Kiss (13 page)

Hands grasped his upper arms, hauling him upright. He lashed out with the dagger in his hand, kicked, tried to strike his attackers with his head—but they could evidently see him, and he couldn't see them. His arm was pinioned and the dagger taken from his hand. “
Olla rikti—
all right,” a man's voice, rather muffled, yelled at him in the accent of the Elves. But he didn't trust any he couldn't see and kicked again, weakly, because he was breathless and his chest was so tight, it hurt to breathe. He was hauled along so rapidly that his feet dragged over the rough ground, and he couldn't get them under him.

There was a growling, purring noise that he recognized as the sound of an Elf-Cart, and the stink that was distinctive of them. He was shoved against the cart—he could feel its vibration and its hard metal edges. He heard others near him, sobbing and wheezing. Were they Sterkarms or Grannams or Elves?

“Up! Up!” Elf-Voices were saying, and shoving at him, and pulling at his arms from above. Eventually, just so they'd stop pestering him, he made the effort to haul himself into the cart, though his lungs felt as if they would burst. He was pushed into a seat, and someone else thumped against him as they were pushed down next to him.

All Per could do was mop at the ceaseless tears that ran from his eyes, gasp for breath, and bide his time.

More and more people were shoved and hauled into the cart. Elves yelled through bangs and crashes. Bright lights flashed across the darkness of his closed and swollen eyes.

The Elf-Cart moved, lurching and swaying over the rough ground. Per, gripping the edges of his seat, felt panic—where was he being taken, and why and by whom? He tried to draw breath, to demand to know these things, but it was like trying to breathe with lungs of wood—burning wood.

Bouncing, swaying, the Elf-Cart drew away from the noise of the fight. Cool silence deepened around him, the cries of disturbed birds were clearer. Slowly, the burning in his throat and nose lessened, and his breathing eased. As soon as he could, Per demanded, “Who be there?” His hand found a knee next to him. “Who be this?”

He was answered by rough gasps, coughs, and splutters—but then a woman's voice, croaking, said, “Per? Per?”

“Mammy! Th'art safe?”

Isobel drew a harsh breath and, despite her cut and aching head, said, “I'm hale. Thine daddy?”

It was lucky that Per's breath still came hard. He was about to blurt out that he'd seen his father fall, but breathlessness forced on him time to think. Why tell his mother that, when he still didn't know for sure what had happened to his father? “I've no seen him—hast thou?”

“Nay, nay,” Isobel gasped.

“Who be here?” Per asked again. “Who be Sterkarm?”

From different places in the Elf-Cart came coughs and grunts and whispers of: “Sterkarm—Sterkarm—Sterkarm.” There seemed a good few of them, and if there were any Grannams in the cart, they weren't admitting it.

A woman's voice said, apologetically, “I be an Elf. Andrea Mitchell.”

Per was puzzled for a moment, and then remembered—the Elf-May, Elf-Windsor's wedding gift. When the Grannams had attacked—just before he'd seen his father fall—he'd been with her. The memory gave him an unpleasant sensation, like eating something bad.

“Don't fret about your eyes,” Andrea said. Her own eyes were still sore and watering, but her breathing was easier, and she spoke as loudly as she could, for everyone in the car to hear. “Elven put something in the air that blinded our eyes.” She spoke as if she wasn't an Elf herself. “But it will pass. It will pass soon. Then we'll see just as well as before.”

“Truly?” Per's voice asked. He was sitting opposite her.

“Truly,” she said. “On my honor.” She raised her voice again. “Keep your hands from your eyes, rub them not, and I promise, tears and soreness will soon pass. You will see again, all of you. Elven blinded you—and Grannams—they blinded everyone—to stop fight. They didn't want any to be killed or hurt. So they blinded everyone, and brought you away in Elf-Carts. But blindness will pass, very soon now.”

“Grannams attacked us!” Per said. Everyone knew they were treacherous, but the depth of their treachery still astonished him. Treachery was so engrained in them, so bred in the bone and blood, that not even self-interest could hold them back from a cowardly attack while their victims slept. “Where be my father?” he shouted. “Daddy! Toorkild!”

Andrea felt the people stirring near her, alarmed. She reached to where she thought Per was, touching a knee she hoped was his. “He be safe, Per, I be sure he be safe. He may be in another cart.”

“Where? I want to see him!”

Andrea leaned forward, to where she knew the driver of the car would be sitting. Her sight was clearing, though still blurred. She could see the headlights flashing through the darkness, and could make out something of the figures in the front seats. “Do you know how Toorkild Sterkarm is?” she asked. “People are pretty anxious about him.”

The figure in the passenger seat turned toward her. “Is that what all the noise's about?” It was Windsor. “He's in one of the other trucks. So's the bride—in case you're worried about her, Andrea.”

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“He's being looked after. Collected a bang on the head as far as I know. Tell them not to worry.”

Andrea had a sudden clear memory of looking down from the hillside into the floodlit space around the inflatables and seeing Toorkild standing above the crowd—and then she'd been distracted, and when she'd looked again, Toorkild had gone. She turned back to the body of the car and said, “All be right! Toorkild be in another Elf-Cart. He's been hurt—” There was an immediate outcry, with Per and Isobel's voices loud. “No badly! Elven have taken care of him—he be in one of carts behind.”

“Stay!” Per said. “Stay cart! Let us see him!”

“Per—I do no ken—”

“Stay! Stay now!” Her sight was clearing rapidly, and in the light of the following cars' headlights, she saw Per stand, a figure of darks and grays. He snatched by luck at a stanchion as the car lurched and threw him to one side. He seized the stanchion with his other hand and made to shake it, as if he could stop the MPV by main force.

Others joined the cry. “Aye, stay, stay!” They obviously weren't going to be calmed by anything Andrea could say. Leaning forward again, she said urgently, to Windsor, “Can we stop? They want to see Toorkild.”

“We'll stop when we get to the tower.”

“They want to see him now!”

Windsor glanced around. “Tough shit,” he said.

The car ground on, traveling at little more than walking pace, inching and growling up horribly steep slopes, swaying and jolting as it struck ruts, creeping down slopes with its brakes on. The frightened, angry people in the car pulled at Andrea's clothes and jabbered at her. Why didn't they stop? Where was Toorkild? Where were their other friends, brothers, sons, sisters, daughters? When were they going to stop, when were they going to be able to see them?

Andrea tried to explain, trying to shout above the noise of the engine and voices. “Be so good, stay seated. You'll fall out, else.” She could hear someone being sick. “Be so good, be calm. We'll reach tower soon. There's nothing to be done until we reach tower.” She had no idea how close they were to the tower, or even in which direction it lay. She didn't have the sense of direction that had been trained into the 16th siders.

Per's eyes were still swollen and sore, but he could see now. He stood in the back of the Elf-Cart, clinging to the stanchion, feeling the cart's power vibrate through him. But despite its power, it was slow. A man could walk faster. Why were they obeying these Elves, tamely staying in these slow carts? Why was he obeying Elves when his father was missing? He saw another man standing in the back of the following cart. It was Sweet Milk, he was sure. He waved, and Sweet Milk waved back.

The Elf-Cart slowed even more, to negotiate steep, rocky ground, and Per stepped over the side. Andrea cried out and reached for him but was too late. Landing in a crouch on the turf, Per sprang up, waving his arm and yelling, “Sterkarm!”

It was all the encouragement the Sterkarms needed. Half of the people in Andrea's car struggled to their feet and jumped over the side too. Looking back, she saw still others, and even some women, scrambling from the following cars and running forward to join Per. She felt a little like laughing. So much for Windsor's orders! So much for his “tough shit.”

Per ran forward, his men running after him. Even though the Elf-Work had left him still a little breathless, it wasn't hard to overtake the slow-moving car. Turning in front of it, in the light of its lamps, Per spread his arms. “Stay!”

The driver braked hard and stopped. Behind, the other cars stopped too, and more people jumped down. Even Andrea jumped down.

Windsor, furious, stood in the passenger seat. “Go around them,” he said to his driver. “Go around!” But there was no road, just a rough track made by horses. To go around the people would mean taking the car off the track, and there was no telling what boulders, ditches, or hollows were hidden by the ferns.

While the driver hesitated, Per came to his side. With his left hand he put a dagger to the driver's throat, and with his right hand he took the key from the ignition. At first he couldn't get the key to come out of its place, but in Elf-Land he'd seen Windsor put the key in to make the cart go, and take it out. He knew that the key must come out, and he knew that the cart wouldn't go without it. After a few seconds of angry tugging and twisting, he found the knack, and the key came free. The cart's growling and shuddering stopped. Per tossed the key into the air, caught it, and then handed it to Sweet Milk, who was at his shoulder.

The next car in line was quickly surrounded by Sterkarms, who let Per through to do his trick with the key again. Windsor, watching, leaned against the window and sighed. “Andrea. Keep an eye on the keys, for God's sake. We don't want them lost down some rabbit hole.” As Andrea joined the Sterkarms, Windsor stayed in the car. He felt safer surrounded by 21st steel.

Many people, men and women, but all 16th siders, were clustered around the second car. As Andrea hurried toward it, she could see people climbing into the back and obviously being very careful where they put their feet. They were looking down at something on the car's floor. Standing very upright in front of the car's cab was a woman. By the headlights of the third car, Andrea saw that it was Joan. Her face was tight with fear.

Shoving into the crowd, Andrea pushed her way to the car's side and looked down. There was someone lying on the floor between the seats. The light from the headlights didn't reach there, and the faint, gray daylight wasn't yet strong enough for her to be able to see who it was.

Per had climbed into the car. He was crouching awkwardly in the little space he had, feeling at the chest of whoever lay on the floor. “Be it Toorkild?” Andrea asked.

Per glanced up and saw that it was the Elf-May. The one he'd been with when his father had been hurt. Without giving her any kind of answer, he turned to Sweet Milk, who was beside him. “Lift him out.”

“Nay!” Andrea said. “Tha kens not how he be hurt!”

Per hesitated. The Elves, after all, knew about healing. But looking again at the way his father lay in the narrow well of the cart's back, he said, “We canna help him here.” He edged himself behind his father so that he could lift up his shoulders, while Sweet Milk went to Toorkild's feet.

As they lowered the injured man, awkwardly, from the Elf-Cart, the Elf-May was busying herself again. Pushing past people, she ran to a spot behind the cart, which was lit by the lamps of the third car. “Put him down here, in light. Has anybody anything to lay him on?”

But people had dashed out of the Elf-Palace half dressed, and had then been chivvied into the Elf-Carts. They were all cold and had nothing to spare for Toorkild. So he was laid on the turf. Per wrenched off his Elf Jacket and spread it over him, but it was short and of little use. The people gathered around, staring, but the Elf-May pushed them back. “Keep out of light!”

Toorkild wore nothing but his shirt. His splayed, bare, hairy legs looked comical and very sad. Isobel came to his side and knelt. “Toorkild?” She smoothed his hair and called his name again, as if he was asleep and she needed to wake him. She lifted one of his hands to her face. “Cold,” she said.

In brushing back his hair from his brow, she saw a spot of dirt just above one eyebrow and rubbed it away. It stayed. She rubbed again, then looked at Per. “A hole.”

Per, kneeling at his father's other side, bent low to look. His heart seemed to squeeze tight at the first touch of a greater fear. It seemed to him that his father's head lay a little oddly on the ground. He slipped his hand beneath his father's head, as if to lift it—and instead of meeting a round, hard skull, his hand sank into warm mush. Knowledge too swift for thought sent a spasm through him, holding him frozen and breathless for an eye's blink. Then he withdrew his hand and looked at it. In the gray light from the cart's lamps, his hand was black and glistening.

The spasms shook him again, pulling his belly up under his ribs, shaking him with long, silent sobs. He felt cold all through. He felt that the tower had collapsed, leaving him shelterless and alone on the wet, cold hillside.

He lifted the hand that had been behind his father's head into the light of the Elf-Lamps, so everyone could see it.

From the people gathered around came a deep groan. Isobel looked up. She stared at the blood and matter on her son's hand, and said, “Aaa-aaaa-aaaa …” It was a horrible sound, despairing and stricken. It seemed to trickle from her mouth unheeded, and it went on and on.